The Black Mass of Brother Springer (2 page)

       "Thank you, Mrs. Burns."

       Although Mrs. Burns had evidently briefed the manager on my attire, Mr. Carlisle couldn't hide the surprise in his eyes, nor the anger in his voice.

       "What in the hell is that get-up supposed to mean?" he asked rudely.

       "I am leaving for Florida today, Mr. Carlisle," I stated calmly, "and I came to say goodbye and submit my resignation."

       "Your resignation is not accepted!" he snapped. "The semiannual audit is due; the quarterly reports and the end of the month billings must be finished by tomorrow morning, and you can get back to your desk right now!"

       For ten years I had lived in fear of Mr. Carlisle, but I didn't hate him. It was his position I feared. Like all salaried Americans I had the deeply instilled fear of being fired, and the very real knowledge that I could be fired at any moment. This fear is not ever-present, but it lurks in the subconscious, leaping out when a mistake of some kind is made in your work, or when you realize how long you have been working at the same place without any advancement. The longer a man works for one firm, and the older he gets, the greater the fear. But as I looked down at Mr. Carlisle, taking in his bald head, his mottled red face, and his clipped white mustache, I marveled that I had ever had any fear of this little man and his little position. The publication of my novel had made me superior to him, to the company, and to any and all types of employment. I was now a man of letters, a free agent, a man who could live by his pen and by his brain!

       "My new book is out," I said quietly, ignoring Carlisle's mad outburst, "and I have brought you an autographed copy." I placed the novel in the manager's in-basket. "The novel retails for $2.75, but the autograph increases the value by approximately one dollar, and since it is a first edition, you would be wise to hang onto it for a few years if you wish to sell it at an even greater profit."

       "You wrote this book?" Mr. Carlisle asked, suspiciously picking up the novel and peering at the title.

       "Yes."

       "No Bed Too High. Hmm. Is it a sex novel?"

       "You will find out when you read it." I reached out my hand. "And now, goodbye, Mr. Carlisle. I'm off for Florida."

       Without thinking Mr. Carlisle shook my hand for a second and then withdrew his limp paw quickly and glared at me.

       "You mean you're quitting? Just like that?"

       "Yes." I looked at my fingernails. "Unless you want to match the salary Hollywood has offered me for doing the scenario...fifteen hundred a week."

       This was a bald lie, of course, but Mr. Carlisle didn't know the difference, and at that very early stage of being a novelist I thought this offer very likely myself.

       "All right!" Mr. Carlisle set his lips in a tight line. "Go ahead and quit! Give up a good job without notice. Leave me in a hole. But you'll get no severance pay without giving two weeks notice!"

       I smiled, turned casually and sauntered out of the office. At $25 a year, my severance pay would have been $260, more than the advance on my novel, but it was worth that amount and more to leave the building without a backward glance. I did not say goodbye to any of my associates nor to any of the employees at the company. There would have been many false congratulations, but every one of the remarks would have been tinged with envy and bitterness. I knew this, and my abrupt leave-taking gave my departure an air of mystery I rather enjoyed.

       I withdrew my savings, a small nest egg of $2400, telephoned the Beacon Storage Company to pack our belongings, and Virginia and I left for Miami on the midnight coach flight after a tearful farewell scene with my mother-in-law.

Sitting in my study in my project house in Ocean Pine Terraces, I had relived this scene many times in my memory, and it never failed to put me into a good mood.

       I looked out the window and observed my wife hanging up wet sheets on the line in the backyard. A new washing machine, a new refrigerator, and a new electric stove had been included in the new house and had only added a few dollars a month to the house payments. My wife found great pleasure in these appliances after the inconvenience of the small apartment in Columbus. But except for the appliances and the television set, the woman had few pleasures in life. She hated Florida, although she never said so, and her memories were concentrated on Columbus, Ohio. After a year in Florida, her conversation was almost entirely about her former friends and bygone days in Columbus. Lately, she even talked about the good times she had had at John Adams Junior High School.

