Mrs. Passworth said, “My Lord, what do we have here? Are these workmen? They don’t look like workmen.”
Eddie said, “Maybe the college is on beyond here. Let me find out.”
“Good idea.” Passworth held out her arm to keep us back. We gathered behind her while Eddie went to speak with them.
Tim leaned in to my ear. “I’ll stay with the Land Rover while Jim wrestles the giant anaconda to the ground,” he said. “Good luck, Jim!”
For the first time I noticed how white we were. Full Flower Baptist was an all-white church, always had been — I’d never even noticed. Come to think of it, every church in Mississippi was all white or all black. That’s just how it was, even after buses and schools and stores were integrated. I guess the government couldn’t make you go to church with anybody you didn’t want to.
Here came Eddie to report that this was indeed Harold P. Wayne Bible College, an all-male institution founded fifty years ago to train Negro circuit preachers for the Mississippi Delta. This building was the campus. They were expecting us.
I thought Mrs. Passworth might faint. “You mean we’re supposed to perform for these — oh Eddie, did it not occur to you to ask whether this was a Negro college?”
“No,” he said, “honestly, it didn’t. I’m sorry. I had no idea. The man sounded white on the phone.”
Above us, the double doors burst open — more young black men in white shirts and skinny ties flooded down the steps to greet us, spreading their arms in warm, evangelical hugs. They didn’t seem the least surprised by our whiteness. “Welcome, brother! Welcome, sister!” They grabbed our hands, patted our shoulders.
I’d never seen so many brawny young black men in one place. If this crowd had assembled in downtown Jackson, the governor would have called out the National Guard.
Eddie tried to pretend that everything was going just as he’d planned. He kept glancing past the preacher-men to Mrs. Passworth.
Every time one of the black men hugged her, she shrank a little more, until she stood hobbled and bent over like the Wicked Witch melting.
She was helpless to keep the rest of us from being swallowed up in the crowd of men. They moved us up the steps, into the building. The place smelled of old Bibles, floor wax, old air that had never been air-conditioned or even stirred by a ceiling fan. Truly the sweat of black people is spicier and more pungent than white people’s sweat. This large room was steamy as a tent revival, fifty years of young men learning to preach in here.
I suppose we were one anxious-looking bunch of white kids.
The sanctuary was two stories high, with pews and a pulpit at one end. The men steered us toward the pulpit. Instead of a piano they led me to an antique pump organ, with foot pedals.
There were lightbulbs dangling from wires overhead, but Mickey and Ben couldn’t find a place to plug in their amps. “We thought about putting in some outlets,” said the fat man who had hugged me first, “but we figure this old place would burn down in two minutes. Give me yo plugs, we got extension cords. We’ll get you hooked up outside.”
Eddie stepped to the pulpit. “Okay, people,” he called. “Could I ask our audience members nicely to move back and give us a little breathing room? There’ll be plenty of time for us all to meet after the performance, okay? Right now we need to have our preshow confab. All right? Thank you so much!”
“We’re here to help, Brother Eddie,” called one of the preachers. “Just tell us what you need.”
“Well, if you could just give us some breathing room,” he said, a little louder. “We didn’t realize we were gonna have to walk all the way out here. Frankly we’re a little discombobulated.”
“Easy, brother.” The man was still smiling, but the twinkle in his eye sharpened a little. “We’ll give you all the room you need. We are filled with joy to have you-all here tonight.”
“Of course you are!” Eddie cried. “Of course! And we’re delighted to be here too, let me say! I think you’re gonna love our show! You, sir — sorry, what’s your name?”
“R. T. Frederick.” The man pronounced the initial R as “Arra.” “You and I have corresponded, Brother Eddie.”
“Oh my gosh — Mr. President!” Eddie cried. “Well hello sir! So sorry, I had no idea that was you! We’re very glad to be here, and in just a few minutes we’ll be ready to go. Irene Passworth, this is President Frederick!”
“What Eddie is trying to say,” said Passworth, “is the sooner you let us get on with it, the sooner we can get it over with and get out of here.”
