The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  "Suppose I turn the other cheek and it gets slapped too?" Tommy grinned. "Isn't it my turn?"

  "No," I replied. "You have to stay out of it. But you can follow the bus in the Buick. That might be a good idea. And then, after we're arrested, you can drive over and tell Reverend Hutto to get down to the courthouse with a lawyer."

  "All right," Tommy reluctantly agreed.

  Our plan was to get on the eight o'clock bus, and I had so informed the editor of the Jax Daily Advertiser. The Daily Advertiser and the Morning Advertiser were the only two newspapers in Jax, and for all practical purposes they were the same paper except for the time of issuance. The Morning Advertiser had given my story space on the front page with considerable carryover to page three. I expected a very big play, with photos, in the evening Daily Advertiser, and through the resultant publicity I anticipated a large church meeting, and as an aftermath, an all-out bus boycott by Negroes.

  On my part, I had no personal motives, nothing to gain one way or another. I didn't believe in what I was doing, and I didn't disbelieve in it either. I was indifferent. But the plan was interesting, almost exciting, and I wanted to see how it would work out. My fellow ministers were all very calm about the situation. If they were inwardly excited I could not tell it from their outward expressions or actions. If anything, they were run-of-the-mill martyrs. These Negro ministers were men with a painful, incurable disease They had tried cure after cure only to find that their disease persisted; and they felt in their hearts that not even death would wipe out the cause of their illness. Like victims of malignant cancer they would always be willing and eager to attempt any cure, no matter how extravagant and impossible the claim might be. Another straw to clutch at. Another skirmish, another brush with the law might bring a slight concession or gain to their never ending fight to gain equality. Most likely, they would lose. They fully expected to lose, but they were still willing to go through the motions. I found such an attitude very refreshing.

  My many years of deadly, stultifying employment, which demanded constant repression of all emotional feelings, had frozen my face into a waxy, defensive mask. Only my voice was alive, and my face rarely reflected any of the verbal excitement, laughter, passion, or sadness my voice could summon at will. Once, at a party in Columbus, the host had brought out a tape recorder and had recorded the conversation of the guests for a fifteen minute period. When he played the tape back for us all to hear and enjoy, I had listened from my place by the fireplace, looking into a mirror. As I watched my face and listened, the animated voice that belonged to me told a filthy joke, and was punctuated by the laughter of the other guests. My solemn, fixed expression in the mirror was the same expression I had had when I told the story. I knew this, and I wondered how anybody could laugh at any joke, no matter how funny it was, when he was also looking at a frozen, emotionless face. And I was amazed, too, at the ability of my reedy, thin voice to convey emotion that didn't match my expression. If a stranger had been asked to choose the face that went with my recorded voice, I would never have been identified. My voice was an independent organ I didn't fully own or control. Sometimes I talked and listened to myself at the same time, quite interested in what the voice had to say. There was a husky tenderness, at times, which was quite effective, and although my voice was highly pitched for a man, it wasn't squeaky, and within its narrow range there was a straight-forward, confident sincerity that was most impressive.

  Because of my expression, I had gained a reputation as a good listener. I had listened to hundreds of tales of woe, marital arguments, chunks of gossip, rambling, boring accounts of vacation trips, anecdotes, plans for impossible futures, and trite, domestic revelations over the years. When it was my turn to talk my voice consistently said the right thing; a murmured, sincere condolence or a cheering word of advice slipped readily through my lips, independently, and without effort or thought. There had been times when I had suspected a friend of embroidering a story, or adding details calculated to shock me into changing my expression, but I may be wrong about this. As a minister, my expressionless face was a definite asset to me. Who would ever suspect this persuasive voice of belonging to an insincere person?

  A small mixed crowd had gathered at the bus stop and they watched curiously as Mr. Ames took a couple of group shots of the League For Love standing by the bus stop sign. Mr. Ames then wrote our full names down in his reporter's notebook, and made a small diagram in the notebook showing our positions from right to left in the photographs he had taken.

  "I always do this," Ames said to me. "It takes a little more time, but since I started this system I've never made a mistake in the cutlines under a picture."

