The Black Mass of Brother Springer (11 page)

       "You may have noticed, Reverend," Dr. Jensen said modestly, "that I am not an uneducated man. I have been to college, and I have also been to dental school in Macon. I couldn't bring myself to marry beneath me, and I didn't. I married the daughter of another dentist in Macon. A respectable man, and by our standards, a man who was fairly well-to-do. Although I am twenty-two years older than my wife, Merita, Dr. Wells was happy to have me as his son-in-law. You haven't met my wife; she will not attend church, and there are times when I believe that she does not accept the Lord. These are strong words, but after more than three years of marriage, we still do not have any children. I believe that God is punishing us, Reverend, and that He is denying us children because of Merita's refusal to accept God as her Lord and Saviour."

       "That may well be so," I said, sipping my coffee. "God's ways are often mysterious."

       "Exactly. Another thing. Merita was trained as a dental assistant by her father and she helped him in his office on a full time basis. Naturally I thought that she would help me too, in my office, after our marriage. Such has not been the case. She says now she is married, and her place is in the home. Not since we left Macon has she entered my new office here. If she had children to look after, I wouldn't want her in the office as my assistant. But she doesn't have any children, and she sits around all day reading confession magazines, and doesn't do much of anything."

       "I see. What do you want me to do about it?"

       "I want you to talk to her, Reverend. Pray for her, and get her to accept the Lord. I am not getting any younger, and I want to have children before I die. If you can talk her into attending church, and if she were to hear one of your inspiring sermons, I believe we would be happy together in a religious household."

       "All right. I'll talk to her."

       "God bless you, sir. I hesitated to ask you about this at first. I was waiting for you to get settled and so on, but I am a very unhappy man, and I couldn't wait much longer."

       "That's quite all right."

       Dr. Jensen reached into his inside coat pocket and removed a folded sheaf of foolscap papers. He handed the papers to me, and I looked at a listing of handwritten names and addresses.

       "These are the names and addresses of our church members," he said, "in case you want to visit them. I have made a red mark by the names of those who haven't been to church in some time, and I believe you will find it to our advantage to visit these people."

       "Thank you, Doctor," I said wearily. "And now if you don't mind, I'd better get to bed."

       "Good night, Reverend. Again let me congratulate you on both of your sermons. I feel so much better since I have talked to you."

       I opened the front door. "Go with God." I let the dentist out into the night.

       Dr. Jensen was turning out to be a weird cat. What did he expect me to do about his wife? If he wasn't having any children, it wasn't God's fault. The old man was probably impotent, but like most men in that situation he hadn't checked with a doctor. It was easier to pass the blame onto his wife. I would talk to her, anyway. He was a trustee, and talk was cheap. I tossed the roster of the church members on my desk and sat down in the swivel chair. I wasn't sleepy, but I was bone tired. Feeling the way I did, I knew it would take me a day or two to recover from my all day ordeal. How much writing could I do if I felt this tired? To top it off, I would have to visit Mrs. Jensen, and a couple of dozen other delinquent churchgoers on the list I would have to get out in the neighborhood again and talk the good churchgoers into continued attendance. I would have to prepare two more sermons for next Sunday, and I also had to prepare a couple of hours of instruction for a Friday night Bible class. What time would I have left to do my own writing in the event I could think of something to write about? I was feeling discouraged when I heard the sound of fingernails scratching on the front door.

       The scratching sound came again and I opened the door and switched on the porch light at the same time. There was a young Negro standing there, and a young girl was standing directly behind him, peering fearfully over his shoulder. He wore a bright sport shirt, a pair of faded blue denim jeans, and white tennis shoes. The girl was wearing a white ballerina length dress, and carried a pair of open toed slippers in her left hand.

       "What do you want, boy?" I asked wearily.

       "Could we talk to you a minute, Reverend?" the boy asked huskily.

       "I suppose so. Come in."

       "I'll wait out here," the girl whispered.

       "No you won't," I ordered. "Come in. Both of you. Now what do you want this time of night?"

       "We want to get married," he said, a hint of defiance in his voice.

