The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  Reverend Hutto sat apart from the others behind his own small desk in the corner. There was a yellow scratch pad before him and he was taking notes.

  As the door clicked behind me I could feel a certain tenseness in the atmosphere, and I knew that I had been the subject under discussion.

  "Gentlemen," I said cheerfully. "Please excuse my tardiness, but I was unavoidably detained."

  Solemn faces greeted me, and then Reverend McCroy cleared his throat. "This is Mr. Fred Grant, Chief Investigator from the Atlanta I.C.A.S. branch office. Mr. Grant, this is Reverend Springer, our treasurer."

  "How do you do," I said.

  "Mr. Grant says that the I.C.A.S. is prepared to throw the weight of its entire organization behind our bus boycott," Dr. Heartwell said seriously, "both money and trained personnel. However," Dr. Heartwell lowered his eyes to the desk, "Mr. Grant wants to ask you a few questions first. I don't want you to feel that this is an imposition or a reflection on your motives, Reverend Springer," Dr. Heartwell said apologetically, "and well, if you don't want to answer any of his questions, it is up to you, sir." Dr. Heartwell finished lamely.

  "I'm delighted," I said. "When the I.C.A.S. sends a representative to help us, it shows that our boycott is getting the serious recognition it deserves."

  Mr. Grant pushed an expensive pigskin briefcase to one side and clasped his fingers together. His spatulate fingernails were manicured and highly polished.

  "I didn't state that your boycott would receive any backing from the I.C.A.S., Reverend Springer. I was merely sent down to Jax to investigate for our organization. Any help you receive from us will be based, at least in part, on my report when I return to Atlanta."

  "Wonderful," I said. "We are delighted by your interest, aren't we, gentlemen." My eyes slowly scanned by the faces of the assembled ministers, and my direct stare caused all of the eyes to lower or look elsewhere. I took a seat upon the edge of Reverend Hutto's desk and said, "Proceed, please."

  "What exactly, Reverend Springer," Mr. Grant probed with a deep, well-trained voice, "are your personal motives in this bus boycott, and what is your interest in the individual Negro? You're a white man, and the I.C.A.S. is interested in the professed motives of any white man when he shows a sudden interest in the problems of our race."

  "I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Grant, and it's not a question I shall answer lightly." I closed my eyes and steepled my fingers, dropped my voice to almost a whisper. "I do not look upon myself as a white man, per se, Mr. Grant. All of us are God's creatures, God's lambs, members of His flock. I am first, second and always, a man of God, and I try at all times to listen and to heed His word. Each night I get down on my knees and humbly pray to the Lord. I ask God for the answer to our problems, not only racial problems as you imply, Mr. Grant, but how we can live better. How I can teach my flock the virtues of righteousness and charity and hope, and love. Especially love. God's love is about mortal man who trods the stage for his brief scene upon the earth. And if I have found the way it is because God has revealed it to me in answer to my prayers!" I opened my eyes and raised my voice, "to all of our prayers!"

  "Amen!" Reverends McCroy and Hutto said softly.

  "Okay, okay!" Mr. Grant said impatiently. "This isn't a Bible class; don't get carried away. Just exactly what were your reasons in accepting a Negro church, Reverend Springer? Couldn't you find a white church?"

  "When I asked the Lord for His guidance at the holy monastery of the Church of God's Flock, He answered thusly, 'Go and find thee the church which needs thee most, the poorest, the neediest, and preach My word there. Lift the darkness and the oppression from the poor and the humble. Because,' God concluded, The meek shall inherit the earth!'"

  "Amen!" All of the ministers said in unison.

  "Now look here, Mr. Springer," Mr. Grant began.

  "The Right Reverend Springer," I corrected.

  "All right! Reverend Springer. I'm getting fed up to here," and he crossed his throat with a forefinger, "with all this religious mumbo-jumbo in reply to a direct question."

  "Mumbo-jumbo?" I asked. "Do you call the word of the Lord, mumbo-jumbo?"

  "Of course not," Mr. Grant retreated. "I meant—"

  "Are you a God-fearing church member, Mr. Grant? Do you regularly attend church on Sunday and pray to your Lord?"

