by Robert Ward
“Sit down, Mr. Moon,” she said. “You’re not giving the sermon, Dr. Brooks is.”
That brought a loud and much needed tension-breaking laugh from the congregation. But Edward Moon was not going to give up so easily.
“I will not sit down in this church as long as these … these people are sitting where they should not be sitting. I’m leaving and I urge every other member of this church who finds this kind of thing … un-American … I urge you to walk out with me.”
Then, scowling at the Negroes one last time, Moon turned and walked out. And in short order so did at least twenty other people. I watched them come out of their pews, some quickly, as though stung by bees, and others slowly, their heads bowed down, as though they were ashamed of themselves but had to leave nonetheless as a matter of principle. I looked up at Gracie and caught her eye.
I had never seen her look so deeply upset. Her face was a mask of pure pain. I thought for a moment that she might cry, something that was unheard of.
But she held on. And quickly sat down at the piano and began to play. “Hymn 348, ‘The Old Rugged Cross,”
“ Dr. Brooks said. “Let us stand and sing.”
Which we did. That is, all fifty or so of us who were left, including the Negroes in the third pew. And it seemed to me, as we sang those old words, that the song had a whole new meaning now, that carrying that cross was no longer going to be just a “symbol of suffering and pain” but that every single person in the congregation was about to learn what it truly meant to climb that long, torturous hill in the rain.
After his service, the Reverend Brooks usually opened the church rectory for a coffee-and-pastry session, a little meeting where people caught up on their neighbors’ businesses, found out what each other’s children were up to, and picked up the schedule of church events. Usually, about ten or fifteen people attended the coffee hour, and it was almost always a casual and relaxing affair.
But not today. Now half the church crowded into Dr. Brooks’s study. I found my grandmother with an excited group of women, one of whom was the well-dressed Annette Swain. I was always surprised to see Annette Swain at my grandmother’s church. She lived only a few blocks away, but they were blocks on the other side of Greenmount Avenue, beyond the low brick wall and green hedges that led into the wealthiest and most exclusive enclaves in the city—Guilford and Roland Park. Here were the homes—or rather mansions—of the rich, the CEOs of Baltimore’s leading industries, and their illustrious families. Their children went to wealthy private schools like Gilman or St. Paul’s, Friends, or Boy’s Latin, and then Hopkins, Harvard, or Yale. They sailed together, schooled together, made money together, and usually went to the Episcopal church on Roland Avenue together as well. Annette Swain was something of an anomaly. She had grown up dirt-poor in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and came to Baltimore looking for work as a waitress. Instead she found a man named Bill Brisbane, a local hotshot and ex-lacrosse star at Johns Hopkins University. Now Brisbane was the president of the huge ad agency of Dillard and Brown. No one really knew what he saw in her, but before long she had shocked Brisbane’s blue-blood, white-collar family by running off with Bill to the marriage capital of the East Coast, Elkton, Maryland. Everyone in the church knew this story, mainly because Annette loved telling it so much.
When someone had asked her why she chose to come across the York Road to First Methodist rather than go to the good old rock-solid, moneyed All Saints Episcopal Church in Roland Park, she said, “ ‘Cause I grew up a Methodist, and I don’t like their damned hymns. They don’t even sing ‘Silent Night’ at Christmas.” It was a charming but only partially true answer. Grace always suspected that Annette came to First Methodist because in our church her voice would be heard, while over at All Saints she would be considered an interloper, someone who got into the club through the back door. Yes, she was in, she had the money, the car, the club memberships, but she would never be taken seriously … a bitter pill for a climber like Annette to swallow.
Now she buzzed around the little room, shaking her head and talking in her loud, high-pitched voice:
“Well, I know they’ve been put upon, poor dears, but this is not the way … definitely not the way. Coming in the house of God and disrupting a church service? I mean I wonder what they hope to accomplish. It’s very, very sad that they chose this tactic. I know a thing or two about coming from poverty, from people whom the better educated classes wouldn’t spit on, and I must tell you, a person’s got to pull herself up by her own bootstraps, not by asking for some special attention.”
To my surprise there was a general buzz of agreement to this claptrap. People nodded their heads as they drank their weak coffee and ate their lemon cookies.
I looked at Grace expectantly. If ever anyone had offered her a more perfect setup line, I couldn’t imagine what it would be. I thought of the way she had handled Sherry Butler and her drunken boyfriend, and I was positive she’d rip into Annette.
But she said nothing, only sipped her coffee and looked away.
I found myself scratching my head. Maybe, in all the excitement, she simply missed what Annette had said. Encouraged, Annette went on, this time addressing Dr. Brooks:
“Believe you me, Reverend, I know what these people are feeling, ‘cause I’ve been down to the well and found it dry more than once. But you don’t get respect by demanding it. You get it by working for it, like any other person. Only way to get success in this world is to work at it. And that’s the truth.”
Yes, I thought, and almost blurted out myself, either that or marry into it. That would be just the thing for the seven Negroes at our church. If they could just all marry rich Wasps in Roland Park or Guilford, everyone would spend all night and day gloving their hands and shoeing their lily-white feet.
