Bessie Langdale, of course, was our honorary president, without administrative duties. She was almost in a state of shock from her emotional experience in the church, and before we had our meeting, Dr. Heartwell told Tommy to drive her home.
I walked home and after I entered my house I undressed without turning on any lights. I was completely exhausted. In my underwear I stretched out wearily on my bed and tried to sleep. But I couldn't sleep; my thoughts were centered on Merita Springer. Her face and figure were in my head like a color photograph. My mind dwelled fondly on her sharply defined widow's peak, the way her hips swelled out from her narrow waist, the maddening firmness of her breasts, the wonderful contrast of her golden legs and the white shorts she had worn...
An automobile stopped in the street outside, and I heard several loud male voices. I listened. These were not Negro voices, and there was a sharp, barking laugh, a nasty laugh. Barefooted, I crept from my bedroom into the study. Through the window I could see several dark figures in the empty lot between my house and the church. They were doing something, and I heard a man curse viciously as he stumbled over a pile of tin cans.
Matches flared in several places and then a large cross began to bum in the center of the lot. The cross was at least ten feet high, and the crossbar was about four feet in width. The cross burned well, with an uneven, bright blue flame. Evidently rags had been wound around the wood and soaked either in alcohol or gasoline. The dark figures returned to their car, a convertible parked in the street. A rock bounced across my front porch and then hit the door. The men climbed into the car, and as it drove away one of the passengers smashed a bottle on the sidewalk in front of the church.
I locked the front door with the slide bolt, and returned to the window. I watched the flaming cross until nothing was left but a dim glow of embers on the ground.
Then I went to bed and fell asleep immediately.
Chapter Ten
By eight-thirty the next morning the bus boycott by Jax Negroes was approximately forty percent effective so far as we could determine. Dr. Heartwell was discouraged, but I was astonished by our success.
"Give it a few days, Doctor," I told him. "We've only had one big meeting, and it takes time to get out the word. We haven't got our car pool fully organized yet, and these people have to get to work some way. By Monday the boycott should be one hundred percent."
"I certainly hope so," Dr. Heartwell grumbled.
"Where is your faith?" I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
"My faith is in the Lord, but if we want to win I suppose we had better get to work!"
"Now you're talking," I said cheerfully.
The basement of the Southern Baptists of Saint John Church had been converted into a GHQ by the members of the League For Love, and with the help of many willing volunteers. There were ample desks, chairs, typewriters; and a dozen or more desk and floor lamps had been connected to the limited wall sockets by a maze of extension cords. A desk had been reserved for me in a back corner, and there was a stack of telegrams and air mail special delivery letters, brought in earlier that morning, waiting to be opened.
Dr. Heartwell's church was centrally located in the Negro district of Jax, and the basketball-tennis court outside was in use as a motor pool. Assorted vehicles had been pressed into service: one panel delivery truck, two flatbed one-ton trucks, three half-ton pickups, and several large, vintage Buick and Cadillac town cars, including the big 1939 Buick owned by Dr. Heartwell and driven by his son, Tommy, were in constant shuttle. These were not enough, of course, to handle the waiting mass of patient passengers, but news of the bus boycott was spreading quickly by telephone and word-of-mouth, and car owners who were not in the pool stopped constantly at the curb and filled empty seats with passengers.
Reverend Hutto, with his gift for organization, had a desk by the entrance to the large basement room. A large city map was tacked to the wall behind his desk and he had it divided into various zones. There seemed to be ten or more people about his desk and he was quite capable of carrying on a conversation with all of them at the same time. Two illegal extension lines had been wired in, brought down from Dr. Heartwell's upstairs office, and telephones had been connected; one on the doctor's desk and the other on Reverend Hutto's. The room was crowded with volunteers, men and women; there was a great deal of noise and confusion, and a lot of coffee drinking.
