The Black Mass of Brother Springer (25 page)

       "I know," she pouted prettily. "But that don't stop me from wanting to kiss you."

       "Get going," I grinned. "By five this evening, we'll be in another world."

       I left Merita at the bus station, and caught a taxicab to the Post Office. My package was waiting for me at the General Delivery window, and I signed for it, after the clerk checked my mimeographed ordainment certificate to verify my identity. A black suit and a backward collar was not enough identification for the Post Office Department. As I started out, a bold headline caught my eye at the blind man's newsstand.

       RACE RIOT IN JAX—4 KILLED

       Without thinking, I dropped a nickel on the counter and reached for the newspaper. An inch away from the paper I stayed my hand, and a film of perspiration broke out on my forehead. No, I thought, I don't want to read about it. That is a chapter in my life that is over and done with, and I must only look ahead. I reached for my nickel, but the blind man had already scooped it off the marble counter and pocketed it. I shrugged and left the Post Office.

       My stomach was practically knotted with pain from being empty, and I ate breakfast in a nearby cafe; ham steak, four eggs, a separate plate of grits, and washed it all down with three cups of hot coffee. Following breakfast, most of my fatigue seemed to lift, and my step was lighter on the sidewalk. I bought a canvas money belt in a pawn shop, much to the amusement of the broker.

       "You're the first priest I ever sold a money belt to," the broker laughed, displaying a set of well-decayed teeth.

       "I'm not a Roman Catholic priest," I replied. "I'm an Episcopal Catholic priest."

       "That explains it." He laughed again, and cut the price down from three dollars to one-fifty.

       I continued down the street until I found a gas station, obtained the key from the attendant, and entered the men's room. There wasn't time to count all of the money, but the loose bills looked like a fortune as I transferred them into the money belt. I kept one hundred dollars in my wallet for expenses, and strapped the thick canvas belt around my waist under my shirt.

       A taxicab took me to the International Airport, and I climbed out at the main entrance at exactly ten-thirty. Merita's face broke into a radiant smile at my appearance, and I made an impatient signal with my hand to prevent her from leaping all over me.

       "Did you get the tickets?"

       "Eleven-fifteen," she smile. "Aren't I smart?"

       "Give them to me." I put both tickets in my inside coat pocket.

       "The airplane lands in New Jersey, but the man said it wasn't far from New York."

       "It's right across the river. You look tired."

       "I'm dead, but I'm so excited I won't sleep for a week."

       "Maybe you can catch some sleep on the plane?"

       "Not me!" she exclaimed excitedly. "I'm going to watch every minute!"

       We walked through the building and down the covered corridor to Gate Six. When they called our plane we boarded first in line, and obtained seats together. I showed Merita how to fasten the seat belt. As I bent over the aluminum buckle she whispered in my ear.

       "Are you sure it's all right to sit together?"

       "Of course," I said. "But we'd better not talk till we reach New York."

       At the far end of the field where the pilot tested the engines, Merita began to get frightened. She gripped the arms of the seat until her knuckles paled, and her face dripped with perspiration. The flight was smooth and even, but she spent the first hour upchucking into a paper sack provided by the stewardess. There was nothing I could do for her. A person who is air sick is air sick and that is all there is to it. But she got used to the idea of being in an airplane, and despite her resolution to stay awake, she slept the rest of the way to the International Airport in New Jersey.

       We had dinner at the airport cafe, preceded by two martinis apiece, and after eating a sirloin steak, Merita was happy and excited again. The realization that she was being waited on by a white waitress did more for her morale and well-being than anything else. And when the waitress addressed Merita as "Madame" she knew that Florida was a million miles behind.

       Instead of taking the limousine into Manhattan, we took a taxicab for just the two of us, because I wanted to go directly to a hotel. I was no stranger to New York, but I didn't know the city any too well. I had spent a ten day leave in the city when I had been in the Army, and I had made four or five visits from Columbus with my wife. However, my knowledge of the borough was confined mostly to the limes Square district. Two different hotels on Forty-fourth Street claimed to be filled, but the second desk clerk called the Anderson Hotel, and they held a room for us. On the drive to the Anderson, we stopped at a liquor store and I bought a fifth of gin and a six-pack of Seven-Up.