“I understand,” said the reverend. He led his students toward the double doors. They milled about on the broad porch, peering back in at us as we formed up a huddle.
Mrs. Passworth said, “Girls, I want you over there in that room. Get changed quick with no fuss. You boys can change in the pews. Move it!”
“I don’t know what’s your big hurry, Irene,” said Eddie. “We can’t leave until the bus comes to get us. Or were you planning to make us walk all the way back in the dark?”
Her voice went up five notes on the scale. “I swear, Eddie, don’t you push me!”
We members of the Combo put on loud plaid slacks and lime green turtleneck pullovers, neon-colored fringed vests, red-white-and-blue headbands. We were a “musical band of hippies,” according to Alicia Duchamp’s mother, the costume designer.
This was the first time we’d all seen each other in costume. The effect was disturbing. Some of the girls wore black turtlenecks and white miniskirts, white pantyhose, and black knee-boots. They looked like Beatniks, or Oreo cookies. Others were dressed as flappers from the Roaring Twenties, with sacky dresses and long strands of pearls. Some of the guys were cowboys, with guns and boots and jingling spurs. Some wore Bible-ish clothes, burlap tunics with rope belts. Four or five boys wore dark suits and nerdy black sunglasses, like FBI agents, with angel wings on their backs. Matt Smith as Jesus sported a flowing white robe that looked more like a wedding dress than he realized or he would not be wearing it.
I don’t know what Alicia’s mother was thinking. Perhaps she was making some kind of statement on modern culture, but how these outfits related to the Jesus story, I could not fathom.
Oh — not to forget Carol Nason! Our Mary Magdalene was definitely a whore, not a prostitute but a real whore, her minidress ripped open halfway to her navel, fishnet stockings, high heels, hair teased and flying in an unruly cloud around her head. She had on so much makeup that she looked plasticized, like a Whore Barbie. It was impossible not to stare at her. I felt a certain tingle. I had heard about whores but this was the first one I’d ever seen in the flesh. It was like seeing a rattlesnake for the first time, or a whale: there’s no mistaking it for anything else.
“Carol Nason,” snapped Mrs. Passworth, “is that all there is to your costume?”
Carol cringed. “Yes ma’am.”
“You’re sure there’s not some other part to it?”
“Yes ma’am, I’m sure. This is everything Miz Duchamp gave me to wear.” Carol looked as if she might either cry or take five bucks for a quick sex act in the back of a car.
“Well go put on something else,” said Passworth. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Duchamp didn’t intend for you to look like that. Even if she did, you need more clothes.”
“I know,” Carol said. “I don’t think I can . . . I don’t think I should . . .”
“You can’t, and you shouldn’t. What else do you have to wear?”
“Just the T-shirt I wore on the bus. My clothes are back at the motel.”
“Go put on the T-shirt. That’ll help.” Passworth glanced to the doorway, where the men were nudging each other aside for a glimpse of Carol. “Ted, close those doors!”
Ted Herring ran to obey.
“Doesn’t everybody look fabulous!” Eddie cried. “Never seen a slicker bunch of performers. You all look very professional!”
“Especially Carol,” said Brad Hutchinson to a loud hawhaw from the boys.
“I can’t put it into words,” Eddie said, “but you look incredible! Alicia, your mother is some kind of genius!”
Alicia was one of our real beauties, a juicy ripe pear of a girl. For her star turn as Mary, her mother had dressed her as a Glamour Virgin, a white satin evening gown with plunging neckline, like one of those soft-focus movie star girls of the Thirties.
And here came Carol with the ripped hem of her skirt hanging down underneath her Go Titans T-shirt. She still had on the wild hair and makeup, the stockings and high heels. Now she looked like a Whore Barbie who’s been in an accident and someone has loaned her a T-shirt to get home. That’s what I whispered to Tim.
It had been a while since I’d cracked him up. The sound of his laughter made me feel fizzy inside, as if the night suddenly held fresh possibilities.
