The Black Mass of Brother Springer (26 page)

       "Neither do I," I replied.

       "The cuffs will take about an hour."

       "Rush it up," I said. "And while I wait I'll get a few more things. I need a shirt, socks, belt, shoes, a new hat, handkerchiefs—"

       "Yes, sir!"

       In less than an hour I was a new man, if clothes do make the man. To go with my blue suit I had purchased a Hathaway button-down shirt with tiny blue-and-red checks. A knitted maroon tie looked well with the shirt, and to match the tie I had chosen a pair of all-wool maroon socks. Broad-winged cordovan shoes and a chestnut Tyrolean hat with a gay yellow feather in the band completed my outfit. My clerical garb and battered straw hat were packed for me in a long red-and-white striped clothing box. The box was tied securely with red string.

       In the center of the block I shoved the box into a large round barrel which had a stenciled sign, KEEP YOUR CITY CLEAN, on its side. I entered a new and glittering bank, after first admiring the shiny, massive steel door to the vault through the windows.

       "I want to rent a lock box," I told a guard. The guard wore a dark red uniform with yellow piping on the jacket, a black patent-leather Sam Browne belt, and pistol holster. He directed me politely to a girl behind a cage with bronze bars.

       I filled in a form, signing my name as S. D. Springer, received a key, and the girl unlocked the barred door. She accompanied me into the vault, and with her key and mine, we unlocked a tiny door in the wall, and I withdrew the long narrow black metal box.

       "That room is empty, sir," she said, pointing.

       "Thank you." I entered the small room, not much larger than a telephone booth, latched the door and switched on a small fan above the shelf. I kept five hundred dollars out for my wallet, and folded the canvas belt containing the remainder of the money into the long black box. As an afterthought, I added my ordainment paper to the contents. A souvenir. After replacing the box in the wall and locking the tiny door I pocketed my key and buzzed the exit door.

       The girl apologized as she let me out. "I'm sorry, Mr. Springer," she lisped prettily, "but you only signed your initials on the form for the lock box. The bank requires your full first name. You can sign your signature anyway you want to, but for record purposes—"

       "Of course," I waved my hand. "Judas is my first name." I giggled at the startled expression on the girl's face. "Judas D. Springer—sometimes known as Sam."

       After leaving the bank I set off briskly down the street. And then I suddenly stopped. Where was I going? What was I running away from? Myself? That was impossible. As long as I was alive I would always be there, wherever I happened to be. The business, the activity, shopping for a suit and accessories, the business at the bank, had shoved all thoughts of Merita out of my mind. I must have been crazy to leave such a cruel note for the girl, to send her away. She was all I had. One man alone, without someone to love him, hasn't got a chance! If she hadn't loved me she would never have fled friends, family and husband across half a continent. I hurried to the curb and waved violently at a cruising cab. The return trip to the Hotel Anderson was agonizingly slow. If Merita was still asleep I could tear up the note and waken her with a fervent kiss. But if she had read the note there would be arguments, denials, crying on her part and clever lies on mine. Either way we would end up in bed; I had that much confidence in myself.

       A long line of cars blocked off the side street leading down to the hotel. To save time I paid off the driver at the corner; I could make better time on foot. Keeping to the less-crowded far right side of the sidewalk I hurried toward the hotel, but before I reached the marquee I stopped and pressed myself back against a wall.

       Merita had emerged from the revolving door, followed by a male Negro carrying her suitcase. He was a prime specimen of American man; wide shoulders, with a thick powerful neck and an erect athletic posture. There was a broad self-assured smile on his shiny handsome face, and he was obviously amused by the steady stream of chatter Merita was babbling so cheerfully. As I watched her animated face and dark flirting eyes as she looked admiringly at the big Negro's face, I knew that I had lost her forever.

       Not that I was too late. There was still some time and I knew I could have rushed up and talked her into coming back to me. But the pattern of suspicion had already been established. She would never have really trusted me again, and it would only have been a matter of time before she left me for another handsome specimen like the one she had in tow. Merita knew she had met a kindred soul. He seemed to relax her, ease her. She finished whatever she was saying and laughed, throwing her head back with joy. The man laughed with her and put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her into his chest and hugged her friendlily. A taxi stopped in the yellow loading zone—the same cab I had vacated—and both of them got inside. I turned abruptly and walked slowly up the street in the opposite direction.

       I was no longer a man in a hurry. First I must find and rent an apartment. Obtain writing materials. Typewriter. No problem. Then? Eat, sleep, write. But what should I write? Notes from under the floorboards, like Fyodor Dostoyevsky? Or should I write another brittle and superficial novel like my first book, No Bed Too High? Escape writing for escape readers, like Abbott Dover had said. But I had already escaped! I had the money. I was no longer responsible for my wife or for Merita.

       I was walking aimlessly, without purpose, so I stopped and leaned against the glass store front of a drugstore. I shivered. Despite the sun I was cold. I was used to much heavier apparel, the protective covering of a man of God. Should I buy a sweater to wear beneath my light blue jacket? The pedestrians rushed back and forth. Not one of them looked in my direction. I was another nothing in the street. In my black uniform I had been something. The backward collar had allowed me to speak to others without permission, and it gave others the right to speak to me, to smile at me, to love me. But the church was not my way; I didn't have a way.

       I didn't know whether I should turn left and walk up the street, or turn right and walk down the street. What difference did it make? All of the city noises seemed to drop away. I looked up. Ten stories high a pigeon flew across the street. That was the only way to travel. Fly. Of course, when he landed on a window ledge, a bored office boy might slam the window down on his claws...

       "God save him," I muttered automatically.

       And then I laughed, a wild uncontrolled sound welling out of my throat. Only last Sunday I had saved an entire church full of sinners. All except one. I had failed to save myself. And now it was too late. My power to save was gone, shoved into a rubbish can. What an ironic twist of fate!

       Again I laughed wildly.

       Two teenage Puerto Rican girls, linked arm and arm, swung by.

       "Mira! Look at the screwball, Marie," one said. Both of the girls giggled and continued down the sidewalk, swinging their hips as they walked.

       She was right, of course. I was a screwball. What did I believe in? Anything at all? Nothing. I shook my head. Nothing. But just the same, I had better play God safe, just like everybody else. I lifted my eyes above the people, above the pigeons, above the buildings and looked at the clean blue skies.

       "Thanks, God," I whispered, "for nothing."

THE END