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
Table of Contents
Title page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
The Black Mass of Brother Springer Page 20