  "A very judicious precaution," I complimented the reporter.

  The flat-nosed, green-and-white city bus lumbered into the reserved slot, and Ames took another shot of us entering the door. There was a white policeman in the front seat, and we had to wait a couple of minutes before he could raise the window and stick his head out. The policeman wanted to get his face into the photograph, and after it was taken he wrote his name on the inside of a matchbook cover and gave it to Ames. While Ames reinscribed the policeman's name in his notebook, we clambered aboard and took our seats. Dr. Heartwell and I sat in the seat behind the driver, while Dr. David and Reverend McCroy sat directly behind us. The remainder of the bus was empty except for the policeman in the front seat opposite me, and the photographer-reporter sitting behind him. The driver, an affable sort, who wore his chauffeur's cap at a jaunty angle, turned and smiled, winked at the policeman.

  "Is everybody comfy?" the driver asked.

  "Move it out, Roy," the policeman said. "I reckon we're ready."

  The driver shifted into gear and the bus whirred down Lee Street. As the bus filled with white passengers, the driver would be forced to ask the Negro ministers to move to the rear. That was the law. When they refused, the policeman would be forced to arrest them. That was our plan. I was already disobeying the law by sitting beside Dr. Heartwell, but evidently, the policeman had decided to ignore the violation. We drove on. One block. Two blocks. Three blocks. The third corner was a bus stop and there were several Negroes waiting, but the driver didn't stop. I leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Driver," I said, "Why didn't you stop back there? There were passengers waiting."

  "Is that right?" he asked. "That's funny. I didn't see anybody. I'll stop at the next corner."

  At the next bus stop there were two white men, one white woman, and one Negro woman. The driver stopped, opened the folding door, and courteously tipped his cap.

  "Are there any nigger lovers here who would like a bus ride?" he addressed the white trio.

  One of the men laughed, and the other man and the woman smiled broadly. The Negro woman poked her mouth out, but said nothing.

  "Not me," one of the white men said. "How about you, Mr. Sawyers?" He addressed his companion.

  Mr. Sawyers shook his head and laughed. "Not me. I'd rather walk!"

  The white woman, a matronly type in her early forties, giggled.

  Our driver shrugged comically, closed the door, and drove on. He turned and grinned at the policeman.

  "Don't look like anybody wants to ride with these niggers, Officer."

  The policeman laughed. "Try again, Roy. There must be more than one white man in Jax who loves niggers." The remark was for my benefit and he glanced in my direction to see how I would take it. Naturally, I took it very well.

  Roy, the bus rider, made four more stops, and each time there was a similar reaction by the waiting passengers. None of them would get on the bus, and they all smiled or laughed, as though they shared a secret joke with the driver. The Negro passengers didn't climb aboard either. The presence of the policeman, I concluded, frightened them, and they didn't want to get "mixed up" in anything. The reaction by each group of waiting passengers was too pat. They couldn't all have been informed of our plan for disturbing the peace, and even if they had been br
iefed, many of the white men should have been delighted to see us get arrested. At the next bus stop, as soon as the driver had stopped, I got to my feet and stood by the door. Roy reluctantly opened the door for me and I jumped out. My suspicions were confirmed.

  The destination sign behind the glass didn't read, 132nd STREET: the driver had flipped the cards after we had climbed aboard, and it now read. NIGGER LOVER SPECIAL. No wonder none of the white passengers had wanted to ride! As I stood on the curb looking at the destination sign, a flash bulb exploded. Mr. Ames had followed me out, gotten behind me, and had taken a photo of me staring up at the ridiculous sign. This newsphoto was later picked up by the Associated Press and subsequently appeared in almost every major daily in the United States via wirephoto release.

  I shrugged, beckoned to Dr. Heartwell and the other ministers to come out and join me on the curb. After they had seen the sign they walked silently down the street to where Tommy Heartwell was waiting with the Buick. I followed them, and great guffaws broke out behind us as Mr. Ames, the policeman, and the driver released their suppressed laughter. We had been very neatly tricked.

