Organized like the Marines, the Black Jesuits have a doctrine which is a mixture of Mein Kampf, Das Kapital, and the Bible. The group is anti-Semitic. (“The Jews do most of the exploitation for the white man; look at the people who hold the leases on Harlem tenements.”) The Black Jesuits believe only those parts of the Bible which support black supremacy, believe Jesus to have been a Negro. (“The rest was added or changed to keep the dark-skinned people in place; the Romans had their race problem too.”) But even this line is not fixed. What Bradshaw preaches, the Black Jesuits believe. And though his bulls are not always consistent, Bradshaw claims they are direct-from-heaven, revised revelation.

As concern grows over the adverse effect the Black Jesuits have had on New York race relations, says Bradshaw in his best Bible-pounding style: “We have them running scared now. They know we’ll take our rights, if they don’t give them to us.”

Bennett, Bennett, now we are both lost.

Saturday, June 23, 1956:

John Caliban, who worked for our family over fifty years, died today on the bus carrying him to New Marsails.

Saturday, August 18, 1956, 7:30 A.M. (of the past seven hours):

I have not yet been to sleep, having just returned from a ride with Tucker. We went out to look at some of my property north of town, where, years ago, before my time even, the Willsons had their plantation. I sold Tucker seven acres of that land at the southwest corner.

It has been a strange evening. I do not at all understand why, but I have a feeling something special has happened; I imagine this feeling, however, is simply an overdramatization of my own experience which has not been particularly important to anyone. (I suppose I wish it had been.) Well, I might as well set it down as best as I can remember:

I was alone in the study reading. It was hot and quiet tonight—actually last night—and I had just gotten up to open the window wider, when there was a knock at the door—a quiet knock, almost timid, as if the person outside was afraid to ball his fist, not wanting to be the least bit aggressive, and instead knocked with the back of an open hand, a scraping sound. I called out: “Yes, who is it?”

“Tucker, Mister Willson.” That high-pitched nasal voice of his!

I returned to the desk. “What is it, Tucker?”

“I’d like to see you a minute, sir.”

“Come in.”

I watched the door open, and saw him, small, dark, in his chauffeur’s suit, white shirt, and black tie. He looked a child pretending to be an undertaker. He was holding his black cap in front of him in both hands. The desk lamp reflected in his glasses so his eyes looked like giant, flat, golden circles.