  "I'm a busy man, Reverend Springer."

  "I can see you are," I said sternly. "Too busy to heed God's word, too busy toiling in the marketplace to put your faith and trust in the Lord. Without His help, we shall not lead our children out of the wilderness. Without faith we shall lose our bus boycott. Now you, sir, you have been questioning me at great length, and I would like to ask you a question. My life is a flyleaf out of God's Book, but I feel I should ask you one pertinent question."

  "Okay, okay," Mr. Grant said wearily.

  "What is your annual salary?"

  Mr. Grant straightened in the swivel chair and narrowed his eyes. We all looked at him expectantly. The question was a good one.

  "What has my salary got to do with the matter at hand?"

  "A great deal," I said quietly. "Do you want to tell us, or do you have a reason for withholding this information?"

  "I don't have anything to hide," Mr. Grant said defensively.

  "Of course not." I smiled. "If you don't want to tell us, we can easily obtain the information from Atlanta." I turned and spoke over my shoulder to Reverend Hutto. "Perhaps you had better call Atlanta, Reverend Hutto."

  "Are you trying to threaten me?" Mr. Grant said angrily.

  "Threaten? That's an unusual word, Mr. Grant. Our interest here is in the sum of your annual salary. Will you tell us?"

  "It's no big secret," Mr. Grant said sullenly. "I make eight thousand a year, that's all."

  The investigator's admission of this sum was similar to dropping a bomb on the desk. With the exception of myself, the ministers were stunned by this announcement. In amazed silence they stared at Mr. Grant with bewildered expressions. Under the direct gaze of these innocent eyes, Mr. Grant squirmed slightly in his swivel chair.

  "And are you not paid per them, travelling expenses, and other allowances besides," I pressed. "On field trips to Jax, for instance?"

  "Naturally," Mr. Grant said impatiently. There was a faint glow of red beneath the surface of his bronze face.

  "You may be interested to know, Mr. Grant," I said quietly, "that your annual salary is almost double the amount that the rest of us are paid in a single year altogether."

  "Amen!" Dr. David said ominously, tapping the desk with his forefinger.

  "And so, I question your motives, Mr. Grant! How many small contributions does it take to pay you and your colleagues such magnificent yearly sums? How many pennies do you put aside from these well-meant donations? Donations that are needed for food and shelter by your oppressed race! Are you for Mammon or your people, Mr. Grant? You do not attend church, and yet you question the motives of men of God. You question me, a humble preacher who needs God's help, when I am only attempting to lift the yoke of inequality from the downtrodden! I question your motives, sir! I challenge your right to investigate any member of the League For Love!"

  "I quit!" Mr. Grant got out of his chair and picked up his briefcase. "If you listen to this man you're crazy, all of you! I can't talk to an idiot!"

  "God can talk to an idiot," I said calmly. "And I shall pray for you tonight, Mr. Grant, in the hope you will receive the spiritual guidance you so badly need."

  Mr. Grant slammed out of the office, and we could hear his leather heels pounding on the wooden floor leading to the side exit.

  "Eight thousand smackers a year!" Reverend Hutto marvelled. "Whooee!" The tension broke and all of the ministers except myself laughed gleefully at Reverend Hutto's exuberant outburst.

  "We're in the wrong business!" Dr. Heartwell joked.

  "I think not," I said. "Suppose we start with a brief prayer, and then get down to the business of tonight's meetin
g."

  The League For Love was once more on an even keel.

  I left the planning of the evening meeting up to Dr. Heartwell and Dr. David. They were both experts in this line compared to me, and I left them alone. Reverend McCroy left the church as a missionary to the two colored taxicab companies who had refused to lower their rates like the others. He had worked out some rough figures to prove to them that they could make more money with lower rates. Reverend Hutto was busy with dispatching and the telephone, and he had procured a public address system so that the overflow crowd for the evening meeting could listen out in the street. I wrote a five-minute talk for Bessie Langdale to read over the Negro radio station that night, sent her to a corner of the office with a kindergarten teacher from the primary school as her coach. I didn't expect Bessie to memorize the speech, but I did expect her to learn how to read it. I also wrote some spot announcements indirectly encouraging the bus boycott, and the Negro station manager promised to have them read at least once an hour, and without charge.

