The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  Ralphine and a young Negro were separated by the kitchen table, and the man was quite angry. His lips were poked out in a petulant pout, and he was scowling at Ralphine. She cackled as I entered, but it was a restrained and automatic utterance compared to her usual ear-shattering laughter. The kitchen table was littered with objects not usually associated with a kitchen. There was a small pile of chicken feathers dyed in primary colors, a neat pile of pig bristles, several tiny bleached bones, a fruit jar containing red dirt, (the jar was labeled RED DIRT) and a dozen or so dried and withered leathery objects which I couldn't identify. My appearance in the doorway had evidently halted a very interesting argument.

  "Good morning, Ralphine," I said, "what's all this?"

  "Nothin' Captain," Ralphine said. "I was just goin' to fix your breakfast."

  The young buck looked at me sullenly. He was still angry with Ralphine, but he was also embarrassed by my presence, and undecided as to what course he should follow. He glared at Ralphine for a second, and then turned to me.

  "I'm sorry, Reverend Springer, if I woke you up," he said, "but your cook owes me four dollars!"

  "I don't any such thing, Captain," Ralphine denied. "He asked me for a juju, and he done got a juju. 'Cause a juju don't work ain't no fault of mine. It was a good juju."

  "Juju?" I inquired.

  The young Negro was now sorry he had said anything and he edged toward the back door. "Never you mind, old woman!" He said bravely at the door. "I'll get my four dollars back! You just wait and see!" The screen door slammed behind him and he was gone.

  Ralphine gathered up the objects from the table and dropped them into an empty flour sack. She cackled twice, but her heart wasn't in it.

  "Crazy boy!" she exclaimed. "Crazy boy! You want your breakfast now, Captain?"

  "What was the argument about?"

  "I made a good juju," she said. "Man, he wear around his neck he never get VD! This crazy boy say he wear juju, get VD anyway. I say to the boy he never wear juju. He say he did wear juju, get VD anyway."

  "You mean venereal disease?"

  "That's what I say. You wear juju, you don't get VD."

  "I don't think my church members would approve of my having a witch making jujus in my kitchen," I said, laughing, "especially if they don't work."

  "Always work before," Ralphine replied. She filled a pot with water, poured a liberal amount of grits into the pot, clicked the burner on the electric stove.

  "How do you make such a juju?"

  "My daddy not from Jax. He learn how to make juju in Nassau, and he teach me before he died. That's why I always work for minister like you. Make juju in minister's house, juju powerful." She said simply.

  "How many of my church members come to you for jujus?"

  "They all come to Ralphine," the old witch said proudly. "I make all kinds of juju. Make babies, no make babies, win money, no win money, stop VD, get VD. I make all kinds of juju. Dr. Jensen buy juju from me all the time. He keep me on this job."

  "Dr. Fred Jensen, the trustee?"

  "Yes, sir. He buys juju all the time! He old, but he want to be young again!" Ralphine was now in good spirits again, and she let out a cackle that blasted my ears. "Dr. Jensen, he think juju help him make baby."

  "That's fine, Ralphine," I said happily. "You make all the jujus you want."

  I shaved in the bathroom, a new and daring plan forming in my mind. If Dr. Jensen was buying jujus from Ralphine he was in desperate straits. I was surprised. It was difficult to believe that an educated man could believe in such things, but then, Dr. Jensen was a Negro. And what did I know about Negroes? They were emotional, I knew that much, and even if they didn't believe in magic, perhaps they played it safe, just in case. Dr. Jensen had struck me as a God-fearing Christian and a sincere believer! I suddenly began to laugh and nicked my chin rather painfully.

  After breakfast I mixed a pinch of salt and a pinch of sugar together, crumbled an aspirin tablet into the mixture and scooped the tiny, glittering pile of white powder into an empty match box. I had made a juju. Only a test could prove its effectiveness. But what could I lose?

  Dick Ames, the Advertiser reporter-photographer, was waiting for me when I reached the basement GHQ of the League For Love, a wide grin on his inquisitive face.

