A Death On The Wolf (15 page)

“…
and this really isn’t any of the Lodge’s concern,” Daddy was saying.

“
How do you figure that? You’re a Past Master; you know it is.” I recognized this voice as coming from Mr. Jake Harland. He was Master of the Masonic Lodge in Bells Ferry.

“
I’m only attending the graveside service,” Daddy said.

“
Don’t matter,” another voice said, which I didn’t recognize.

“
He’s right,” Mr. Jake said. “They’ve opened a Lodge of Sorrow and you know their graveside service is part of that.”

“
Worshipful Brother Harland, I know that,” Daddy said. “But their public rituals are almost the same as ours. I won’t be compromising my obligation in any way. I’ll just be paying my respects to a fallen Brother.”

“
He ain’t a Brother, he’s a nigger.” Dick Tillman’s voice was unmistakable.

“
Brother Dick,” Daddy said in a very deliberate tone, “is there anything in our charter or constitution that says a black man can’t be a Mason? And don’t give me that nonsense about having to be freeborn. I doubt if there’s a black man alive in Harrison County who was born a slave. Parker was old, but he wasn’t that old.”

“
Since you’re so fond of niggers,” Dick continued, “maybe I’ll just hire me one down at the station. Maybe I’ll decide I don’t need your son anymore.”

I heard Daddy’s recliner squeak and I knew he had stood up. “Dick, you can hire anyone you like. But let’s get one thing straight: You fire Nelson over this and I’ll come down to that station of yours and kick your ass.” I was so shocked my mouth actually fell open. I’d never heard my father say such a thing to anyone. But what surprised me more than the words was his tone, which was hard and sure. This was no idle threat, it was a promise.

“
Hold on, hold on,” Mr. Jake said. “Nobody’s going to fire anyone. Sit down, Lem. And you shut up, Dick. I didn’t ask you to come along to make things worse.” I heard Daddy’s recliner squeak again as he sat back down. “Brother Lem,” Mr. Jake continued, “you have to understand that if you clothe for labor and participate in that funeral you will be giving tacit recognition to a clandestine Lodge. We can bring you up on charges.”

Daddy laughed. “Jake, that’s a Stringer Lodge Parker belonged to. You know the Prince Hall Masons can trace their warrant all the way back to the Grand Lodge of England just like we can. The only reason they are clandestine is because we choose not to recognize them as regular, but that’s our problem, not theirs.”

“
If you participate in that funeral service tomorrow, it’s going to be your problem.” This came from the man I did not recognize.

“
Brothers,” Daddy said, “you do what you feel you have to do. But know this: if you proffer charges against me, I’ll demand trial before the Grand Lodge. As a Past Master, that’s my privilege. The day is coming when white Masons and black Masons will work in the same Lodges. It probably won’t happen in my lifetime, but if you want to give me the opportunity to get the ball rolling now, go ahead and make an issue of this. You know I’m not the only Freemason in this state who feels the way I do.”

I didn’t fully understand all that was being said, but from the silence that followed, I was confident that Daddy had just delivered a fatal blow to whatever case these men thought they had in the higher courts of the fraternity. Evidently, the possibility—however remote—that my father could force the issue of integrating the Lodges of Mississippi, and actually prevail, was enough to give these men pause and lead them to reconsider their position on the funeral of Parker Reeves.

After the men had left, and I heard Daddy’s chair squeak, I put my slippers on and walked down the hall to the living room. Daddy was in the recliner with his feet up, reading the newspaper.

“
Hey,” I said as I walked into the room.

He lowered the paper and looked up at me. “What are you still doing up?”

“
I was reading. I heard those men and got up and listened.”

“
You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Nelson,” Daddy said. He folded the newspaper and laid it in his lap. “I’d rather you’d not heard all that.”

“
When I go to work tomorrow I’m gonna tell Dick I quit.”

Daddy sat up in the recliner and lowered his feet. “Sit down, son.” He gestured to the sofa. I went over and sat down. “I don’t want you to do that,” he said.

“
Daddy, I don’t want to work for someone who would talk to you like that.”