       "Married? How old are you?"

       "Sixteen."

       "I see. How old are you?" I asked the girl.

       She put her shoes on the floor, and steadying herself by holding on to the boy's shoulder, she slipped her bare feet into them. I waited, and finally she managed to whisper, "I'm sixteen too."

       "Don't you two think you're a little young to be getting married?"

       The boy shook his head, stared at the floor. "Not after what you said about us this morning. We figure that's about the only way we can get right with God."

       I remembered what he was talking about. Evidently my imaginary story in the morning sermon had found a mark.

       "Did you have carnal relations with this girl last night?"

       "Yes, sir."

       I took a firm grip on the girl's arm. "Did you know, little sister," I said softly, "that you could go to Hell for such carrying on?"

       She began to cry, great big blubbery tears. The boy shook her shoulder and said: "Hush! We's going to make it all right with the Lord."

       "No," I said. "What's done is done. But you're both too young to be getting married. The only thing for you to do, Sonny, is to join my Bible class next Friday night and make atonement for your sins. And you, young lady, you had better get down on your knees every night and pray for your wanton soul!"

       She really began to cry then, and I was surprised that such a big sound could shake loose from such a frail figure.

       "The best thing for you two to do, I suppose, is to keep away from each other from now on. That way you won't be tempted to stray from God's path. However, in case she gets pregnant—"

       "She won't do that, Reverend," the boy broke in hastily, "I used me a safety."

       "In that case, you just keep it in your pockets from now on. And if I ever hear about this kind of goings on between you two again, I'm going to give your names out in church. Right out loud for everybody, do you hear?"

       "Yes, sir. But we're trying to do right. I'm ready to marry her."

       "You don't have to get married. Just promise you'll be good from now on."

       "I promise," he said.

       The girl dropped to her knees and grabbed my hand. "Please don't tell my daddy on me, Reverend!" she said through her tears. "I won't do it again!"

       "In that case," I opened the door. "Go with God." I ushered them out, and put a fresh pot of coffee on the electric burner.

       Jesus, dear sweet Jesus!

Chapter Seven

The next morning, Monday and a new week, I sat around in my shorts drinking iced coffee after breakfast, and pondering my new profession. I was not nearly as tired as I had thought I would be, and after thinking over the events of the preceding day, I realized that—on the whole—I had been quite successful. My spirits were high, and I had a warm feeling inside my chest.

       Naturally, I didn't feel as elated as when I had first received the bound copy of my novel, but that had been my first taste of success. My new success as a minister, however, was something else again. An alien field, and a difficult assignment, and I had conquered it. As any book on management states,"...the happiest employee is the man who has a feeling of personal worth." This is the feeling I had. Whether I had intended to make people happy or not, I had made a lot of people happy by my rabid morning sermon, and I had made more people happy in the evening by giving them something to think about, something to dream about when their trials and tribulations were piled unbearably high. What difference did it make that I personally believed in nothing I had said? Abbott Dover had been right when he had told me that the most successful ministers believed the least. A great man, Abbott Dover.

       Of course, I had many things to do in the next few weeks, and I wouldn't get much writing done, but on the other hand, wasn't I meeting people and having experiences I could write about later? Of course. Sitting for a full year in the ivory tower at Ocean Pine Terraces had put me out of contact with people. Readers want to read about people, not things. I would get back to writing, all in good time. And I would be a better writer for my experience. Indubitably.

       Taking up the membership roster on my desk, I filled a notebook with the names and addresses of delinquent members, and set out on my rounds. The morning sun was blistering, and my black suit was smothering me. I was bringing lost lambs back to the fold.

       The first name on my list merely said, Tom the Ragman, (alley behind the Afro Hotel). The hotel was easy to find; it was located on Jefferson Avenue, and the exterior was painted a violent purple. A vertical neon sign perched on a narrow marquee in front of the main entrance spelled out AFRO HOTEL in glowing, alternating green and red letters. I entered the shabby lobby, continued down the hall and let myself out the back door into the alley. Catty corner from the back entrance, and across the alley, there was a ramshackle two-car garage, and in the interior was my errant sinner Tom, an aged Negro engaged in the tying of bundles of newspaper.

