When I left GHQ to go home for lunch, I informed Reverend Hutto that I wouldn't be back that afternoon, and that I would see him and the rest of the ministers at the evening meeting.
After a lunch of black-eyed peas, cornbread, and a tomato-and-lettuce salad smothered with mayonnaise, I stretched out to take a nap in the bedroom. Ralphine was washing my laundry in the kitchen, and I had decided to let her work on until Merita arrived—if she came. And I wasn't too sure she would come. I thought about the wild story I had told Dr. Jensen, and wondered how much of it he swallowed. He had given the appearance of believing everything I had said, but how much of it had been vanity on his part, or if not vanity, desire to have a child by anybody? I believe he knew in his secret heart that he couldn't hold on to a woman like Merita very long. He only hoped that if she had children, she would be forced to settle down whether she wanted to or not. I really didn't know, and I couldn't understand why I had felt that his official sanction was needed for me to feel right about seducing his wife. The fabrication I had made up and delivered with such convincing earnestness hadn't really been necessary. I had just wanted to try to see if I could get away with it. That was all. I quit thinking, and smoked cigarettes instead, staring at the ceiling. If Merita didn't arrive by two-thirty I would sleep the rest of the afternoon. I certainly was tired.
Merita knocked softly at the door at two o'clock, a half-hour ahead of time.
Ralphine let her in and I recognized Merita's voice from the bedroom.
"I'll be with you in a minute, Mrs. Jensen!" I shouted. I slipped into my trousers and shoes, and put on a clean sport shirt instead of my clerical shirt. I smiled at Merita when I opened the bedroom door. She was wearing a white silk dress with a low-cut bodice, and a pair of white high-heeled slippers. Her long black hair had been piled high on her head, and was secured with a rhinestone-studded Spanish comb. I stepped to the kitchen door.
"Ralphine," I said, "you can go for the day."
"I ain't fixed your supper yet."
"That's all right. I'll get a sandwich at the church tonight."
Ralphine cackled wildly. "The wet laundry's on the line."
"I'll bring it in. Go on home." Ralphine picked up her loaded shopping bag and left by the back door, muttering and cackling to herself. I could have fed a family of five on the food she carted out the back door every day. The grocery bill must have been enormous by this time...
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" Merita asked me, after Ralphine had slammed the back screen door.
"I don't have anything." I handed her a cigarette. "Have a smoke instead." I lit her cigarette, then mine, and there were a few moments of embarrassed silence. Merita broke the tension.
"Is it up to me or to you?" she asked softly, a faint and derisive smile on her lips.
"What did your husband tell you?"
She laughed. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him if he wasn't man enough to get you pregnant, he'd better give somebody else a chance."
"When he came home this morning," Merita said with a bubbling laugh, "I almost had a heart attack! I made him repeat the story three times. I couldn't believe he was serious. All he said was that you and he had discussed the situation, and that he had agreed for you to have relations with me."
"You didn't agree, did you?"
"Of course not! I thought he was trying to trap me. But when he wrote out a check for a hundred dollars and gave it to me, I did say I'd come over and talk to you." Merita opened her white patent-leather purse and showed me the check. I admired her aplomb, and her frank and easy manner.
"Okay," I said, "we'll talk. I'm the phoniest minister that ever muttered a homily. And you're a phoney too. You aren't an old dentist's respectable wife. You're vicious, mean, and too God damned beautiful! The moment I saw you I wanted you, and decided that I would get you on either your terms or mine. Am I going too fast for you?"
"Not at all, Deut! Lay it on the line."
"Sooner or later you're going to kick over the traces, Merita, and when you do, your beloved husband is going to throw you out. I know it, and you know it. It would hurt him to do it, but I know the type of man he is, and so do you. But on the other hand, you aren't going to knuckle under and be the sort of woman he wants you to be. Ever been to New York?"
"No, Deut, I haven't been anywhere." Merita shook her head. I sat down beside her and took her hand in mine. Her hand was soft and cool to the touch, but mine was slightly damp.
