“We’re looking forward to your seeing it,” Steepes said, turning toward Minsk and grinning even wider. Minsk felt uneasy, and reached inside his trench coat for a cigarette. “Smoke?” he asked, turning to Steepes.
“No,” Steepes said. Steepes turned on the radio. Static came blasting forth. “In local news, the F.B.I. was involved in a shoot-out with the members of Nebuchadnezzar Legions, a vigilante hate group that has declared war on what they describe as the Zionist Administration in Washington. A search of their trailer turned up antitank weapons, hand grenades, and machine guns. As they entered the courtroom, the shackled prisoners began shouting, ‘Black Death Is Back,’ and ‘Crucify the Jews.’” Minsk felt Steepes edging a look at him out of the corner of his eye. Steepes turned to another station. They heard a frenetic voice. “Ah Sinful Nation!!! People laden with wickedness, evil race, corrupt children! That’s not your preacher talking but the word of the Lord, brothers and sisters, the word of Gawwwwd. The Jews are the lost sheep of Israel, brothers and sisters. Bending down to No-Gods. The No-Gods of communism, atheism, marxism. The Jews and the blacks are the children of Satan, ladies and gentlemen, descendants of Cain.” The preacher’s comments were accompanied by enthusiastic shouts of a-men, and hallelujahs. “It was this nation of harlots, the Jews, who killed Jesus Christ, brothers and sisters. Killed him, because the Lord was on to these idolators. They hanged him and pierced his side.”
“Would you turn that thing off,” Jim finally requested. Jim Minsk decided that he didn’t like Michael Steepes. Finally, Minsk saw the campus of Mary Phegan looming on a mountain in the distance.
“Well, we’re here,” Steepes said. “Hope that we can make it as exciting for you as New York. We’ll try. The last excitement we had around these parts was in 1912. A lynching. I’m sure that you heard about it,” Steepes said with a nasty chuckle. It was wasted because Minsk had fallen asleep.
8
Professor Steepes and Jim Minsk walked from the parking lot toward the campus’s main building. The architectural style was of the Paranoid School of the late 1880s, an austere fortress-styled building made of brick and equipped with a tower that one finds in parts of Ohio, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. There were two men standing at the top of the gray wooden steps. As they came closer to where the men stood, Jim saw the pair begin to smile. One man, wearing a three-piece suit and striped tie like Professor Steepes, stood with his hands behind his back. He had the slitted eyes and long, oval face of John Carradine. The other man was younger. He had red hair and a red beard, and eyes like a goat’s. Outside of these two and Michael Steepes, who was carrying his bags, there were no other people around. Professor Steepes introduced them as James Watson, the tall man, and Thomas Rhodes, the medium-sized man with the red hair. Watson was the president, and Rhodes was the provost.
“I can’t tell you how honored we are to have you here. I trust your trip down was satisfactory,” Watson said, as they walked into the building. The two men were on either side of him; Steepes had gone to place his bags in the guest cottage the school reserved for visitors. The wooden floors were shiny and there was an old, elaborate staircase made of wrought iron that led to the other floors. Inside the president’s office, Watson offered Minsk a drink. Mr. Rhodes went into another room to mix Minsk a martini. He brought the president some George Dickel sour mash whiskey, and Rhodes had a glass of the same for himself.
“Here’s to your good health.” The three raised their glasses in a toast. Minsk thought he noticed some ironic eye exchange between the two men when Watson said “good health.” Rhodes noticed Minsk glancing at the portrait of Jesus Christ on the wall. The portrait painter had given Christ a sinister smile.
“We may be a Christian school, but we do enjoy some earthly vices from time to time. Not as strict as some of these other southern fundamentalists down here. Why, we have seminars on Tillich, Barth, and Heidegger,” he said, taking a sip of whiskey.
“I heard one of the local preachers on the radio on the way here. The most hateful junk you’ve ever heard. A raving anti-Semite.” The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, following Minsk’s complaint.
“Throwbacks,” Rhodes finally said. “They’re still against the teaching of evolution.” The three men laughed. “There are people down here who believe that the earth is flat and that if you fly too high you’ll punch a hole in the sky. We’re sort of an oasis of civilization within this cultural wasteland.”
“The people in this neck of the woods have a yearning for the old populist values. William Jennings Bryan is still a big hero to them. You know what Mencken said about him,” Watson said. The other men shook their heads.
“He said that people down here used his hair to cure gallstones.” The three laughed. What urbane and civilized men these were, Minsk thought. He glanced at the bookshelves, which were stacked with books on philosophy, science, and religion. There were even some up-to-date novels.
“You’re doing a play by Ian Ball, I hear,” Rhodes said. “I like his stuff. He’s quiet. Not like those mau maus who used to write that junk threatening white people. They’ve all disappeared. We have one here that we keep around for our amusement, though I will admit that some of his essays on the English Romantics are not bad, considering—”
“He’s talking ’bout Steepes, Mr. Minsk,” Watson said. “He’s our resident mau mau. Capable fellow, but from time to time he wanders off into these cumbersome monologues about his blackness.”
“Steepes, he’s—”
“He’s black, as they’re calling themselves these days,” Rhodes said.
“But, I thought—”
“You’re not the first one to think that Steepes is white. We have a lot of blacks down here who have blond hair and blue eyes. We Southerners can detect them, though.”
“He’s a good man. Popular with the students. And he doesn’t give us half the trouble of the blacks here in the States. Every time you turn around they’re up in arms about something. Steepes is from Jamaica. The British somehow found a way to civilize them.”
“So that explains the British accent,” Minsk said.
“His most cherished possession is a photo of him bowing down to the queen,” Rhodes said.
“Hear him tell it you’d think that he was Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey combined, but actually he’s as harmless as a pail of milk,” Watson said.
“He’s always talking about the black community when the nearest black is about thirty miles from here.” Watson and Rhodes laughed. Minsk was becoming annoyed at the direction their humor was taking, and when Watson got serious Minsk was relieved.
“Well, Mr. Minsk, I hope you’ll have an enjoyable stay. Your presence will provide a needed shot in the arm to our fledgling drama program. Every year since 1912, the college has been performing this show. It’s kind of lik e a tradition.” The window slammed shut. The impact startled the three men. Rhodes got up and raised the window.
“What’s the play about?” Minsk asked.
“Oh, it’s hardly connected, just a series of scenes and sight gags. I guess it’s our own brand of avant-garde theater, Mr. Minsk.” Watson and Rhodes laughed, and once again exchanged telling glances.
“Yes, we’ve always tried to be up-to-date,” Rhodes said. “Mr. Minsk, have you had dinner?”
“I had a meal on the plane,” Minsk said. “It wasn’t exactly the Chez Panisse.” Watson looked at his watch.
“We’ll have Mr. Rhodes escort you to your cottage. You have about an hour to relax and clean up. I’ll come and get you after that.” The three men rose.
“Mr. Minsk, you really don’t know how grateful we are to have you down here. If there’s anything I can do to make you comfortable, just say so.” Minsk thanked Watson and followed Rhodes out of the room.