       Finally installed in the third-rate hotel room, containing a creaking double-bed and a set of beat-up furniture, I got under a shower. I let the hot water sluice over me for fifteen minutes, gradually decreasing the cold water until the hot water almost scalded my skin. I couldn't get enough of the shower, and when I did turn off the water, I still didn't feel completely clean. After toweling my boiled and glowing body, I slipped into my shorts, and rejoined Merita in the room. She handed me a squat glass of gin and Seven-Up.

       "We made it, Deut!" She said happily.

       The drink was a strong one, and it raced through my blood. I refilled our glasses with two more fingers of gin, and without adding mix. We finished the second drink and I sent Merita into the bathroom.

       On my back, I stretched out on the bed, my mind a perfect blank. I was tired, but it was a delicious weariness, a feeling of deep well-being, of self-satisfaction...I closed my eyes.

       A voice above my head whispered: "Are you my evil man?"

       "You know it," I replied.

       The tips of Merita's breasts brushed slowly across my chest. She laughed; a low, musical sound that promised dark, unknown secrets.

       "Make me know it!" she said.

       I dug my fingers into her loose, long hair, and pulled her face down against mine, and lost myself in the softness of her lips.

Chapter Fifteen

Merita turned over in bed and the springs creaked. But she didn't waken. The girl was exhausted. The past thirty-six hours had been frantic, tiring hours for Merita, and like a child, she would sleep soundly until all of her energy was restored.

       Then what?

       In the airplane to New York I had toyed with shadowy half-formed plans, wondering what to do with Merita when we got to the city. This was the edge of Harlem, not the center, but the edge, the creeping curve that was inching its way, building by building, across the island of Manhattan. Merita was a Negro. But then, there were plenty of places in New York where all hues lived together indiscriminately—thanks to years of Puerto Rican immigration, as vari-colored as the rainbow. I figured we shouldn't have too much trouble finding a cosy enough place in which to settle down.

       But now I had her I didn't really want her any more. Right now I was surfeited, and although I knew that desire for her body would return within a few hours, this desire was the only thing we had in common. Sex alone was hardly enough for a sustained and happy relationship. In many ways Merita was actually stupid. And worst of all, every time I looked at her I would be reminded of the sight of Dr. Fred Jensen stretched out on the floor in his kitchen, the blood pouring from his head. I didn't want to be reminded of my week in Jax; I wanted to completely forget this dark chapter in my life and start all over again, from scratch, and alone. I wanted a new life, a small two-room apartment somewhere, a place where I could write. I had the money to keep going for a long time if I kept the money all for myself. Merita would want excitement, night clubs, jazz, jewelry, all of the things she had been denied as the wife of the old dentist. She wasn't worth it, and yet I didn't want to desert her, leave her all alone in a crummy hotel room in a foreign city. The best thing for Merita to do was to go home, back to Jax, back to the dentist. She could lie to him, tell him anything, tell him she got frightened in all the excitement and went home to Macon for a few days. He would be so happy to get her back he would believe anything she said.

       I took my ballpoint pen out of my coat pocket, and leaning over the dresser I wrote a note on a sheet of the hotel stationery. (Anderson Hotel—In New York, your home away from home).

       Dearest—It will never work out for us. I'm leaving and I won't be back. I have left some money for you. Take a bus and go back to your husband. If he's in the hospital he may not have missed you. I'm sorry.

       Love, Deut

       The note was cruel, mean, and it would hurt Merita. I knew this, but I wanted to make it strong enough so she would go back. I dropped fifty dollars in small bills on top of the note. She had more money in her purse; a hundred dollars from her husband in addition to the change left over from the two hundred dollars I had given her to buy the airplane tickets. Plenty of money to get back to Florida.