"I was raised in Macon, Deut, married to Fred there, and then he brought me to Jax. I've never had a chance," she said bitterly. "I don't have a cent of money, and prying a nickel out of Fred is like—it's impossible! I've got charge accounts, sure. I can charge anything I want, but cash—uh uh!" She shook her head comically.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three. Why? Do I look older?"
"No. You just don't know the angles. Did you ever consider charging a fifty dollar dress, selling it back to the saleslady for twenty-five bucks in cash, and then pocketing the money? Or does Dr. Jensen inventory your clothes and compare the charge tickets with the garments you buy?"
Merita's eyes widened in surprise, and she smiled. "That's some advice for a minister to be giving out!"
"But you never thought of it, did you?"
"No."
"Dr. Jensen said you were a dental assistant for your father. How come you won't help your husband in his office?"
"And have him pawing at me all day? No thanks!"
"Who could blame him?" I held out my hands. "Look at them shake. It's all I can do to keep my hands off you myself."
"Who asked you to keep them off me?" she whispered boldly.
I'm getting out of Jax, Merita, very soon. And when I go I want you to go with me. I'm coming into some money, not a little money, but a great deal of money, and I'm going to New York. It's your chance to get away before you either get like these other church women, or get kicked out by your husband for taking up with a passing field hand with a lusty virility. It's in the cards. What do you say?"
"I don't know, Deut, I just don't know!"
"Come here." I put my arms around her and kissed her hard, crushing my lips against her teeth. For a moment she resisted, and then her body relaxed and she parted her lips. I took my lips away, and she gave me a sharp, little cry.
"I'm afraid of you, Deut! I never had anything like this—not like this—happen to me before!"
"You're smart to be afraid," I said grimly. "I'm dangerous. But that's the way it is. Better go into the bedroom and take off your clothes." I helped her to her feet. On impulse, I jerked the Spanish comb out of her hair and the long black tresses fell to her shoulders.
"I like you this way," I said. I dug both hands into the mass of loose hair and pulled her face against mine, kissing her gently on her bruised mouth. "Now get in there." I whacked her hard across her firm buttocks, and she had her dress over her head before she reached the bedroom door.
I followed her in, closed the door behind me, and leaned against it, watching Merita as she undressed. She kicked off her pumps, leaned down and unfastened her brassiere, and as she straightened up again her long, golden breasts smiled at me with their funny pink faces. Merita looked at me boldly with flashing black eyes, and licked her lips.
"Like?"
"Like." I nodded.
Knuckles pounded on the front door. I had to laugh.
"Maybe they'll go away?" Merita said anxiously.
"Never." I shook my head. "Stay in here. I'll see who it is and get rid of him."
I was too optimistic. As soon as I unlatched the door a large suitcase was tossed in, followed by a booming, almost idiotic laugh, and then a short red-faced man wearing a hounds-tooth plaid jacket leaped on it to catch up with his laughter.
"The famous and Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer himself!" the little man exclaimed. "And in the flesh, in the flesh. Yes, sir! Allow me to introduce myself, Reverend. I'm the unknown but well-travelled Raz Irby! Te
xas is my home, and I stay away from it, sir, by travelling for the Del Rio Religious Art Company, and in just a second I'm going to show you something you've never seen before and you'll never see again unless you see me again!" He knelt on the floor and began to unfasten the buckles on the suitcase.
"Look, whoever you are," I said angrily, "I don't want any. Don't unpack anything, just take off!"
"You don't have to tell me how busy you are, Reverend! I know! Yes, sir! And that's why I won't take up any of your valuable time. Now look at this, Reverend! Isn't it a beauty?" The suitcase was open, and the salesman had a tablecloth in his hands and was unfolding it with impatient movements of his short arms. "Just look!" He said admiringly. "Ever see anything like it?"
The table cloth was enormous, and there was a life-sized painting in three colors of Jesus Christ on the cross, in the middle of the tablecloth. In spite of myself I was interested. I'd never seen anything like it before.