  And so, the rest of the long afternoon passed away.

  Volunteer workers and several of Dr. Heartwell's female church members had gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare a long buffet supper in the basement corridor. But I passed it by and walked home to eat the steak prepared by Ralphine.

  Ralphine was gone when I reached home, but she had cooked a swiss steak and it was bubbling in gravy on the warm burner of the electric stove. She had prepared candied yams and some fluffy biscuits to go with the steak, and I considered it an excellent meal. Perhaps I had misjudged the old crone.

  After dinner I read the Bible for about half an hour to pick up some phrases to use in my prayers at the meeting. I then walked back to Dr. Heartwell's church. On my walk back I paused at a corner to wait for a red light, and one of the Intertransit Company's big green-and-white busses whizzed by. I was pleased to note that the bus was completely empty.

  Our second mass meeting closely followed the pattern of the first meeting with some important exceptions. There was more of everything; more people, more music, longer speeches by Dr. Heartwell and Dr. David, longer prayers by me, more enthusiasm from the crowd, and more money collected.

  After the meeting broke up at about nine-thirty, Reverend Hutto and I counted the money in the basement. There was a total collection of $1,272.37 for the meeting. Added to the donations received during the day and the night before, the sum was impressive. After I locked the safe and prepared to leave, Reverend Hutto returned to his desk to work on transportation schedules. I stopped by his desk on my way out.

  "Don't work all night now," I said kindly. "Remember, tomorrow is another day."

  "Don't I know it!" Reverend Hutto exclaimed. "But there are people who got to get to work at four-thirty in the morning. And if I don't get something worked out, a lot of white folks are going to miss their breakfast."

  "Better break in three volunteers to work three shifts around the clock. You can't do it all and we need you very much, Reverend Hutto."

  "Once I get it all worked out it won't be so bad."

  "You get some sleep now before morning," I said. "I mean it."

  "Don't worry, I will. You going home now?"

  "Yes."

  "You wait a minute and I'll get somebody to walk home with you."

  "I know the way," I laughed.

  "So do a lot of other people," Reverend Hutto said darkly. "You best take along some protection."

  "I'll be all right."

  "Dr. Heartwell told me about that cross in your front yard last night."

  "Teenagers." I shrugged indifferently. "Don't worry about me. You just take good care of yourself. Hear?"

  "Yes, sir. Good night." He bent over his papers.

  I had completely forgotten about the cross burning until Reverend Hutto reminded me. My cloth was a protective covering, but it wasn't armor, and in a dark street a great many things can happen to a man alone. But somehow I couldn't really worry about myself and about what might happen to me. A persistent feeling of unreality cloaked my every action and every word. Only once in awhile—like the conversation with the girl in the telegraph office—did I feel that I was the real me. The rest of the time I seemed to be outside myself, an observer, an anonymous member of a great movie audience watching some new kind of comedy on a life-sized screen, wondering how the plot would turn out in the end.

  The walk home was uneventful and I rather enjoyed it. There was a slight breeze for a change, and I was either getting used to the heat or getting used to my heavy, dark clothing. The temperature hadn't changed, and the humidity was just as heavy. I burned the tape in the kitchen sink and it smelled pretty bad. But I had no real use for it.

  After a shower, I sat listlessly in my shorts at the desk in the study. There were pencils, plenty of paper, but I didn't feel like writing anything. I didn't feel like doing anything except sitting, and I would have preferred sitting outside on the porch. But I knew that the mosquitoes would drive me inside in no time at all. With an effort I got out of my chair and switched off the light. The absence of light seemed to cool the room by an abrupt and magical ten or fifteen percent. I moved the swivel chair on its rollers over to the window, sat down, and looked into the night.