       I removed my straw floater as I entered the garage and said: "Are you Tom the Ragman?"

       "Yes, sir!" the old Negro said courteously. He shuffled closer until he was less than two feet away from me. "What do you want with old Tom?" he asked defensively. "I ain't done nothin'."

       "I don't want you, Tom," I said. "God wants you. Jesus Christ has you on his list as an unrepentant sinner. Yesterday, I looked for you in church and couldn't find you. Why have you forsaken God, Tom?"

       "I didn't know the Church of God's Rock had a new minister, Reverend. Otherwise I would have been there, right up in front."

       "You're lying, Tom. Everyone in this section of Jax knows of my arrival, including you."

       "Seems to me I did hear something about it, Reverend. But I suppose it slipped my mind." He began to whine. "I'm an old man, Reverend, and I don't see so good, and I don't remember so good..."

       "That's why I came to see you, Tom. You're an old man and you haven't accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Saviour. You have many evil sins upon you and you must be washed clean in the blood of the lamb. I'll pray for you, Tom, and I'll expect to see you in church next Sunday."

       "I'll be there, Reverend, don't worry. You can look for me next Sunday, and I'll be there. Thank you for reminding me, Reverend."

       I was wasting my time with Tom the Ragman. He was too far gone to be saved. Tom would have promised anything to get rid of me. Why badger the poor old devil?

       "Goodbye, Tom. If I can help you in any way, you let me know now, hear?"

       "Yes, sir, Reverend. I sure will."

       "God loves you, Tom."

       "I know he does, Reverend. God loves all of us, and watches every sparrow."

       I left the old man to his newspapers and reentered the hotel. The hotel clerk had missed my entrance through the front door, but his eyes widened when he saw me enter the lobby from the rear hallway. I strode purposely to the desk.

       "What's your name?" I asked the clerk. He was a young man, the color of anthracite, flamboyantly attired in a solid-blue shirt, a yellow tie and a yellow-and-black tattersall vest.

       "Toby Harris, Reverend," he said politely. "What can I do for you, sir?"

       "I understand you have girls in this hotel," I announced casually.

       "Oh, no, Reverend!" He was obviously lying, and his dark eyes rolled up in his head, giving his fat round face a mock piety.

       "I've heard differently," I said. "And I want it stopped. The Afro Hotel is a veritable den of iniquity. Where's the manager?"

       "He ain't in now, Reverend. I don't know when he'll be back."

       "You tell him I want to see him at church. And that goes for you too."

       "Yes, sir. I'll tell him."

       "See that you do."

       "Yes, sir. I won't forget."

       I examined the magazines in the rack next to the desk, pulled out a well-known national publication featuring a semi-nude photograph on the cover.

       "Does the manager of the Afro Hotel sanction this kind of trash?" I threw the magazine on the desk. "Or this?" I tossed another lurid magazine on the desk. "Or this?" I found another sensational magazine.

       "Oh, no sir, Reverend!" the clerk replied piously. "I don't know how them magazines got in our rack. The man who brought them last night must have made a mistake."

       "I don't like to see magazines like this," I said sternly. "They inflame the passions and thwart the soul. Do you think Jesus would read magazines like this? Well? Do you?"

       "No, sir. He sure wouldn't!" Sweat was pouring from the clerk's face. He vaulted the desk clumsily, and began to gather all of the magazines from the rack, piling them onto the desk in confusion. "I'll get rid of these right away, Reverend."

       "See that you do!"

       As he emptied the rack, I left abruptly, turned right and walked down to the comer drugstore for a Coca Cola. I was amazed. There didn't seem to be any limit to the power of a man with a backward collar! I sipped my large Coke, and the fountain girl timidly placed the check on the marble counter. A moment later, the proprietor of the drugstore, a short, fat man with a golden smile, sat down on the next stool, and tore the check into quarters. He turned to the fountain girl with his golden teeth exposed and said: "The Reverend Springer can't pay for anything in here, Ellie May."