“In a way, yes. He said a lot of things I agreed with but I was a little surprised at his going after the churches. Not that I like anything about them, but still it’s some stunt to get up and talk like that in front of millions of people. I mean you just don’t say those things any more, even if you do think them ... can’t offend minorities; that’s what we learn first in journalism school.”
“There’s part of your answer then: Cave is a man who, unlike others, says what he thinks is true even if it makes him unpopular. There’s some virtue in that.”
“I guess he can afford to in his position,” said the boy vaguely. “You know we got Bishop Winston to answer him for the Star. Signed him last night after Cave went off the air. I’m sure he’ll do a good job. Now....”
We wrestled across the room; since I was the stronger, I won my privacy though muffled threats of exposure were hurled at me from behind the now-bolted door.
Acting on an impulse, I left the apartment as soon as I was sure my recent visitor had gone. I was afraid that others would try to find me if I stayed home; fears which were justified: according to the elevator man, he had turned away several men already. The one who did get through had come up the fire escape.
I walked quickly out into the quiet street, the snow now gone to slush as dingy as the morning sky. Fortunately, the day was neither windy nor cold and I walked to a Times Square automat for an early breakfast.
I was reassured by anonymity. All around me sleepy men and women clutching newspapers, briefcases and lunch pails sat sullenly chewing their breakfast, sleep not yet departed.
I bought a roll, more coffee, hominy grits which I detested in the North but occasionally tried in the hope that, by accident, I might stumble upon the real thing. These were not the real thing and I left them untouched while I read my paper.
Cave was on the front page. Not prominent, but still he was there. The now-standard photograph looked darkly from the page. The headline announced that: “Prophet Flays Churches as Millions Listen.” There followed a paraphrase of the telecast which began with those fateful and soon to be famous words: “Our quarrel is not with Christ but with his keepers.” I wondered, as I read, if anyone had ever taken one of the telecasts down in shorthand and made a transcript of it. I, for one, should have been curious to see in cold print one of those sermons. Cave himself knew that without his presence they would not stand up and, consequently, he allowed none of then to be transcribed; the result was that whenever there was a report of one of his talks it was, necessarily, paraphrased which gave a curious protean flavor to his doctrine, since the recorded style was never consistent, changing always with each paraphraser just as the original meaning was invariably altered by each separate listener as he adapted the incantation to his private needs.
A fat yellow-faced woman sat down with a groan beside me and began to ravish a plate of assorted cakes. Her jaws grinding, the only visible sign of life, for her eyes were glazed from sleep and her body, incorrectly buttoned into a cigarette-ash-dusted dress, was as still as a mountain, even the work of lungs was obscured by the torpid flesh.