“Okay folks,” Eddie cried, “I just want to give my very special thanks to each and every one of you wonderful kids for being here at the birth of a dream. You’re gonna be amazing. The show will be a smash!”
Everybody clapped and said yeah Eddie, woo-hoo! Eddie displayed his desires so nakedly, so proudly. How could you not cheer for him?
Mickey and Ben strapped on their guitars. I sat on a three-legged stool and placed my feet on the pedals of the pump organ. I pumped a few times . . . the high G came out a tremulous wheeze.
Mickey made a face. “That sounds awful.”
“Like Grandmaw’s emphysema,” said Ben.
“It’s wild,” Mickey said. “Go ahead, play a couple of chords. Listen to this, Byron.”
I laid into pumping the pedals. I got the air flowing, and played the syncopated opening chords of the Christ! theme song.
I stopped. “What do you think?”
Byron laughed. “It’s bizarre. Sounds like ‘96 Tears.’”
“Combo? You guys set?”
“Right on, Eddie! Ready when you are.”
“Okay! Places, everyone!”
The double doors squealed and swelled inward to the river of talking, laughing men. Some flowed upstairs to throng the galleries, jamming into every inch of space, the air warmly heavy with their breathing.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eddie bellowed. “Full Flower Baptist Church is delighted to bring you the world premiere of an original musical based on the life of our Savior. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . Christ!”
He aimed an imaginary pistol at the Combo and fired. And they’re off!
The first number was the finger-snappin’, toe-tappin’ title song. From my place at the organ I saw just a small slice of the audience, but those faces were mesmerized.
If you’re feeling sad and blue
Who’s got real good news for you?
Who died on the cross for you?
Christ!
La la la laaaaaaa!
The song ended with the boys on one knee, arms spread wide à la Al Jolson, while the girls grinned and twirled their streamer-batons. Byron struck the final cymbal crash.
The answering silence was not long — no more than three seconds, according to Tim — then an explosion of indignation, surprise, outrage, applause.
Some men stormed for the doors. Some of them really liked us, clapping, shouting “Bravo!” Mostly they thought we were hilarious. They roared. They bent over laughing. They slapped each other’s backs, wiped tears from their eyes, broke up again reliving their favorite moments.
Eddie had an all-hope-abandoned look in his eyes. You could see him trying to interpret this uproar as good news, but then why were some people shaking fists at him? Those guys laughing so hard they held on to each other? What was so funny?
I glanced at the cue sheet. Sixteen songs to go! The pedals grew heavy under my feet. What made me think this would be fun?
Tim murmured, “Let’s get out of here.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I can’t watch this, Skippy. It makes my stomach hurt.”
“We can’t run away now.”
“Why not?”
I spread my hands, indicating the other guys. “We’re part of this. We’re the Combo. The Combo is us.”
“No no no,” he said. “This is pathetic.”
“And hilarious,” I said. “Isn’t it? Just like we hoped it would be.”
Eddie waved for us to strike up the next song.
“Hey Mary, guess what?” sang Ted Herring.
You’re gonna have a bay-beh!
Yeah, ready or not —
I know you don’t believe it!
A commotion arose on the far side of the room — shoving chairs, heated voices. The song limped to a stop.
Reverend R. T. Frederick put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I just want to say I am terribly embarrassed,” he said, “that some of my brothers will not show you young people the same courtesy we would extend to the least among us.”
“That’s okay! Really!” said Eddie. “We just want to do our show.”
A man called, “But these children are blaspheming! You cannot allow this to go on!”
Reverend Frederick patted Eddie’s shoulder. “Your presentation is not quite what we were expecting,” he said. “We’re accustomed to more traditional representations.”
“Wait, you’re gonna love the next one,” said Eddie, waving madly for us to start.
Byron kicked off a bass beat. Here came Alicia Duchamp sashaying out in her Glamour Virgin gown, belting “Joseph, You’ve Got to Believe Me.”
Alicia’s brassy voice went nicely with her pear-shaped bottom. She pranced around on high heels, giving saucy little kicks that quickly distracted the Bible students.