  "This is turning into a terrific story, Reverend," Ames said, taking his camera off my desk, "and I've got some good pictures this morning. After I get a statement from you, I'd like to have a few poses of you and the other preachers out in the motor pool. You know, directing things, shots like that."

  "I liked the story you did in dialect, Mr. Ames," I told him. "It helped us more than a straight story would have done. But I don't want any more pictures of me in the paper. Dr. Heartwell is the president, and you'd better concentrate your stories and photos on him."

  "I see," Ames winked at me. "He's the real head, but you and I know different, don't we?"

  "No," I said seriously. "Dr. Heartwell is in complete command of the boycott. I'm just another member of his league."

  "Okay," Ames shrugged, "you have your way till you die, and then I'll have mine. How about a statement?"

  "We will be glad to give you a statement, Mr. Ames. Any kind of publicity, will help us win in the long run. But you'll have to get your statement from Dr. Heartwell. Keep your seat and I'll get him."

  I found Dr. Heartwell in his upstairs office, head down on his desk. A half-eaten ham sandwich and an empty milk bottle were on top of a stack of papers. He raised his head wearily as I sat down, a weak smile curling the corners of his lips.

  "I think I'm getting old, Reverend Springer," he said hoarsely. "A night or two without sleep didn't use to bother me so much."

  "Everybody has to sleep, Doctor. I'm sorry I bothered you. That reporter from the Advertiser wants a statement. Play ball with him. We need all the publicity we can get."

  "Is it the same reporter who—"

  "That's right. Dick Ames. He isn't for us, but he's a reporter and he'll print something. Just express confidence."

  "All right." Dr. Heartwell pushed his chair back and got up.

  "Before you go, Doctor," I stopped him, "I want to discuss an important matter. We are getting a sizable fund on hand. We need a certain amount in cash for immediate expenses, but I'm going to bank the rest of the money in Atlanta."

  "Why? I know the money should be in a bank, but why Atlanta?"

  "I think I know a little more about law than you do," I smiled, "and I want to beat the Intertransit Company to their first and obvious move. In essence, we are operating a transportation system with our car pool and trucks. This is strictly illegal. We don't have a license, and we can't get one. If the bus company moves in with a court order, they can impound our funds and records. Then where would we be?"

  "Can they do that?"

  "They certainly can. I'm surprised they haven't done so already. But if our money is banked in another state, they can't touch it!"

  "Good! Good!" Dr. Heartwell said approvingly. "You'd better get on that right away!"

  "Leave it to me," I said. "I'll take care of the money."

  After getting Dr. Heartwell and Ames together, and accompanying them outside to the motor pool, I returned to the safe, and wrapped the money in a newspaper. I left a hundred dollars in the safe, which would be plenty to operate on for the day. There would be a lot more money coming in, I figured, both by mail and from the evening collection, in case the hundred wasn't enough.

  First things first. I caught a taxicab to Dr. Fred Jensen's office.

  To achieve success in the United States a man must be able to do two things well. First, he must be able to think and speak on his feet with conviction, and secondly, he must be able to write a good letter. This was the thought that came to me in the cab as I rode to Dr. Jensen's office. Somewhere along the line I had gotten sidetracked into being an accountant, when all of the time I had the gift for speech inside me. I would soon know whether I had a true gift or not
.

  Dr. Jensen was sitting in his dental chair when I pushed open the door to his office. He jumped out of the chair at the sound, and there was a trace of surprise in his voice when he discovered it was me.

  "Reverend Springer," he said cordially. "I'm expecting a nine o'clock patient. It's a little too early, but I didn't expect you."

  "I didn't expect to be here, Doctor," I said seriously, "but it was God's will that I talk to you." I felt my forehead with my right hand and closed my eyes.

  "Are you ill? Please sit down."

  "No," I shook my head and dropped my arm to my side. "You sit down please. I'll sit on your stool."

  "The dental chair is more comfortable."

  "I insist, Dr. Jensen. Please take your set. I am overwrought, and I believe I have a touch of fever, but I am far from ill. My heart is light, and my body has gained new strength." I looked Dr. Jensen directly in the eyes and then said deliberately. "I have been privileged to have a visitation from the Lord. In answer to my prayers, the good Lord sent an angel to see me!"

