The Black Mass of Brother Springer (15 page)

       The rest of the day we devoted to making the rounds of our respective church memberships, and passing out the word to attend the evening meeting.

       When the story appeared in the Daily Advertiser, under Dick Ames' byline, I read it quickly. Regardless of the way Ames talked he could really write, and the story was a clever and humorous monologue in Negro dialect. Even though I was the butt of the joke, I enjoyed the story enormously.

       I suppose white people all over Jax were reading the story and laughing, but Negroes wouldn't think it was funny. There were two photos on the front page accompanying the monologue; the group picture with an overline reading, The League For Love, and the one of me alone with the bus. A cutline gave our names and the churches we represented, but my name was preceded by the title Nigger Lover. Directly beneath the two column story, the photograph showing me looking at the plainly revealed bus destination sign, had an overline stating, Going My Way? I looked ridiculous in the photo; tall, thin, and with an overlarge, flapping coat and a straw hat, I resembled a misplaced scarecrow. To anyone who didn't know me, my face had a stunned, almost stupefied expression, as though I had suddenly been hit over the head from behind with a blunt instrument.

       I tore the article and photos from the page, folded the clipping and placed it in my wallet. I wadded the rest of the newspaper together and tossed the ball into my waste-basket. I was very tired, and hadn't as yet prepared any notes for my talk that night. Ralphine had left boiled turnips, turnip greens, and a platter of cornbread for my supper, and she cooked these items very well. But I wasn't keen on my meal. The novelty of Ralphine's cooking had worn off quickly. This was only Tuesday, but it seemed like I had been tearing around for weeks instead of just a few days, and the evening meeting promised to be a long one.

       I forced down a small helping of greens, ate a slab of corn-bread, and finished off my supper with two cups of instant coffee. Over the coffee I made a few notes for my speech and then walked the six blocks to The Southern Baptists of Saint John Church.

       The street in front of the church was a teeming black mass of people. At the basketball court I meant to cut across and enter through the basement, but I was spotted by several men who joyfully shouted my name. A moment later I was surrounded by men and women who tried to shake my hand. My back was pounded unmercifully by well-wishers, and I was lifted off my feet, hoisted to a pair of shoulders, and riding high above the crowd, I was carried through the wide high doors into the church. Every seat was filled, and the walls were lined with standees. A great roar came from the crowd when I appeared, and I was hustled down the center aisle to the pulpit. A large white banner, three feet high and twenty feet across, was strung across the back wall behind the altar, and it proclaimed in red, block letters, THE LEAGUE FOR LOVE!

       Dr. Heartwell and his right-hand man, Reverend Hutto were seated on the platform behind the altar. To their left, Dr. David and the Right Reverend McCroy were seated behind a card table, and in the center of the group, on a raised platform, Mrs. Bessie Langdale occupied the place of honor. Dr. Heartwell got up quickly, and wrung my hand.

       "You were right, Reverend Springer," he said warmly. "We're going to win! I want you to start the meeting with a prayer, and then you will be the last speaker on the program."

       "Fine," I agreed.

       I entered the pulpit and a cheer arose from the crowd. I waited for silence. When the talk died and the whispering stopped; and when the rustling ceased altogether, I prayed:

       "Dear God, what we say here tonight, what we do here tonight, is in Your hands. Listen to us, and guide us in our fight to leave the wilderness. Teach us, help us to love our neighbor and make us brothers. Help us love our neighbors as we love You. Teach us to live side by side in love. But our judge and jury, and if we are right, let us win. Dear God, in Your infinite wisdom, teach us how to love! Amen."

       "Amen!" Came the multi-tongued echo from the assemblage.

       I sat down in a metal folding chair next to Mrs. Langdale, and shook hands with her. She was trembling with stage fright and I calmed her by saying, "Don't worry, Bessie. God is on our side."

       Another great roar greeted Dr. Heartwell as he entered the pulpit. He played the assemblage like a virtuoso playing a violin. As he outlined the bus boycott to the enthusiastic crowd he sprinkled in biblical precedents the way a famous chef adds salt to a dish prepared for a gourmet. He didn't overstate anything, but his approach reached the emotions of the audience, and they fully understood and endorsed the boycott with their applause when he had finished.