The laughter began to dissipate. I saw appreciation setting in on some of the faces, or maybe something else. Alicia did look fine in that gown. The number ended in a spotlight, on a high note, her head thrown back at a rakish angle — a big round of cheers.
Could this musical be saved?
We jumped into the quick tempo of “Third Manger on the Right,” the whole cast onstage, singing and dancing a farcical reenactment of Joseph and Mary’s search for a room in Bethlehem. The slapstick and the animal costumes got some nice laughs. I thought I saw Reverend Frederick beginning to relax.
The men who hated us the most had already left. Those who had stayed were either laughing at us or laughing with us, and what difference did it make? They were laughing. The room felt warm through the first act, even warmer in the second. By the time Matt Smith sang “Can I Really Be the Son of God?” it was hot in there, and the audience was on Matt’s side.
The stage filled with lepers humming “The Leper’s Song,” every bit as gloomy as it sounds. I saw Carol Nason at the side of the stage, fiddling with the hem of her Go Titans T-shirt. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, then peeled the T-shirt up over her head and smoothed the skirt of her whore dress.
When the lepers scampered off to dutiful applause, Carol ran on. The spotlight found her. Every man in the room sucked in air.
The Combo played the opening bars, Duh duh-duh DUM da-DUM!
“Hello boys!” Carol cried.
Duh duh-duh DUM da-DUM!
“I’m Mary Magdalene — and I’m bad!”
Eddie gaped. That line was not in the script.
Dum duh-duh DUM da-DUM!
Carol strutted down the edge of the stage, dipping coyly, cutting eyes at the men gawking up at her. “Hey fella, whatcha up to tonight? Good to see ya! Hey, handsome!”
Tim said, “What is she doing?”
“I do believe she’s stripping.”
“Unbelievable. Look at her!”
“She hasn’t taken anything off yet, but she sure looks naked.”
Reverend Frederick sputtered into Eddie’s ear, but Eddie was too busy adoring Carol’s performance. His eyes flashed up at her, worshiping her. He’d been trying to get her to sing out since the first rehearsal — and boy was she ever singing out, catwalking all over the stage in her wanton, dressed-but-naked condition.
&nbs
p; Not that kind of girl, no!
I’m just clay in God’s hands to play with
Not that kind of girl, no!
I’ve only got two hands to pray with
She was appalling and sexy — a living example of everything the Bible says Thou Shalt Not. The men cheered and wolf-whistled.
Suddenly there was Reverend R. T. Frederick onstage behind her, brandishing a choir robe. He swept her up in it and ushered her off as the students hooted for an encore.
“Let her go! She’s not done!” cried a man in front.
“Oh yes she is. Show’s over, my friends,” he bellowed.
By the time we got through the mob to that side of the room, Passworth was shouting at Reverend Frederick. “I don’t care how offended you are, we’re not going anywhere until our bus comes to get us! You invited us up here to perform and that’s what we were doing!”
“Perhaps you could explain to me,” he thundered, “how anyone who calls herself a decent Christian could associate herself with that kind of blatant obscenity!”
Mrs. Passworth put her finger in his face. “Listen, buster, don’t tell me what kind of a Christian I am. These children came up here to present their own version of the greatest story ever told. They were singing their hearts out for you. If you’re that narrow-minded, well then, it’s your loss!”
“Madam,” he huffed, “I happen to know the difference between a young lady and a harlot!”
“Mary Magdalene was a harlot, you idiot!” she cried. “Read your Bible! It’s in there! What kind of a Bible college is this?”
Reverend Frederick ran everyone out of the building, locked the doors, got in his car, and drove off without another word.
A few Bible students were still hanging around outside, with flashlights. They offered to walk us to town.
“Why thank you,” said Passworth. “At least there are some gentlemen.”
“I thought you all did great,” one man offered.
“Yeah, y’all done real good. Too bad some people couldn’t appreciate it.”
Others chimed in yeah, they liked us too.