  Dr. Jensen dropped his jaw. "You saw an angel?"

  "Yes," I nodded, dropped my eyes. "It isn't the first time such a visitation has happened to me. Several times, in my lonely monk's cell at Orangeville, I was privileged to converse with an angel. But I never told anyone about it, not even the saintly Abbott, but this time the angel spoke to me about your problems."

  "My problems?"

  "Yes. Have you been praying a great deal lately, Dr. Jensen?"

  "Yes, sir, I have," he replied piously.

  "I thought as much. I too have prayed for you, Doctor. But I haven't prayed for you alone. There are many others I have prayed for; men and women who have sorely needed my prayers. But the combination of both of our prayers must have touched the Lord's heart, because he sent an angel to see me, an angel who told me the course that we must follow."

  "You have been working hard on the boycott, perhaps—"

  "You're a good man, Dr. Jensen," I smiled gently, "and you have faith, but your faith is not as great as mine. I thought you might think something like that, and it is not easy for me to go on. But I must do as I have been ordered to do. If you are skeptical, we shall fail. But if you believe, and you must believe in me as I believe in you, we shall succeed." I turned on the stool and looked out of the window for a long moment. "My time has come," I said softly, "but if it is God's will that I must perish, I thank him fervently for singling me out of the multitude."

  "Did the angel say that you were going to die?"

  "Yes," I nodded. "I am going to die, but another will live in my place." I turned back to Dr. Jensen, who sat mutely in the dental chair. I fixed my eyes on his and began my tale. "Last night as I prepared to retire, I got down on my knees to pray, Dr. Jensen. There were a great many people on my list who needed these prayers. I was on my knees for more than an hour beseeching the Lord to help us in our fight for equality, and begging him for guidance and knowledge that would let us win the boycott. But I did not forget you, Dr. Jensen, not by any means."

  My voice was under perfect control. I spoke slowly enough for each and every word to sink into Dr. Jensen's receptive mind, and with great conviction. An unbeatable combination was working for me. I was able to speak with mezzoforte conviction, and Dr. Jensen wanted to believe! As I warmed I almost believed what I was saying myself!

  "Yes, I got to you, Dr. Jensen, and to your wife, Merita. I told the Lord of your desire to have a child, and of the good Christian life you now lead. But I also told him of the sins of your youth. I know that you have not always been a good and faithful servant, and I told Him so. You were a great sinner in your youth, and your mind contained evil thoughts, and your body conceived and accomplished evil deeds. But I asked Him to forgive you. You have confessed your sins, and you are doing everything in your power to lead a decent life, and to follow in His steps. I told God these things and begged him to grant you your one desire, your single desire to have a son to bear your name. And I prayed for Merita too. I told God of her shiftless ways, and about her denial of Him, and of her love and taste for alcohol. But I beseeched Him on her behalf. A child can change this woman, I told Him. And on and on I went. I did not keep track of the time I spent on my knees, because prayer is timeless, and God listens to all of our prayers with His infinite patience and wisdom."

  I paused for dramatic effect.

  "Lo and behold!" My voice rang out. "A clap of thunder sounded and I knew fear and trembling!" I dropped the tone of my voice to piano. "And there, standing gloriously upon my dresser, was an angel! A beautiful angel, all in shining white, with long silvery hair and a white, pure face! Tiny motes of diamond dust dropped from the massive wings which were the shiny whiteness of an egret's wings. I was afraid, Dr. Jensen, and I trembled. And then the angel smiled—such a sweet and gentle smile—that my fear vanished. I spoke to the angel then, and I have since wondered why I did so speak, but I knew that the angel had visited me to speak of you. 'Why have you come?' I asked. Is it because of Dr. Fred Jensen?' and the angel nodded. I waited for the angel to reply, and after a long moment, the angel said to me: 'Dr. Jensen will not conceive a child.' His voice was gentle and sweet and musical, but I knew that his words were true. 'But why?' I asked. 'Dr. Jensen is a good man.' And again the angel nodded. 'Yes, Dr. Jensen is good now,' the angel replied, 'but he must pay for his youthful sins!'