I looked over at Grace again. Annette was like a pitcher in batting practice offering up meatballs over the center of the plate. But Grace, so artful and so eloquent with her rejoinders, didn’t swing at any of these fat, easy pitches.
And this time there was no doubt that she’d heard.
“Well,” the Reverend Brooks said, “this has been a trying day, and I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I want to thank all of you for staying today and for coming in here to talk. Before we say anymore, though, I want you to know that I’m going to pray for guidance in this matter, and I hope each and every one of you will also.”
“That’s fine, Reverend,” someone said. “But what are we gonna do about it?”
The Reverend Brooks smiled weakly.
“Well, I think we all are in agreement that the Negro has suffered greatly. And as Christians we must not turn a blind eye to any person’s suffering.
Absolutely not. On the other hand, there is a practical question. Black people have only just joined our church, and the policy set by the Methodist Council of Churches in Maryland is that they should be afforded seats in the rear of the church, until such time as … as …”
Suddenly, Grace smiled. “Until such time as they choose not to do it anymore. Like today.”
I took her hand when she said that, and felt a swell of pride in my chest.
“I wish it were that simple, Grace,” the Reverend Brooks said. “But I’m afraid that we can’t run a church according to our emotions. No, the real answer is until such time as the governing body of the Methodist Church changes its position and allows them to sit where they please.”
“And how would that happen?” I suddenly heard myself say.
Grace looked at me and at first I feared I’d blown it, but she nodded as if to say I’d asked the right question.
“It would happen, young man,” the Reverend Brooks replied, “at policy meetings of the Methodist Church, which will be this summer at As-bury Park. I mean if someone wanted to bring it up, that would be the time to do it.”
“Yes, Reverend, but these people don’t want to wait. I mean what will you do if they come back next week …”
“I don’
t really know, young man,” he said, and there was more than a little outrage in his voice. Who was this kid, not even a regular church member, asking him questions?
“Well, I’ll tell you what ought to be done,” Annette Swain said. “They should be met at the door by Baltimore City Police and they should be removed from these premises, for their own good.”
Again there were more than a few mumbles of assent to this asinine suggestion.
I looked at my grandmother, but she had turned silent and seemed to be lost inside herself again. Fortunately, someone else, a young mother named Sally Callahan, spoke up.
“For their own good?” she said, her voice incredulous. “I must be getting old. Maybe you can explain that to me, Annette?”
Annette Swain felt that she was up to the task.
“Of course. Look. The Negroes want public opinion on their side, right? But if they disrupt church services, the place where ironically quite a few people are already praying for their side to get the justice they deserve … then they will set themselves back at least ten years. Because no one likes a pushy mob of … of … people telling them what to do in their own church, and I’m surprised at you, Sally, for not already knowing that.”
I was in shock. There were holes in Mrs. Swain’s argument big enough to let a Colt fullback run through.
“Wait,” Sally Callahan said. “There are only seven Negroes. So who is the mob you’re talking about? Seems to me it might be us.”
“Ridiculous,” Annette said. “Utterly ridiculous. We’re the mob? No, I don’t think so. This is our church, and they are the troublemakers.”
“Next you’ll be saying they should all go back to the churches they came from downtown … or maybe they should all go back to Africa? Is that it?” There was real passion in Sally’s voice, and a tone very close to contempt.
“My goodness, my goodness!” Sue Retalliata said. “Goodness gracious! My-oh-my!”
“I have never said anything of the kind,” Annette Swain said. “I don’t know why you are getting in such a huff Because all I’m really saying is that these Negroes don’t live in this neighborhood, so they’re our guests here, and as guests I think they should show some manners. Would they like it if I went down to, say, Pennsylvania Avenue and broke up one of their gospel services or whatever it is they do?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sally Callahan said.
And this time she looked directly at Grace for support. But none was forthcoming.
I couldn’t understand it. I knew my grandmother was sympathetic to the Negro cause, and here was her chance to add her voice, yet she said next to nothing.
There were a few more angry exchanges, then the crowd slowly drifted out as the Reverend Brooks extracted a promise from them “not to forget to pray.”
Grace, Sue, and I were almost to the church’s front door when the Reverend Brooks caught up with us.
“Grace,” he said, looking breathless and exhausted. “There’s something I really need to talk to you about. I almost forgot it in all the excitement. Could I see you for a minute in my study?”
“Certainly,” she said. “You can go on home, honey. I’ll be fine.”
“No. I’ll wait,” I said. “See you out front.”
I went outside with Sue, holding her arm as she made her way slowly down the concrete steps.
“What a day,” she said “My-oh-my-oh-my.”
“Yeah,” I said, troubled. “Looks like the movement has caught up with the Methodist Church in good old Baltimore.”
Sue shook her head.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said.
“Come on,” I said, losing patience. “You and I both know the Negroes are right. They should be able to sit anywhere they damn well want.”
“Bobby, you shouldn’t curse,” Sue said. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Well, I suppose you’re right, though. But people don’t change easily. Believe you me, they don’t.”
“Which is why they have to do what they’re doing,” I said.
“I suppose …,” Sue said. “I just wouldn’t want to see anyone get hurt.”