Pleased by all the activity, I circled the room, smiling encouragement, slapping backs, shaking hands, and then sat at my desk to go through the wires and mail. A young girl in pedal pushers and a tight orange sweater brought me a cardboard container of coffee, and tiptoed respectfully away. The coffee was too sweet but I drank it anyway.
Some of the wires and many of the special delivery letters were addressed simply to, Nigger Lover, Jax, Florida. But when I read them, they seemed all right. The wires were not too strongly worded, although they expressed dissatisfaction with my boycott activities, but the letters were vitriolic indeed. I wondered how anybody could get so worked up about such a basic problem. After reading the wires and letters addressed to Nigger Lover, I turned to the remainder of the mail. These wires and letters addressed to Reverend Deuteronomy Springer ran about fifty-fifty between hate and love messages. Two letters contained five-dollar bills, one included a twenty-dollar bill, and there were several letters containing singles. I decided to retain this money to supplement my income, and I slipped the bills into my wallet. This early mail was from southern states and all of it was special delivery. When the regular mail began to roll in from conscience-stricken northerners and the far western states, the take would be better.
After composing a short, blanket-letter of thanks, I gave the handwritten message to one of the volunteer typists with instructions to send it out to all of the correspondents who had included return addresses.
Dr. Heartwell called me. "You're wanted on the telephone, Reverend Springer."
I picked up the telephone. "Hello," I said. There was no reply. "Hello," I said again. "This is the Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer." From the other end of the line came an overly prolonged hawking in a throat, followed by a sharp report as a gob of spittle hurtled into the distant mouthpiece. "Hello," I said. The receiver was banged down at the caller's end with a click painful to my ear. I racked the receiver and replaced the telephone on Dr. Heartwell's desk. After telling him what had happened I advised him to screen all future calls before calling me to the telephone.
"I'm very sorry," he said. "If I had suspected anything like that I wouldn't have called you."
"Such things don't bother me," I said, forcing a smile. "They are to be expected. It is just that I don't like to have my time wasted when there are so many things to be done."
I told Dr. Heartwell about the burning cross in the lot in front of my house the night before.
"The fight begins in earnest." He nodded, grimly.
"No, Doctor," I said sternly, "the word 'fight' has no place in our vocabulary. Love begins! Love for God and love for our fellow man."
At that moment the Right Reverend Jason McCroy came into the room and announced excitedly that four of the six Negro taxicab companies he had visited that morning had agreed to lower their basic rate of twenty-five cents for the first half mile to fifteen cents instead, and they would maintain that lower fare until the boycott had been won. In the general excitement I returned to my desk to set up a bookkeeping system for the League For Love funds.
The money collected at the mass meeting the night before had been stored in a thick 1893 safe and this safe was in the corner behind my desk. The combination to the safe no longer worked, but there was a welded hasp and a Yale lock securing the door and I had the two keys in my possession. A cigar box would have provided almost as much security for the money as the safe, but at least the old safe was fireproof, and it was all we had. I gave one of the keys to Reverend Hutto and advised him to keep his addresses and rosters of volunteers locked up when he wasn't using them to
prevent their loss. I began to make entries in the ledger. As I worked out a fairly simple double-entry bookkeeping system which would also lend itself to needed complications in the event of audit, a brief, sardonic laugh escaped my lips.
I was right back where I started. John Springer, Accountant, hunched over a desk with a soft number two pencil clutched in his hand, ready to work over a set of figures and a cost estimate of boycott expenses. But here the similarity stopped, because there would be no take-home check of $78.35 when Friday night rolled around—I was doing this tedious work for love instead of money. And when Friday did come, instead of a weekend of quiet boredom watching television and drinking beer in a small apartment with a fat, dull wife for a companion, I had a Bible class to teach, sermons to prepare, and two exhausting sessions in church with a crazy congregation unable to get its fill of religion.