  For a few minutes we sat in the car, and tried to come up with an alternate plan. Tommy Heartwell was sullen and angry and wanted us all to split up and each ride a different bus.

  "They can't take four busses off their regular runs and make them nigger lover specials," he said angrily.

  The other ministers favored Tommy's idea, but I talked them down.

  "No," I said, "let's call it a day. We failed because I came along in the first place, but I have a hunch we will come out on top. Our main reason for getting arrested was to get publicity, and we will. The paper this evening will give this story a good play and they will ridicule our efforts. I believe that ridicule will work for us rather than against us. You can make fun of almost anybody, but when you take a poke at religious leaders, regardless of their race or creed, you are attacking American fundamentals. Let's just go ahead and hold our meeting tonight, announce the bus boycott, and see what happens."

  The rest of the day we devoted to making the rounds of our respective church memberships, and passing out the word to attend the evening meeting.

  When the story appeared in the Daily Advertiser, under Dick Ames' byline, I read it quickly. Regardless of the way Ames talked he could really write, and the story was a clever and humorous monologue in Negro dialect. Even though I was the butt of the joke, I enjoyed the story enormously.

  I suppose white people all over Jax were reading the story and laughing, but Negroes wouldn't think it was funny. There were two photos on the front page accompanying the monologue; the group picture with an overline reading, The League For Love, and the one of me alone with the bus. A cutline gave our names and the churches we represented, but my name was preceded by the title Nigger Lover. Directly beneath the two column story, the photograph showing me looking at the plainly revealed bus destination sign, had an overline stating, Going My Way? I looked ridiculous in the photo; tall, thin, and with an overlarge, flapping coat and a straw hat, I resembled a misplaced scarecrow. To anyone who didn't know me, my face had a stunned, almost stupefied expression, as though I had suddenly been hit over the head from behind with a blunt instrument.

  I tore the article and photos from the page, folded the clipping and placed it in my wallet. I wadded the rest of the newspaper together and tossed the ball into my waste-basket. I was very tired, and hadn't as yet prepared any notes for my talk that night. Ralphine had left boiled turnips, turnip greens, and a platter of cornbread for my supper, and she cooked these items very well. But I wasn't keen on my meal. The novelty of Ralphine's cooking had worn off quickly. This was only Tuesday, but it seemed like I had been tearing around for weeks instead of just a few days, and the evening meeting promised to be a long one.

  I forced down a small helping of greens, ate a slab of corn-bread, and finished off my supper with two cups of instant coffee. Over the coffee I made a few notes for my speech and then walked the six blocks to The Southern Baptists of Saint John Church.

  The street in front of the church was a teeming black mass of people. At the basketball court I meant to cut across and enter through the basement, but I was spotted by several men who joyfully shouted my name. A moment later I was surrounded by men and women who tried to shake my hand. My back was pounded unmercifully by well-wishers, and I was lifted off my feet, hoisted to a pair of shoulders, and riding high above the crowd, I was carried through the wide high doors into the church. Every seat was filled, and the walls were lined with standees. A great roar came from the crowd when I appeared, and I was hustled down the center aisle to the pulpit. A large white banner, three feet high and twenty feet across, was strung across the back wall behind the altar, and it proclaimed in red, block letters, THE LEAGUE FOR LOVE!

  Dr. Heartwell and his right-hand man, Reverend Hutto were seated on the platform behind the altar. To their left, Dr. David and the Right Reverend McCroy were seated behind a card table, and in the center of the group, on a raised platform, Mrs. Bessie Langdale occupied the place of honor. Dr. Heartwell got up quickly, and wrung my hand.

  "You were right, Reverend Springer," he said warmly. "We're going to win! I want you to start the meeting with a prayer, and then you will be the last speaker on the program."

  "Fine," I agreed.

  I entered the pulpit and a cheer arose from the crowd. I waited for silence. When the talk died and the whispering stopped; and when the rustling ceased altogether, I prayed:

  "Dear God, what we say here tonight, what we do here tonight, is in Your hands. Listen to us, and guide us in our fight to leave the wilderness. Teach us, help us to love our neighbor and make us brothers. Help us love our neighbors as we love You. Teach us to live side by side in love. But our judge and jury, and if we are right, let us win. Dear God, in Your infinite wisdom, teach us how to love! Amen."