       At first she had been elated by the published novel; and then excited by the magic of Florida, she had written too many glowing letters about our house in Ocean Pine Terraces, the fabulous beach, the night clubs we had gone to upon our arrival, the wonderful climate and so on, and as a consequence she no longer had any friends in Columbus. Except for her mother, no one answered her letters any more, and she had not made any new friends in Miami. I was unconcerned about my wife's happiness.

       This way of life suited me fine. I slept well, I ate well, and each morning after a hearty breakfast I retired to my study, sharpened a dozen pencils and sat at my desk all day. Although I had never managed to think of a new idea for a novel I had written several stories and an extremely brilliant essay on D. H. Lawrence's novel, The Plumed Serpent. The fact that the essay and none of the stories had been purchased by any of the magazines I had sent them to did not bother me in the least. I was a writer and I expected a few setbacks. And besides, the short stuff was merely fill-in work until I could get embarked upon another novel.

       After the $250 advance from the Zenith Press, I had received no more royalties. The book had not sold very well in hard covers. But six months after moving to Florida, the Zenith Press had sold the reprint rights to a paperback house, and I had received a check for $1100 as my share. I considered this a handsome share and I had sorely needed the money when I received it. The $1100 was now gone, however, and to continue my way of life I needed money. Something would turn up...

       "Hey!" I shouted through the open window, "how about putting on some coffee?"

       "As a matter of fact," my wife shouted in reply, "I intend to in a minute, as soon as I have finished hanging up the laundry."

       Virginia had this habit of adding "as a matter of fact" before, or in the center, or at the end of each sentence. For awhile I had been rather irked by it, but I had become accustomed to the little trick and was no longer bothered by the term. She had picked up this phrase from watching television interview programs, I supposed, and at least it padded her small talk.

       Deep down in my heart I knew that there was a very simple solution to my money difficulties. I was an excellent accountant; Miami had a need for accountants as well as Columbus, and all I had to do was take a job and get out of debt, slowly but surely.

       Now that I was down to $87.42 I turned the pages of the Miami Herald to the want ads for the first time since moving to Florida. I did this reluctantly, but I also made up my mind to work only as long as it was necessary to get out of debt. While I waited for the coffee, and as I idly flipped the pages, a short news item at the bottom of page twelve caught my eye and saved me from another fate worse than death.

       CGF MONASTERY ON THE BLOCK

       Orangeville, Fla.—The Church of God's Flock Monastery, established in 1936, is being sold, according to the Rt Rev. Jack Dover, Abbott of the Protestant order since 1954.

       All monks have been reassigned, and only Abbott Dover has remained at the monastery to oversee the sale of the property. No reason was given for the closing of the monastery.

       Long a part of the Orangeville scene, monks of The Church of God's Rock order were self-supporting, raising goats, Key limes and oranges, and selling CGF Orange Wine on the premises.

       It took a writer to see the possibilities in that news item! I carefully tore the piece from the paper and went into the kitchen where Virginia was pouring hot water into two cups for instant coffee.

       "Read this," I told my wife, handing her the news item.

       "Is it a sale?" she asked.

       "In a way. Read it."

       While Virginia squinted at the newsprint, I spooned the coffee dust into our cups and stirred. She sat down at the table and returned the clipping.

       "Do you want to buy the monastery, dear?"

       "No, Virginia. I plan to do an article on the monastery. Today, people all over the United States are vitally interested in things religious; self-help, homilies that will help them get through their days. How to live a day at a time, how to keep warm, a prayer a day keeps boogers away. You see this stuff all of the time in the papers, in books, in magazines. Are you following me?"

       "Oh, yes."

       "Well, I'm going up there to Orangeville and see this Abbott Dover and find out what's going on. I've been reading Thomas Merton paperbacks ever since they started coming out, and according to him there's a big boom in this monk business. Of course, he's a Trappist and a Roman Catholic instead of a Protestant monk, but I can't understand why any monastery would close. It's too good a set-up. No financial worries, no responsibilities, no children, no friends; just wholesome work, a few prayers and a little meditation."