It was best not to think about the bookkeeping; why not look on the bright side? Wasn't this bus boycott an exciting experience? No. Wasn't I a successful minister of the Gospel? Not really. Were not the wires and the letters I had received fascinating? No. Surely the people I was allied with in the League For Love were wonderful people? So what? Well, what about Merita Jensen? Yes. Yes. Yes! Merita! My pencil poised in mid-air, several escape plans, all of them including Merita Jensen, began to form in the dark shadows of my imagination...
"Reverend Springer? Reverend Springer?" a persistent voice repeated.
Annoyed, I looked up and into the troubled face of Dr. Fred Jensen.
"Well, well," I said, "what brings you to this nest of confusion, Dr. Jensen?"
"Do you mind if I sit down, Reverend?" Dr. Jensen asked testily.
"Not at all. Drag up a chair."
Dr. Jensen sat down in a metal folding chair, bit his thick upper lip, and frowned. As he began his little talk he kept his eyes averted from mine.
"I've just come from a meeting with my fellow trustees. Mr. Caldwell, Mr. Linsey and myself have decided unanimously that you should withdraw immediately from this bus boycott business. It's an illegal enterprise and we don't want the Church of God's Rocks name connected with it. We are businessmen here, and Jax is our home. We must get along with white people. This business—" Dr. Jensen waved his arm to include all of the people in the room, and shook his head—"can only lead to serious trouble. We didn't hire you as a rabble-rouser. You are supposed to work for us as a minister of the Gospel—"
"Just a second, Doctor!" I said sharply. "I don't work for you, period! I work for the Lord! You didn't hire me, and neither did Linsey or Caldwell hire me. I was appointed to my church by the titular head of the Church of God's Flock. This is a permanent appointment, and I fully intend to spend the rest of my life as the permanent pastor!" I ran my fingers through my hair, lowered my voice. "I suppose it is my fault for not setting you straight in the first place. But I alone have the authority to commit the Church of God's Flock to any enterprise I consider worthy. Not you, or any other trustee can override my decision. Our church is committed, and as a member that includes you and your fellow trustees. I expect you to work for the boycott, encourage it, and get behind it one hundred percent."
"I'm sorry, Reverend Springer," Dr. Jensen said apologetically. "I guess we labored under a misapprehension."
"That's quite all right," I said, "Anybody can make a mistake. Now, about the boycott. This defiance of the law may seem like bad business to you, and I agree that it may sound petty. But it isn't a petty cause; it is a great cause because it will be a major stride forward in the overall goal of racial equality. You have a large Buick automobile, and you don't ride the bus. Others do. But you must, in God's name, support the boycott."
"I'm for racial equality, Reverend. All of the trustees are; we just didn't want to get in any trouble with the law—"
"The law is wrong, and we must change it. The Bible says so. You are a good Christian man and you must follow the teachings of the Lord."
"Yes, sir. I'll tell the other trustees. If there is anything I can do myself—"
"Of course." I smiled, and called to Dr. Heartwell. He came over to my desk. "You know Dr. Jensen, don't you?"
"Of course." The two men shook hands.
"Dr. Jensen came in to make a contribution to the boycott fund."
"That's wonderful!" Dr. Heartwell exclaimed. "We are grateful for any amount you care to give us."
Dr. Jensen took his checkbook out of his inside coat pocket, and I handed him a ballpoint pen.
"How about twenty-five dollars?" Dr. Jensen asked apprehensively.
"Better make it fifty. Pay to the order of the League For Love."
I accepted the completed check. Dr. Heartwell thanked the dentist again and returned to his desk. I got to my feet before Dr. Jensen sat down again.
"I haven't forgotten your personal problems, Dr. Jensen," I said softly. "I visited your wife, and I intend to see her again."
"She told me you stopped by."
"We prayed together," I pursed my lips, "and that was a good beginning."
"She didn't tell me she prayed!" Dr. Jensen was genuinely surprised.
"Your wife needs God's love," I said simply. "One of these days she will be a mother. You must pray for her and talk constantly to her about the Lord. I know that in her heart she will appreciate it, regardless of what she outwardly expresses."