       Dr. David was next. His talk was a sincere eulogy and a moving tribute to Bessie Langdale. In a dry, clipped voice he told of her struggle to raise two daughters and a son by washing clothes and doing day work in Jax over the past thirty years. He told of her humble origin on a tenant farm, of the hunger she had suffered in the Great Depression, about her son in the Air Force who had been promoted to Airman First Class. He paid tribute to her two married daughters, both mothers, who were raising children in the hope of a better world.

       Dr. David was a good speaker, and from my chair I saw tears coursing down the cheeks of both men and women in the audience. This was understandable: Bessie Langdale's life paralleled the lives of the majority of the people in the church. He introduced Bessie, and then sat down.

       Bessie Langdale was a large woman; her great buttocks protruded like a circular shelf, and she wore a homemade evening dress of red silk. There was a white orchid corsage pinned to a red velvet sash that encircled her massive waist, and she wore a floppy black straw hat. Six imitation cherries had been sewn to the brim. She was so frightened, I thought she was going to faint. She stood in the pulpit, clutching the sideboards with a death-like grip. Her lips opened and closed rapidly but no words came out. I left my seat, and put my arm around her, hugging her hard. I looked out at the audience.

       "Tell her that you love her!" I shouted.

       "We love you, Bessie! We love you!" the voices shouted. Bessie began to bawl. Great rasping sobs shook her body and her brown face contorted as the tears streamed down her face. As though a secret tap was turned on everybody in the audience began to cry at the same time. It was amazing. And through the sobbing, choking tears a chant began, a unanimous chant that mounted in tempo and volume until the pine rafters across the ceiling trembled.

       "Love you! Love you! Love you! Love you!"

       I had to lead Bessie back to her seat. We had planned to have her tell her story about the arrest and fine she had suffered, but this spontaneous demonstration was much more effective.

       As the chant died down there was a flutter of handkerchiefs, mostly red and blue bandanas, and a great blowing of noses. The Right Reverend Jason McCroy had brought his ten-man male choir over from his Church of the Divine Spirit, and he signaled them to stand up and sing. The choir was uniformly dressed in white Palm Beach suits, and bright red silk neckties. Reverend McCroy led the choir through three choruses of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, and on the fourth chorus he made a gesture to the crowd with both hands for them to stand and join in. The stirring song swept through the group as though it came from a single voice attached to a single heart. He had to let the audience sing the chorus three more times before he could get them to stop.

       Reverend McCroy then made an impassioned appeal for funds from the pulpit, and while he pleaded, cajoled, begged, and demanded money, Reverend Hutto and a group of small Negro boys passed through the audience three times, collecting a larger amount each time.

       I closed the meeting with another prayer about love; the choir sang another hymn, a repetitious spiritual; Dr. Heartwell said a short prayer, and the meeting was over. I didn't make a speech as I had planned; I didn't think it necessary.

       The League For Love assembled in the basement, and after we counted the money we discovered we had taken in $962.43. We elected officers. Dr. Heartwell was president, Reverend McCroy and Dr. David were vice-presidents, Reverend Hutto was secretary, and I was treasurer. I could have been the president, but after I informed the League that I had once been an accountant, and that I was familiar with business law, they let me have the post of treasurer without further argument.

       Bessie Langdale, of course, was our honorary president, without administrative duties. She was almost in a state of shock from her emotional experience in the church, and before we had our meeting, Dr. Heartwell told Tommy to drive her home.

       I walked home and after I entered my house I undressed without turning on any lights. I was completely exhausted. In my underwear I stretched out wearily on my bed and tried to sleep. But I couldn't sleep; my thoughts were centered on Merita Springer. Her face and figure were in my head like a color photograph. My mind dwelled fondly on her sharply defined widow's peak, the way her hips swelled out from her narrow waist, the maddening firmness of her breasts, the wonderful contrast of her golden legs and the white shorts she had worn...