       Making as little noise as possible I strapped the money belt around my waist, and began to dress. The white, backward collar of my shirt was filthy. My socks were stiff at the toes but I put them on anyway. I laced and tied my scuffed and dusty shoes. My black covert cloth suit was wrinkled and heavy. There were foxtails and sandburrs on the cuffs, picked up from many crossings of the lot between my church and my little house. I settled the straw skimmer on my head and grinned at my reflection in the mottled dresser mirror. The straw was cracked on the left side and the stiff brim drooped at a sharp angle. I was a seedy-looking minister, all right.

       Dressed, I unlocked the door and eased it open, closed it softly behind me. I almost tiptoed to the elevator, but I didn't look back at the door. Whatever it was that passed for a heart inside my chest ached like a tooth.

       Outside the sun was out and it was a bright beautiful day. The sky overhead was a royal blue, filled with skittering tufts of small white clouds. At the corner I paused at an obelisk, debating as to whether I should take a taxicab or ride the subway. I hailed a taxi.

       "Madison Avenue," I told the driver.

       "Any particular address, Reverend?" he asked as he bluffed his way into the slowmoving stream of traffic.

       "I want to buy some clothes. Good clothes."

       "You can get a good black suit almost anyplace on Madison."

       "I'm aware of that. Let me off on Madison near Radio City."

       I knew that area of Manhattan fairly well. Virginia and I had once made the rubberneck tour of Radio City. We moved along slowly and I watched the people scurrying along the sidewalk. The city never changes, I thought. There were more people, maybe, more automobiles, more taxis, newer and higher buildings, but city people were the same. The men and women who walked alone wore serious, downcast expressions. Only when two or more people walked together did smiles and laughter appear on their faces. But I knew the laughter was false. What did they have to laugh about? They had to work all day at dull and deadly tasks, the way I had done for ten long years in Columbus...

       The driver pulled into the curb on Madison near 52nd Street and stopped. I counted out the fare, indicated by the meter, into the driver's outstretched hand.

       "I'm not used to cabs," I lied. "How much of a tip should I give you?"

       "You don't have to give me a tip, Father," the driver said piously. "I didn't do nothing for you. Just give me what you want."

       I gave him an extra quarter.

       "Thanks a lot, Father!" He smiled, exposing a row of gold teeth, and dropped the coin into a cigar box at his side. How easy it was to make people happy! The driver had expected nothing, and the surprise of obtaining a quarter from the minister had made his day. Perhaps the driver would drop the same coin into the collection basket when he attended the Sunday Mass, and in turn, his priest would be happy...

       I sauntered down the broad, crowded sidewalk looking into windows. A tan cashmere sport-coat caught my eye. The coat was soft and lustrous-looking. A bronze cut-out numeral beneath the model gave the price as $85.00. If I wanted it I could buy it. But maybe a suit of some kind would be more appropriate than sports clothes, now that I was in the city again. Anything would be better than the black, dreary uniform I was wearing. I entered the store and a middle-aged salesman approached me with a smile on his lips and a cheery greeting.

       "I want a suit," I told him, "something—"

       "Something in black? Yes, sir."

       "No." I was nettled by his patronizing manner. "Nothing in black. Something in red or yellow, perhaps in blue, but nothing in black!"

       "Yes, sir. We'll take care of you, Reverend." He put a forefinger to his nose, looked me over appraisingly with a deep frown furrowing his forehead, and then nodded. "You're a forty-two."

       "Most of the time," I agreed.

       We looked through racks until I found a suit that I wanted. The material was thin, a mixture of dacron, nylon and polished Egyptian cotton. The color was a glistening tint of powder blue, matching my eyes exactly. The jacket, without shoulder padding, hugged my round shoulders perfectly.

       "I'll take this one," I told the salesman. "Put the cuffs in and I'll wear it."

       "This suit costs one hundred and a quarter, Reverend," the salesman said softly.

       "That's cheap for a suit like this. Now get the cuffs in, please."

       He squatted and marked the cuffs with a piece of tailor's chalk.

       "I don't think we'll have to do anything to the jacket."