"Do you think that's all, Reverend? Not on your tintype, sir! Six napkins to match! All in color, all hand-painted, and all half Texas cotton, and pure Irish linen! Raz Irby, That's me, is the only man in Florida you can buy such religious nappery from, and I won't sell it! No, that's right. I refuse to sell this table cloth. Take it. Yours, sir. No strings attached. Absolutely none." Raz Irby threw his head back and laughed idiotically, ran stubby fingers through his blond crewcut.
"Now look, Irby—"
"They said it couldn't be done!" Irby continued with his booming voice. "But the Del Rio Religious Art Company did it just the same! And these paper tablecloths and paper napkins were stamped, by hand, all in three primary colors, in exact replica of the pure linen and half Texas cotton table cloth. Beautiful?" Irby gingerly unfolded a flimsy paper tablecloth with a crude reproduction of the original painting block-printed in garish shades of red, yellow and blue ink.
"We can't make enough paper tablecloths and napkins to meet the demand," Irby said sadly, "not nearly enough! The craftsmanship is too good, and we refuse to lower our standards. That's why we refuse to sell to white churches. The Del Rio Religious Art Company will only sell these beautifully designed tablecloths and napkins to bonafide all-Negro congregations. They have a million uses, these napkins. They can be easily framed, and hung on every wall; wonderful for children's lunches too. Reminds the children to say grace, but best of all they add enjoyment and reverence to a meal. As you wipe your lips you kiss Jesus, you see. And the paper tablecloths have countless uses too, as you can readily see. A fine covering for a cheap coffin, a table cover, of course, a bedspread; and you can use them in church—"
"Hold on, Irby! I don't want any."
"Of course you don't, Reverend; you don't need anything to remind you of your Lord and Saviour, but your congregation does need such reminders! And if you will just tell them so at your mass meeting tonight I will—"
"You've got the wrong man," I practically shouted, afraid that he would get started again. "Dr. Heartwell is in charge of the mass meeting."
"I thought you were."
"No, Mr. Irby, I'm just a cog in the machine."
"Good!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad to hear that. Last year I was through Jax, and Dr. Heartwell and I didn't quite see eye to eye on a couple of matters, if you see what I mean, and if you'll soften him up for me, well I'll handle the rest. Now what about it, Reverend, and of course you can keep this beautiful pure linen, half Texas cotton tablecloth for your own table."
"Okay," I said. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."
"What about tonight? I don't like to miss an evening without making a few sales. My time in Jax is limited and I have all of Florida to—"
"I'll talk to him tonight. Please leave!"
"I'm glad to leave, Reverend, I know how busy you are." Raz Irby packed his suitcase, buckled the straps quickly, and shook my hand with a firm grip. "God bless you, Reverend, and maybe there'll be a little of the pecuniary measure in it for you on top of everything else! Goodbye, sir, and don't let me bother you any longer!" Irby opened the door, laughed idiotically, and started across the empty lot at a fast trot.
Merita opened the bedroom door with a loud bang. She was fully dressed again. Her lips were sullen, and her eyes met mine defiantly. "That's the kind of talk I hear at home all the time," she said scornfully. "Religious talk, silly meaningless religious double-talk! I'm out of the mood, Deut. I couldn't do anything now if I tried."
I nodded. "We'll have plenty of time. Go on home. Pack a bag, and wait for me to call you. I may call tonight, tomorrow morning, but it will be soon. Be ready to go."
"When you're talking everything seems to be all right, but I know how I am. I'm a coward really. At least with Fred I've got security, but with you—what can you give me, Deut?"
"Nothing," I said. "Adventure. Excitement. New York City. Love. That's all I can offer you, and the offer is open. When I leave, Merita, the door will close."
"I'll be ready." Merita tightened her lips grimly. "I'm afraid of you, Deut, but I kind of like being afraid." She lifted her chin defiantly. I brushed her lips with mine.
"Go home," I ordered. "Pack a bag and cash that check."
Merita opened the door to leave, and I stopped her. "Wait." I folded the hand-painted, pure linen, half Texas cotton tablecloth into a tight square, and shoved it under her elbow.
"A present for Dr. Jensen," I grinned. "Something to remember me by."
Merita laughed musically and picked her way down the steps. I watched her dainty walk and free-swinging hips until she reached the sidewalk, and then I closed the door.