       An automobile stopped in the street outside, and I heard several loud male voices. I listened. These were not Negro voices, and there was a sharp, barking laugh, a nasty laugh. Barefooted, I crept from my bedroom into the study. Through the window I could see several dark figures in the empty lot between my house and the church. They were doing something, and I heard a man curse viciously as he stumbled over a pile of tin cans.

       Matches flared in several places and then a large cross began to bum in the center of the lot. The cross was at least ten feet high, and the crossbar was about four feet in width. The cross burned well, with an uneven, bright blue flame. Evidently rags had been wound around the wood and soaked either in alcohol or gasoline. The dark figures returned to their car, a convertible parked in the street. A rock bounced across my front porch and then hit the door. The men climbed into the car, and as it drove away one of the passengers smashed a bottle on the sidewalk in front of the church.

       I locked the front door with the slide bolt, and returned to the window. I watched the flaming cross until nothing was left but a dim glow of embers on the ground.

       Then I went to bed and fell asleep immediately.

Chapter Ten

By eight-thirty the next morning the bus boycott by Jax Negroes was approximately forty percent effective so far as we could determine. Dr. Heartwell was discouraged, but I was astonished by our success.

       "Give it a few days, Doctor," I told him. "We've only had one big meeting, and it takes time to get out the word. We haven't got our car pool fully organized yet, and these people have to get to work some way. By Monday the boycott should be one hundred percent."

       "I certainly hope so," Dr. Heartwell grumbled.

       "Where is your faith?" I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

       "My faith is in the Lord, but if we want to win I suppose we had better get to work!"

       "Now you're talking," I said cheerfully.

       The basement of the Southern Baptists of Saint John Church had been converted into a GHQ by the members of the League For Love, and with the help of many willing volunteers. There were ample desks, chairs, typewriters; and a dozen or more desk and floor lamps had been connected to the limited wall sockets by a maze of extension cords. A desk had been reserved for me in a back corner, and there was a stack of telegrams and air mail special delivery letters, brought in earlier that morning, waiting to be opened.

       Dr. Heartwell's church was centrally located in the Negro district of Jax, and the basketball-tennis court outside was in use as a motor pool. Assorted vehicles had been pressed into service: one panel delivery truck, two flatbed one-ton trucks, three half-ton pickups, and several large, vintage Buick and Cadillac town cars, including the big 1939 Buick owned by Dr. Heartwell and driven by his son, Tommy, were in constant shuttle. These were not enough, of course, to handle the waiting mass of patient passengers, but news of the bus boycott was spreading quickly by telephone and word-of-mouth, and car owners who were not in the pool stopped constantly at the curb and filled empty seats with passengers.

       Reverend Hutto, with his gift for organization, had a desk by the entrance to the large basement room. A large city map was tacked to the wall behind his desk and he had it divided into various zones. There seemed to be ten or more people about his desk and he was quite capable of carrying on a conversation with all of them at the same time. Two illegal extension lines had been wired in, brought down from Dr. Heartwell's upstairs office, and telephones had been connected; one on the doctor's desk and the other on Reverend Hutto's. The room was crowded with volunteers, men and women; there was a great deal of noise and confusion, and a lot of coffee drinking.

       Pleased by all the activity, I circled the room, smiling encouragement, slapping backs, shaking hands, and then sat at my desk to go through the wires and mail. A young girl in pedal pushers and a tight orange sweater brought me a cardboard container of coffee, and tiptoed respectfully away. The coffee was too sweet but I drank it anyway.

       Some of the wires and many of the special delivery letters were addressed simply to, Nigger Lover, Jax, Florida. But when I read them, they seemed all right. The wires were not too strongly worded, although they expressed dissatisfaction with my boycott activities, but the letters were vitriolic indeed. I wondered how anybody could get so worked up about such a basic problem. After reading the wires and letters addressed to Nigger Lover, I turned to the remainder of the mail. These wires and letters addressed to Reverend Deuteronomy Springer ran about fifty-fifty between hate and love messages. Two letters contained five-dollar bills, one included a twenty-dollar bill, and there were several letters containing singles. I decided to retain this money to supplement my income, and I slipped the bills into my wallet. This early mail was from southern states and all of it was special delivery. When the regular mail began to roll in from conscience-stricken northerners and the far western states, the take would be better.