The Rev. Dr. Shoemaker

BLACK ACTIVIST CLERGYMAN

Big Jim started to sputter something, then realized from the flippant look on her face that she was putting him on. But before they could resume their discussion, a tall, slim Negro approached their table. He had on a tan tropical worsted suit, the fabric and tailoring of which seemed to match the mayor’s dollar for dollar.

“Morning, Mayor. Morning, Buzz,” he said in a deep mellow voice that seemed to have been fashioned for a pulpit. “Mind if I join you?”

He pulled out the remaining chair at the table for four and sat down without waiting for an answer.

“Marsha Antonelli, reporter,” Buzz made the introductions, “this is the Reverend Doctor James Shoemaker.”

Buzz knew Jimmie Shoemaker well. He was pastor of the city’s biggest Negro church, president of the local NAACP, and a political activist. He had  probably done more than any other community leader to swing Negro voters away from their traditional loyalty to the party of Lincoln and into the column of Big Jim McCann. And Buzz had interviewed him so often for television that Jerry Finnerty had begun calling the six-thirty news “the Jimmie Shoemaker Show.”

The Reverend Doctor Shoemaker got right to the point. “Mister Mayor, there’s one whale of a fight brewing over seating of the Mississippi delegation. The Freedom Democrats make their case today in the Credentials Committee against that lily-white slate of so-called Regular Democrats.

“If Credentials goes the wrong way, Your Honor, you can be an immense help. You could buttonhole all the mayors from Massachusetts, and any that you know from outside the state, to whip up as much support as we can get for a floor fight.

“God knows,” Jimmie Shoemaker added, directing his mellifluous bass voice at Marsha and Buzz as if he were hoping to enlist their support, “the Negro folk down in Mississippi were willing to work with those mossback rednecks to send a biracial delegation up here. But the state convention was rigged, just like it always has been. What could the black folk do besides hold their own convention?”

“Will you help him?” Marsha inquired as the clergyman left the dining room.

“You know, his boy’s been down in Mississippi since last year,” replied the mayor, “helping Negroes register to vote and helping those Freedom Democrats get organized. That takes guts to let your boy do that. Think of those three other kids who were murdered — Goodman, Schwerner, and whatever the other one’s name was. Of course I’ll help him. I owe it to him. Besides, he’s right.”