  "I started to say something, I don't remember what it was, but the angel held up his arm for silence and I did not speak. 'Stay!' the angel said, listen!' And the angel said to me: 'But Merita shall have a child and it shall be as Dr. Jensen's own. But he shall conceive it not. The child shall be conceived by a pure man, a man who has sinned hardly at all, a man who has been purged of his sins. This man shall plant his seed in Merita Jensen, and the child shall grow. And as the child swells in her belly this man shall wither away. And when the child is born, this man will die, and the child will take his place. This is the will of the Lord!' That is what the angel said to me. And I said, 'But who shall this man be? Where shall I find this good and pure man who will plant his seed in Merita Jensen?' Again the angel smiled and said, 'Look unto thyself!'

  "With another clap of thunder the angel disappeared. I stood up in the small bedroom, and my heart was heavy, because I knew that I must die. And for a moment, I'll admit, I thought of several ways to get out of the situation. You think that I'm a brave man, Dr. Jensen, but I am not. I am merely a mortal, and I was sorely distraught that I had been chosen to die. And for another moment, I wanted to dismiss the angel as a figment of my imagination, but I was prevented from doing such a thing by a sign!"

  I held my newspaper-wrapped package out to Dr. Jensen. "Here," I said, "hold this money for a second."

  Dr. Jensen reached out with both hands, but they were trembling so violently I didn't hand him the package. "Never mind," I said, "I'll just put the money on your work table."

  I dug into my trousers pocket, pulled out the match box containing my improvised juju. I opened the box, and showed the mixture of salt, sugar and aspirin tablet to Dr. Jensen.

  "You see," I said, "here is the sign. After I dropped into a fitful sleep last night, I awoke this morning with a clear head. And this powder, which dropped from the angel's wings last night as he disappeared, is what I found on top of my dresser." I closed the match box, replaced it in my pocket.

  Dr. Jensen sat staring into space, but I had said enough. The conclusion of the conversation, if any, would have to come from him. I picked up the package of bills and waited.

  "I am very moved," Dr. Jensen said thickly, "very moved. And you will die, is that right?"

  "As the child grows inside Merita I shall wither. That's what the angel said."

  "What must I do?" Dr. Jensen said with a trace of anguish in his voice. "Merita doesn't believe! She will never consent to a union of this kind, Reverend! Not with you or anybody else."

  "You must make her believe," I said simply. "Tell her to come to
my house at two-thirty sharp this afternoon. It is up to you."

  "I'd better cancel my nine o'clock patient."

  I looked at his trembling hands, and nodded. "Yes, I think you better at that."

  From Dr. Jensen's office I took a taxicab into downtown Jax and had the package of money wrapped for shipping in brown, heavy paper at a department store. I addressed the package to myself, care of General Delivery, Atlanta, Georgia, and printed on the outside in large, black letters, HOLD FOR TEN DAYS. I mailed the package, first class, special delivery, at the Post Office, and then took another cab back to GHQ.

  There was little for me to do. I entered the money received by mail in my ledger, entered a bank deposit for the money I had mailed to Atlanta, and I was through.

  The car pool was a smoothly running operation. Reverend Hutto had made large charts and hung them on the wall, and his volunteer dispatches could check them, and thereby send out the correct number of vehicles at the right time and to the right place without asking him any questions. After he explained his system to me, I congratulated him.

  The bus boycott was not entirely effective, and it probably never would be. Jax was too large, and bus transportation was the principal means for the colored population to get to work. The cars we were using were beginning to have trouble with the city police. The police would stop and car and tell the driver he was overloaded. Then the driver would have to let two or three passengers out. After being stranded, the passengers were more or less forced to take a bus in order to get to work on time. But a great many people who were unable to get a ride, or who were stranded, walked to their destination. Few Negroes who rode the busses did so in ignorance. Every Negro in Jax knew there was a bus boycott, and everyone in the basement office was cheered by the progress we were making.

  As yet, the bus company hadn't visited us, and the City Council hadn't met to talk about the situation. This was a lull before the storm, with both sides attempting to wait the other side out.