  The streetlight on the corner put a pool of light on the sidewalk, and a larger circle of light on the street itself. The slow-moving pedestrians, walking in the darkness, appeared to come from nowhere as they stepped into the light. One, two, three and on the fourth step they were through the circle and in darkness again. I smoked cigarettes and watched this phenomenon with absorbed interested for a long time. My eyes gradually got used to the darkness and the game lost interest for me as soon as I could pick out the pedestrians before they entered the circle of light. And then I saw a darker shadow against the blackness of the empty lot.

  This shadow didn't belong there. Staring through the window, I concentrated on the shape and inventoried the contents of the vacant lot in my mind. The lot was not an empty lot except in the sense that it didn't have a building on it. The lot contained piles of tin cans, weeds, a large patch of mother-in-law tongue cacti, gama grass, cardboard boxes and other debris, but unlike a Florida vacant lot, there were no patches of jungly growth, because traces of burning remained. Within the past year or two the lot had been cleared and burned over. The shadow I stared at was not a part of the regular inventory I saw every day.

  And then the shadow stretched.

  Fixing the spot in my mind, I slipped into my trousers and entered the kitchen. I fumbled through the kitchen drawers to the left of the sink until I found a butcher knife. I tested the sharpness of the knife with my thumb. Not too sharp, but then a knife didn't have to be exceptionally sharp to cut somebody's throat. I giggled foolishly with excitement, and then caught the hiccups. I breathed deeply with my mouth open and then drank a glass of water. The hiccups stopped as suddenly as they had started, and I was sobered and steadied by the deep breathing.

  Barefooted, I eased open the back door, and bending low to the ground I tiptoed silently around the house. At the corner of the building, I paused, and stared across the lot until my eyes found the dark figure. I couldn't tell whether he was facing toward the house or toward the street, but I crept forward, knowing that if I got close enough to use the knife, the way he was facing wouldn't make any great difference.

  The closer I got the louder my heart pounded. There seemed to be an audible drumming coming out of my chest, and although I knew there actually wasn't I slowed my pace until I only took one short step at a time, waited, and then took another. When I reached a spot less than ten feet away from the figure a match flared, startling me, and I blinked my eyes. I jumped forward, bringing the knife up as I jumped, but the fraction of delay had been too much.

  My wrist was seized, a chopping blow on my elbow numbed my arm clear to the shoulder, and I was flat on my back in loose sand, with two heavy knees on my chest. A match was lighted above my head and my burning eyes swimm
ingly recognized the face of Tommy Heartwell.

  "You're just a cocky banty rooster, ain't you?" Tommy chuckled, helped me to my feet. "I believe you was going to tick me with that knife!"

  "Yes I was, Tommy," I said, rubbing my numb and aching arm. "But I didn't know it was you. In fact, I didn't know who it was."

  "And you didn't care!" Tommy laughed again. "Come on, I'd better take you up to the house."

  The front door was closed inside by the bolt, so we had to enter by the back door. I turned on the light, and washed my hands and arms at the kitchen sink.

  "I better keep watch a little better than I been doing," Tommy said. "I didn't even see you till you was about twenty feet away."

  "Why didn't you say something, Tommy? I would certainly have killed you. You know that, don't you?"

  "I know it now. I'm sorry, Reverend. But I was glad it was me out there instead of somebody else. Daddy told us to set up a guard on account of them burning that cross, and another man takes over at midnight."

  "I don't need any guard on me," I said angrily.

  "That's what Daddy said you'd say. And that's why we didn't tell you anything about it."

  "I can take care of myself, Tommy. Go on home and go to bed."

  "I reckon we'll just watch a couple of more nights, Reverend," Tommy said pleasantly. "It won't hurt nothin'."

  "All right! Good night." Why argue with him?

  After another shower, and when I was flaked out on my bed, the knowledge that a friendly giant like Tommy was guarding my sleep was rather comforting, and within a very few minutes I was fast asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  At first I couldn't understand what it was that aroused me from my slumbers. I am a sound sleeper, and a glance at my watch showed me that it was only six a.m. Much too early to get out of bed. I then heard an angry and hoarse-voiced whisper, followed by the mad cackling of Ralphine's voice. I was awake so I got out of bed, left my bedroom and padded to the kitchen.