Moved, Dr. Jensen wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Reverend."
"I will do everything I can. It's my duty as your minister. Do you have your car with you?"
"Why, yes. Can I take you anywhere?"
"No. But Reverend Hutto can dig up a load for you." I marched the dentist over to Hutto's desk, introduced them, and Hutto added Dr. Jensen's Buick to his growing list of available automobiles.
By noon my bookkeeping work was completed, and I had added a few contributions to the fund which had been brought in by many people in person, and some donations that came in by regular mail at ten-thirty. Many of the encouraging letters and monetary contributions mailed in were from white people residing in Jax. Actually, the bus boycott did not seem to be a hopeless cause. There were a great many white Floridians who were sympathetic, convinced that segregated seating was morally wrong. I locked the safe, looking forward to a walk home in the fresh air, and a spot of lunch.
A block away from the church, a small colored boy jumped out from behind a jacaranda tree bordering the sidewalk and confronted me.
"Reverend Springer?" The boy was frightened and wore a pair of blue denim shorts, cut down from regular jeans. He held a sealed envelope in his trembling right hand.
"Yes, boy. What is it?"
"They said you'd give me a quarter," he said as he shoved the envelope into my hand.
"Who told you that?"
"The quarter's inside."
I unsealed the envelope, removed the coin and handed it to the boy. He popped the quarter into his mouth, turned and ran down the street as fast as his pipestem legs would carry him. A folded slip of paper inside the envelope stated: "Call AD 7-3146. To your advantage." The note was unsigned.
I continued my walk home. I was interested in the message, but I was also hungry. Ralphine had set the table with some hot string beans and potatoes, cornbread, and buttermilk.
"What about that cold fried chicken, Ralphine? Any left?"
Ralphine cackled crazily. "I done ate that this morning."
"Well, how about some steak tonight? Think we can manage it?"
"Ministers don't never get no steak!" She broke into a fit of cackling, raised her thin arms over her head, and then beat at her legs with a mad rhythm. "Whooee!" she whooped. "No, sir! Ministers don't never get no steak!"
I took two singles out of my wallet, placed them on the table. "You just see if you can buy me a steak with this," I said. "Once in a while I like a little meat."
Wheezing and cackling, Ralphine snatched up the bills and put them in her apron pocket. Dragging a broom behind her and
muttering madly to herself the old crone shuffled out of the kitchen into the study to do a little sweeping. If Ralphine had suddenly mounted the broom and flew away into the sky I wouldn't have been surprised.
Instead of taking a much needed nap following lunch, I ambled down to the drugstore on the corner and entered a pay telephone booth. After dropping a dime in the slot I called AD 7-3146. The telephone rang several times before it was answered, but I waited.
"Hello," a voice said. "Price's Garage. Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was gassing up a car out front and just now herd the ring."
"That's quite all right. Who is speaking?"
"Eddie Price."
"This is the Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer. Did you send me a message by a little colored boy?"
"Oh! Yes, I did. We've been expecting you to call."
"What's on your mind."
"I want to talk to you. There's a man over here who wants to meet you."
"That's nice. But he can meet me at the Southern Baptists of Saint John Church."
"The gentleman who wants to talk to you prefers to remain anonymous."
"I see. What does he want to talk about?"
"I want to talk to you too, Reverend. It's about the bus boycott."
"Very well. Where is your garage?"
"Do you know where Montgomery Street is?"
"Not exactly."
"Do you know how to get to Flagler Park?"
"No."
"Well, are you driving?"
"No."
"Where are you now?"
"Why?"
"Well, if you can take a Flagler Park bus, I'll tell you where to get off."
"I'm not riding busses these days."
There was a laugh at the other end of the line. "All right. Take a cab, and tell the driver to let you off at Montgomery and 36th Street. I'll meet you, and I'll pay for your cab."
The Black Mass of Brother Springer Page 12