He smiled at me. “Dick’s a good man,” he said.

“
What? He all but called you a nigger lover and they all want to bring you up on charges or somethin’.”

“
Nelson…you caught the tail end of a conversation I started in our Lodge a long time ago. They are not going to bring me up on charges for anything. They were just doing what they knew they needed to do to protect our charter. I know you don’t understand son, but one day, if you become a Mason, you will.”

“
If Dick’s a good man, why’d you tell him you’d kick his as—you’d beat him up if he fired me?”

“
Because when he brought you into this, he’d taken the conversation outside the Lodge. I was just letting him know what would happen if he did that.”

“
And you’d do that if he fired me?”

“
He’s not going to fire you, Nelson.”

“
But what if he did?” Daddy frowned at me and I could tell he was embarrassed I’d heard him say he would kick Dick’s ass, so I just let it go. “How’d they find out you were going to Parker’s funeral?” I asked.

“
You know how news travels around here. They probably knew about it before I did.” Daddy chuckled and I managed a smile. “As for Dick Tillman and your job,” Daddy continued, “I want you to go to work tomorrow and act like nothing has happened.”

“
Can I go to the funeral with you?”

“
You don’t have to do that, son.”

“
I know. But I want to go.”

“
All right. But you’ll have to call Dick in the morning and let him know you’ll be in to work late.”

“
I will. Daddy…are you sure going to the funeral won’t get you in trouble? I mean, it sounded like to me Mr. Jake and them were trying to warn you and get you not to go so you wouldn’t get in trouble.”

“
They knew before they got here I’d go no matter what they said.”

“
Then why’d they come over here in the middle of the night to try to talk you out of it?”

“
It was a formality, son. Like I said, you don’t understand and I can’t explain it to you. They are all good men and you don’t need to think poorly of them for what you heard tonight.”

I shook my head. Daddy was right. I didn’t understand. “How can they be good men and talk to you that way? Threaten you for wanting to go to a colored man’s funeral.”

“
We all do the best we can with the light we’ve been given, Nelson. That’s what they’re doing; that’s what I’m doing. It’s that simple.”

“
I don’t get it,” I said.

“
I know,” Daddy said. “But you will one day.” He looked long at me, then said, “It’s late. You should get to bed.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten after eleven: way past Daddy’s bedtime, too. “Are you going to bed now?”

“
In a little bit,” he said, and leaned back in the recliner, putting his feet up. “I’m gonna finish reading the paper.”

“
Goodnight, Daddy,” I said as I got up and headed for my room.

“
Goodnight, son.”

— — —

“
I guess this still fits me,” Daddy said. I was sitting at the kitchen table and I looked up to see my father standing there in a black tuxedo. I didn’t even know he owned one. We were about to leave for Parker’s funeral. I was wearing my church clothes: dress slacks, shirt, and tie.

“
Holy cow,” was all I could say. “When did you get that?”

“
I’ve had this for ages. Last time I wore it was for Grand Lodge four years ago when I was Master of our Lodge. Does it look all right?”

“
Yeah, it looks great.” I’d never seen my father look so splendid. The tuxedo seemed to accentuate his six-foot, four-inch frame. He looked like a movie star. It was the first time I ever remember realizing what a handsome man my father was.

Daddy’s leather case, containing his Mason’s apron, was lying on the table. He picked it up and said, “Well, let’s go.”

During the ride to the little colored church way out in the country I asked Daddy what was up with the tuxedo. He explained that while not mandatory, some Masonic officers would wear a black tuxedo with white gloves for special occasions like funerals, or when the Grand Master would visit the Lodge, or for Grand Lodge every year. He said there were even some Lodges where all the members wore a tux to their regular monthly meetings.

“
Don’t you think everybody at the funeral is going to think you’re trying to show off?”

Daddy laughed. “I’ll fit right in, son. You’ll see when we get there.”

Ten minutes later, Daddy turned the Batmobile onto a narrow red clay drive that led up to a small white-washed church. The front yard was full of cars and I could see a large group of well-dressed people already gathered in the cemetery behind the church building. The men were all wearing suits, and quite a few were wearing Masonic aprons. The ladies all had brightly colored dresses.