  "Amen!" Came the multi-tongued echo from the assemblage.

  I sat down in a metal folding chair next to Mrs. Langdale, and shook hands with her. She was trembling with stage fright and I calmed her by saying, "Don't worry, Bessie. God is on our side."

  Another great roar greeted Dr. Heartwell as he entered the pulpit. He played the assemblage like a virtuoso playing a violin. As he outlined the bus boycott to the enthusiastic crowd he sprinkled in biblical precedents the way a famous chef adds salt to a dish prepared for a gourmet. He didn't overstate anything, but his approach reached the emotions of the audience, and they fully understood and endorsed the boycott with their applause when he had finished.

  Dr. David was next. His talk was a sincere eulogy and a moving tribute to Bessie Langdale. In a dry, clipped voice he told of her struggle to raise two daughters and a son by washing clothes and doing day work in Jax over the past thirty years. He told of her humble origin on a tenant farm, of the hunger she had suffered in the Great Depression, about her son in the Air Force who had been promoted to Airman First Class. He paid tribute to her two married daughters, both mothers, who were raising children in the hope of a better world.

  Dr. David was a good speaker, and from my chair I saw tears coursing down the cheeks of both men and women in the audience. This was understandable: Bessie Langdale's life paralleled the lives of the majority of the people in the church. He introduced Bessie, and then sat down.

  Bessie Langdale was a large woman; her great buttocks protruded like a circular shelf, and she wore a homemade evening dress of red silk. There was a white orchid corsage pinned to a red velvet sash that encircled her massive waist, and she wore a floppy black straw hat. Six imitation cherries had been sewn to the brim. She was so frightened, I thought she was going to faint. She stood in the pulpit, clutching the sideboards with a death-like grip. Her lips opened and closed rapidly but no words came out. I left my seat, and put my arm around her, hugging her hard. I looked out at the audience.

  "Tell her that you love her!" I shouted.

  "We love you, Bessie! We love y
ou!" the voices shouted. Bessie began to bawl. Great rasping sobs shook her body and her brown face contorted as the tears streamed down her face. As though a secret tap was turned on everybody in the audience began to cry at the same time. It was amazing. And through the sobbing, choking tears a chant began, a unanimous chant that mounted in tempo and volume until the pine rafters across the ceiling trembled.

  "Love you! Love you! Love you! Love you!"

  I had to lead Bessie back to her seat. We had planned to have her tell her story about the arrest and fine she had suffered, but this spontaneous demonstration was much more effective.

  As the chant died down there was a flutter of handkerchiefs, mostly red and blue bandanas, and a great blowing of noses. The Right Reverend Jason McCroy had brought his ten-man male choir over from his Church of the Divine Spirit, and he signaled them to stand up and sing. The choir was uniformly dressed in white Palm Beach suits, and bright red silk neckties. Reverend McCroy led the choir through three choruses of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, and on the fourth chorus he made a gesture to the crowd with both hands for them to stand and join in. The stirring song swept through the group as though it came from a single voice attached to a single heart. He had to let the audience sing the chorus three more times before he could get them to stop.

  Reverend McCroy then made an impassioned appeal for funds from the pulpit, and while he pleaded, cajoled, begged, and demanded money, Reverend Hutto and a group of small Negro boys passed through the audience three times, collecting a larger amount each time.

  I closed the meeting with another prayer about love; the choir sang another hymn, a repetitious spiritual; Dr. Heartwell said a short prayer, and the meeting was over. I didn't make a speech as I had planned; I didn't think it necessary.

  The League For Love assembled in the basement, and after we counted the money we discovered we had taken in $962.43. We elected officers. Dr. Heartwell was president, Reverend McCroy and Dr. David were vice-presidents, Reverend Hutto was secretary, and I was treasurer. I could have been the president, but after I informed the League that I had once been an accountant, and that I was familiar with business law, they let me have the post of treasurer without further argument.