The Black Mass of Brother Springer (18 page)

       The girl's eyes widened and her eyebrows raised.

       "What I mean is, I'll pay the regular rates."

       I wrote Virginia's address on the form and a brief message: Go back to Columbus and mother. I pushed money and message across the counter to the girl and accepted my change.

       "You didn't include your name and address, sir," the girl reminded me.

       "That's right. I don't want the woman to know who sent her the money."

       "Yes, but we need it for record purposes."

       "Well, you won't get it. Do you want to send the money order or not?"

       "Yes, sir. I'll send it. I know who you are anyway. I've seen your picture in the paper."

       "You're a bright young lady. Your mother must be proud of you."

       "She is," the girl said defiantly, shaking her pony tail.

       I left the office, stood at the curb cracking my knuckles. I had come off badly, I decided. Getting sarcastic with an employee who was merely doing her job was no way for a minister to act. I went back inside, beckoned to the girl.

       "I'm very sorry," I said. "I'm overwrought today. Please accept my apology."

       "That's quite all right, sir."

       "God bless you child." That was better. I left the office.

       Outside I picked up an empty taxicab at the corner, and told the driver to take me to the Southern Baptists of Saint John Church.

       When I entered the basement GHQ there was a lot of activity going on, but none of the ministers of the League For Love were in the room.

       I tapped a young typist on the shoulder, and she leaped quickly to her feet.

       "That's all right, young lady," I said. "Keep your seat. Where are Dr. Heartwell and the other League members?"

       "He's upstairs in his regular office," the girl answered quickly. "Reverend McCroy and Dr. David are with him and," she looked around the room, "I believe Reverend Hutto is up there too."

       "What is it? A meeting?"

       "Yes, sir. An investigator from the International Colored Advancement Society flew in from Atlanta, and he's talking to them now."

       "Thank you."

       So, the professionals had arrived. The I.C.A.S. had recently been outlawed in four southern states, and in a widely publicized move, this organization had shifted its main headquarters to Ghana, Africa. Devoted to advancing the cause of colored men throughout the world, this widespread organization had hired the best Negro brains available. Our little operation could get into some real trouble if the I.C.A.S. became involved. The smell of Communism hung over this dark organization, and although none of the rumors concerning Communism had never been proved, the mere taint of the name, International Colored Advancement Society, could put the kibosh on our boycott in short order. Besides, this organization would demand a strict accounting of funds, and in all probability, would thoroughly investigate me and my phoney religious background. The valid ordainment in my wallet would be a great joke if publicized in the newspapers, and my usefulness to the League For Love would be all over.

       At the end of the basement hallway I climbed the steps leading up to Dr. Heartwell's office three at a time. Without knocking, I entered Dr. Heartwell's office and closed the door behind me. The Right Reverend Jason McCroy, Dr. David, and Dr. Heartwell sat in chairs facing Dr. Heartwell's desk. The swivel chair in the place behind the desk was occupied by the investigator from Atlanta. He was a sharp looking character, decked out in a Brooks Brothers suit with thin narrow lapels, and a gay Countess Mara necktie was tied around his powerful neck. His hair was black and straight and was combed back over his round skull in well trained elegance, aided by a shiny, sweet-smelling pomade.

       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 meeting."

       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.