       "That sounds like the way we live," my wife said, with a touch of melancholy in her voice. "Back in Columbus, as a matter of fact—"

       "Now listen," I cut her off. "We are getting a bit low on funds, and if I can get an inspirational article out of this trip we will be back in the money. This Week magazine pays fifteen hundred dollars for a good lead article. If This Week turns the article down, I can sell it to the Miami Herald for fifty dollars. If the Miami Herald turns it down, I'll expand the article into another inspirational book, condense it, and sell it to the Reader's Digest. Can you see the possibilities?"

       "What are you going to write about, Sam?"

       "I'm going to write the truth. That's all. Evidently, the monastic way of life is crumbling, and there has to be a reason. I don't know what that reason is, of course, but what if there is a secret moral discouragement throughout the country that we don't suspect? It says in the news item that the monks have all been reassigned. Where have they been sent? Why were they reassigned? This is news, my dear, and people today want to find out everything pertaining to religion—and especially about monks. In a valueless society, half-Republican and half-Socialist, monks and hermits are the only people left with any individuality. If they go, where does that leave the rest of us? Don't you see?"

       "As a matter of fact, I don't. Your coffee is getting cold."

       "You're right. The coffee is getting cold. And I really don't know what I'll find up there. It may be a dead trail, but on the other hand, I may run into a swarm of Life reporters and photographers beating me to the story. But I have to see for myself. I haven't been able to think of anything to write about for a long time, and this story has potential. When you finish your coffee, pack a bag for me."

       "How long will you be gone?"

       "A couple of days, maybe three. No more."

       That evening Virginia drove me to the Greyhound Bus station and I purchased my ticket for Orangeville. I decided that the trip would be cheaper by bus than it would be with the car, and besides she needed the car to get to the supermarket. While we waited for the bus to leave, I reassured Virginia that I would only be gone for three days at the most.

       "Have you got any money?" I asked.

       "As a matter of fact," she replied, "I only have about three dollars."

       "Here." I gave her a five dollar bill. "This should be enough until I get back."

       I boarded the bus, took a seat by the window, and waved goodbye through the blue-tinted window to Virginia as the bus pulled away from the station.

       It was not until the Greyhound stopped at Melbourne, Florida, about a hundred miles up the coast, that I realized I had only purchased a one-way ticket to Orangeville. Why did I do that, I wondered, when a roundtrip ticket would have been substantially cheaper?

       I knew all right. My conscious mind knew, and my subconscious mind also knew...

Chapter Three

Every year in these United States thirty per cent of the husbands leave their wives and go elsewhere. A large percentage of these deserting husbands return, mostly those with children; they miss the children. Others are brought back reluctantly by court order when they are caught. Many return because they miss their wives, and when they realize that taking care of their own laundry, meals, sex, and so on is quite a chore when alone in a room somewhere. Some of the errant husbands are persuaded to return by relatives, ministers, and by repentant wives.

       Many, however, get away. For the determined man, it is a relatively simple matter to disappear in the United States. The first step is to leave and go to another state, preferably a fairly large city in another state. The second step is to change the name, and then get the name certified as legally correct. The easiest way to do this is to register at any Social Security office and obtain a number to go with the new name. No questions are asked at the Social Security office and within a few days you will find yourself with a new Social Security card. Next, obtain a state driver's license. Although it plainly states at the bottom of the Social Security card that it is not for identification, the driver's license bureau usually will accept the card for identification anyway, that is, if they ask for any identification.

       With new identity established, the husband can now find a job and go to work. Within a few months his identity is firmly established in the new city and he can have a pocket full of cards; engraved calling cards, membership cards to the YMCA, the local Toastmaster's Club, Kiwanis, Boosters, Athletic Club, and with a saving's account at any bank, a membership card for the Diner's Club.