“Hurt?” I said, again flying off the handle. “Who’s going to hurt them—Reverend Brooks? What’s he going to do, smack them with a lemon cookie? Or maybe Annette Swain? What a complete and total self-righteous idiot she is.”
“No,” Sue said shyly. “I was thinking more of Edward Moon. He looked like a madman to me.”
She had me there. In the excitement I’d temporarily forgotten about Moon and the look in his eyes. The same mad and intolerant look that was in the eyes of some of the people who’d walked out with him.
“Well, honey, I have to get home,” she said.
“Can you make it to the streetcar?” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “You take care of your grandmother now. She’s the best.”
“I know,” I said, giving her a hug and a kiss.
I watched her limp down the street and felt my heart go out to her. Alone, approaching middle age, with her two cats and her screen paintings. It wasn’t an easy existence, yet she never complained and worked hard at her art.
Sue was, in her own quiet, shy way, very brave, I decided. But what had happened to Gracie?
I waited in the rich fall light. I watched as the last of the congregation left First Methodist. I sat on the church steps and thought of all I’d seen. It was clear that a real revolution had begun. There was no doubt about it. The civil rights movement in the Deep South that I’d heard so much about had actually come to Baltimore. I tried to sort out my feelings. It seemed crazy, impossible to me. The Deep South—Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, places “like that”—were cracker states, filled, as everyone knew, with racists, ugly and mentally deficient morons like the guys in the Ku Klux Klan. But Baltimore had always prided itself as a mid-Atlantic state where tolerance was the watchword. After all, the state, as we had all been at great pains to learn in history class, was founded by Catholics. The Calverts were the first great family, and they founded the state so that they might practice their religion without fear of reprisal. Other states might have had a Negro problem, but we had been taught that we races could get along. Indeed, there were only a few of the meanest rednecks I knew who even used the term “nigger.”
Then I remembered the Watkins brothers, Nelson and Buddy. I thought of Sherry Butler and her “boyfriend,” drunk on Sunday morning. I thought of kids I knew from Woodbourne Junior High School, kids with skinny, undernourished faces, bad skin, and few clothes who were always bumming a quarter for lunch money.
And I knew that they could all go either way. They could end up on the right side, like Ray Lane or Johnny Brandau, or they could end up with the haters, the Edward Moons of the world.
Sitting there in the chilly air, I realized that this might be one of the most important days of my life … the day I found out things about myself and about those good Christian people around me.
And what of Grace? The question haunted me again.
I shook my head. Maybe she was biding her time. Maybe this very talk with Brooks was about the race problem, and she was going to perform her magic like a ward politician behind closed doors. Whatever the answer, I could barely wait to talk with her about it, how she felt, what she might do … and for that matter what actions I might take myself.
The church door opened, and my grandmother came outside. The Reverend Brooks shook her hand and smiled at her warmly. “Keep it in mind, Grace, okay?”
My grandmother smiled, nodded and then turned toward me. “Lord,” she said, “you must be starved. We’ve got to get home and get you some lunch.”
“Sounds good to me.”
She put her arm through mine and we started the walk home. I was happy to hang on to her, feel the sureness of her grip. “What was that all about?” I asked.
“Oh, not a whole lot,” she said. “Dr. Brooks wanted to remind me about choir practice this week. He’s determined to keep
the regular schedule going in spite of all the turmoil.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I thought he was talking to you about what happened with the Negroes.”
“Well, yes and no. He’s basically supportive. But he doesn’t want the radical contingent to set the agenda for the whole church.”
Though I was confused, what Grace said made a kind of tortured sense to me. It was understandable to me that Dr. Brooks wouldn’t want outsiders to tell him what to do with his own church.
Still, that was purely theoretical. The truth was that when I thought of the Negros walking up the aisle and imagined the courage that had taken, I felt inspired, stunned by their example. I remembered the people who’d walked out of church, and it occurred to me that I’d been shocked and that the shock was just starting to register now, hours later.
How could people be so ignorant? So stupid?
Maybe I didn’t know anything at all about anybody … or how rotten the world really was.
When we got home, I was anxious to get Grace to tell me about her meeting with Dr. Brooks, but she didn’t want to talk about it. So I settled for her big, bountiful lunch of crab cakes and potato salad, and then went by myself to the Waverly Theater, to see Attack of the Crab Monsters and Earth Versus Flying Saucers. Afterwards, I ate a bag of ten-cent cheeseburgers at the Little Tavern and then went back to Gracie’s house. I fell asleep early that night, with visions of demons and strange soup plates attacking the earth. Then the dream faded and I began to sleep peacefully, deeply.
Until I heard a terrifying moan.
It was a low aching moan, more like the sound of a sick animal than a human being.
I thought for a moment that it was a dream fragment, an aural piece of the nightmare-in-progress, and I half-slipped under the bizarre sound into unconsciousness.
But the drone persisted, louder, more insistent, and seconds later I was fully awake. Shaking my covers off, then sitting still, I listened intently for the source of that painful cry.
I looked out the window at the moonlit trees, the garage roofs across the alley. Was it an injured cat or a dog? Maybe my grandmother’s cat, Scrounge?