When we got out of the car, Daddy took his apron from the case and tied it around his waist over the tuxedo jacket. His Past Master apron was white lambskin bordered in pale blue fringe. In the center field was the embroidered image of the Past Master’s jewel: the compass, square, sun, and quadrant. Daddy put on his white cotton gloves as we walked back to the graveyard.

As we approached the crowd, we were warmly greeted by everyone, including the minister. He was a rotund black man with short white hair. He wore a gray Geneva gown with black velvet facings that had red embroidered crosses on each. The minister led us over to the grave site and I saw Parker’s simple wood casket there, suspended over the hole dug in the earth. There was no vault that I could see. Standing in a semi-circle around the coffin were seven black men, all attired exactly as my father: black tuxedos, white aprons, and white gloves. Daddy told me to wait while he walked over and spoke to the men.

My father shook each of their hands. I knew there was something special about the handshake, and I watched to see if I could detect the mechanics of the grip that distinguished a Mason’s handshake from an ordinary one. Whatever it was, it was so subtle I could not discern it. It looked like an ordinary handshake to me. As I scanned the crowd now gathering around the grave side, I noticed every face was black. Daddy and I were the only white people there.

An elderly lady came up to me and extended her hand. I took it and she said, “Your Daddy was mighty good to Parker. He’s a good man.”

“
Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you.”

As Daddy took his place with the other Masons around Parker’s coffin, more people started coming up to me and thanking me for my father, telling me what a good man he was, and thanking me for coming. A tall black man wearing a Mason’s apron approached me from the other side. When I shook his hand, he said, “I’m Haywood Reeves. Parker was my grandfather.”

“
I thought—” I caught myself before I finished my sentence. I’d almost said I thought he was in jail. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Reeves,” I said instead. “I’m sorry about your grandfather. He was a nice man.”

“
I used to work down at the plant with your Daddy,” Haywood said. “He’s a good man.”

I’d heard my father called a “good man” so many times now I’d lost count. I knew he was a good man, but there was something about the respect, maybe even admiration, for my father being shown by these people that led me to think there was more to him than even I knew.

The Masons in the crowd, who were not conducting the funeral, had all gathered on the opposite side of the grave from us. The minister stepped out from the assembly where I was and said, “Brothers and Sisters, y’all know Brother Parker was a Mason and they will be conducting his funeral. Let’s open with prayer.” We all bowed and the minister prayed, and prayed, and prayed. It was a great, long, rhythmic prayer that meandered and included things totally unrelated to Parker. The minister seemed to be urged on by the auditory input of the mourners, especially when he would say something with which they agreed, and as a group they would all intone “Amen” in the midst of the prayer. After what seemed an eternity, he proclaimed the final Amen and the Master of Parker’s Lodge began to speak:

“
Brethren and Friends, it has been a custom among Free and Accepted Masons from time immemorial, at the request of a departed Brother or his family, to assemble in the character of Masons and, with the solemn formalities of the Craft, to offer up to his memory, before the world, the last tribute of our affection. Brother Parker has reached the end of his earthly toils.” He hesitated and then pulled a few note cards from his jacket pocket. He glanced at them and then proceeded: “The thread which bound him to us has been severed and his spirit has winged its flight to heaven. The silver cord is loosed; the golden bowl is broken; the pitcher is broken at the fountain; and the wheel is broken at the cistern. The dust has returned to the earth as it was, and the spirit has returned to the Great Architect of the Universe, the Giver of all Life.” The words themselves were beautiful, but the meanings were illusive and veiled—fully discernible, no doubt, only to the Masons listening. As I looked over at the half dozen men in aprons and dusty suits, I thought back to the ominous warning the Master of my father’s lodge had delivered in our living room last night. It was clear to me now that Daddy could have come to this funeral and paid his respects and been standing with these men, Masons paying their respect but not taking a role in the service. But instead, he had chosen to participate in the funeral service itself, and it was this fact that had prompted the late-night visit from Daddy’s fellow Masons.