Chapter Thirteen
After Merita left I made a glass of iced coffee, using plenty of ice, and carried it into my study. I sat at my desk, poured a generous amount of canned milk into the murky liquid, and watched the fascinating swirls of milk filter down through the coffee. The designs were beautiful to watch. I wouldn't stir the milk into the coffee; I would wait until the two liquids mixed by themselves before I drank it. Then I would do some thinking.
Sooner or later I would have to make a decision.
I wanted to take Merita with me, and leave Jax forever. The knowledge that I had money in the Atlanta Post Office with my name on it was a powerful incentive to leave. But I liked it here. Something new and exciting seemed to be going on every minute. And I didn't have to run away with Merita to have her—I could have her right here. Dr. Jensen was completely snowed under, and I could keep him that way. But I couldn't make up my mind, one way or another. And every time I tried to think anything out, I got a headache.
Luckily, I didn't have to do any thinking.
"Hey! Anybody home in there?" The unmistakable, booming voice of the Right Reverend Jack Dover, Abbott of Orangeville, came through the door with a familiar roar. I was delighted, and I could hardly open the door fast enough.
"Come in, Abbott! Come in!" I greeted him, and grabbed his big right hand with both of mine. The Abbott's black, groundlength cassock had been discarded, and he wore a pair of eggshell linen trousers, and a green silk shirt with short sleeves. His thick muscular arms were covered with damply matted red hair, and his head and eyebrows were freshly shaved.
"Well, Springer," the Abbott boomed, "what have you got to say for yourself?"
"Sit down," I replied. "Over here on the couch. It's more comfortable."
"Looks like you're raising all kinds of hell up here, Springer. How'd you get mixed up in all this mess?"
"I don't know, sir. Everything just seemed to happen, and there I was right in the middle. How about some iced coffee?"
"No, thanks." Abbott Dover shook his bald head. "I can't stay long. I just dropped in to say hello and goodbye. I sold the monastery, at my figure, to a real estate combine out of Miami. They're going to subdivide the acreage and sell lots for project houses, eight thousand on up. They'll lose their shirts.
"But the hell with that, I came to talk to you. You fooled me, Springer, you certainly did. I've only made one mistake in my life, but I think that y
ou're my second mistake. When I was a boy in Lincoln, Nebraska, I went into a movie one afternoon, and sat in the balcony—"
"You told me about that mistake, Abbott," I broke in. "About the colored girl and you under the projector?"
"That's right, I did. The moral of that story was never look at the projection booth. Well, I can carry the moral a little further now. Never look at the movie on the screen, either. Instead, just watch the people in the audience who are watching the movie!"
"What do you mean by that?"
Abbott Dover took a fresh plug of Brown Mule chewing tobacco out of his shirt pocket, looked at the plug with affection, and then returned it to his pocket. "I'm trying to give up chewing," he growled, "but it ain't easy. Here's what I mean. I read your novel, No Bed Too High."
"Really?" I was pleased. "What did you think of it?"
"It was worth two-bits all right. I picked it up at the Orangeville Drugstore, off the rack. After you left that morning to come up here, I got leery, wondered if I'd done the right thing. I was anxious to close the books on the monastery, and a minister for the Jax church was a loose, dangling end. Besides, I liked you. This church could be a good setup for a writer who really wanted to write. A couple of sermons on Sunday, and the rest of the week to himself—"
I laughed. "Are you kidding? I've never worked so hard in my life."
"That's what I mean. You don't want to write, Springer. Not really. I read your novel. You don't have anything to say. You don't know anything about people and you don't want to learn. A successful minister is the minister who does as little as possible. He listens, but he seldom speaks. A man in trouble who is allowed to talk will automatically feel better just for the opportunity to get it off his chest. A troubled man doesn't want any advice; he wants a sympathetic ear. You talk too much, and you talked when you should have been listening, and now you're in a lot of trouble."
"I wouldn't say that, Abbott. The boycott is going along fairly well, and in the long run the Negro race will probably benefit."
"But do you care? Does it make any difference to you, Springer, one way or the other?"
The Black Mass of Brother Springer Page 16