The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

by Allan Stratton

  She’d read that there are tribes in Africa that refuse to let anyone take their picture. They think it robs them of their soul. They may be right, she thought, for that’s how it is with stories. Each time we tell a memory, it becomes a little less our own. Soon our most sacred moments have been turned into public spectacle. This truth overwhelmed her as she heard herself recite her miracle with the empty conviction of a parrot.

  The first times she’d told it, she’d been an apostle aflame with a holy gospel. Yet weeks of rehearsing it to anyone who’d listen had doused her fire. She gesticulated like a puppet, while Auntie Irene strode inside her head bellowing, “Chin up! Chest out! Emote!” Mary Mabel’s text was letter-perfect, but it rattled from her lips as false as Miss Bentwhistle’s teeth.

  The crowd didn’t care. They’d paid to see a star, and fix up Main Street. Mary Mabel struggled to breathe, as she mimed an elaborate laying on of hands. “It was at this moment that Timmy Beeford came back to life,” she declaimed.

  Applause. Her interview followed. Instead of answering the audience’s questions, she spouted the quips she’d learned in her dressing room.

  “What’s your favourite hobby?” asked a pleasant woman in the front row.

  “My favourite hobby is liking people.”

  “Can you tell us about your parents?”

  “Papa is a man of many talents. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. Oh, and he loves to travel. Mama, alas, passed away when I was two.”

  Oohs and ahs. The easy commiseration filled her with guilt.

  A dozen more inquiries, then the children’s choirs regrouped for the grand finale and Floyd announced a special free-will offering. The plates got passed as the crowd rose for a heartfelt sing-a-long of “Amazing Grace.” Tears and hankies all around. At song’s end, Mary Mabel clasped her hands to her breast. “May sunshine fill your hearts, and happiness warm your tomorrows.”

  An eruption of cheers and whistles. She wanted a bath. At least it’s over, she thought. She was wrong. At that moment, the auditorium doors crashed open. Standing in the entrance was a tramp clutching a white cane in one hand and a tin cup in the other.

  “Where am I?” the blind man cried.

  “The auditorium,” someone volunteered.

  “I’m looking for Sister Mary Mabel McTavish!”

  “I’m here,” Mary Mabel called out uncertainly.

  The man lurched forward, swinging his cane with abandon. The audience froze, except for the ones by the aisle who ducked. Brother Floyd led him to centre stage, where he fell on his knees and raised his arms in supplication. “Sister, you see before you a miserable wretch! A beggar man blinded by moonshine! I repent of my sins! Help me to see the light, I beseech you, for I would be whole!”

  Mary Mabel’s head reeled, stomach heaved. Mama, she prayed, please do something. But her mama was as far away as the moon.

  A voice rose from the middle of the auditorium. “Heal the man, Sister!” Others joined in. “Heal the man! Show us your stuff!”

  She glanced helplessly over the crowd. “I can’t!”

  “Why not?” the blind man pleaded.

  “Do like the Lord,” yelled the pleasant woman in the front row. “Spit on your fingers! Touch his eyes!”

  The air swarmed with buzzing tongues. “Do it, Sister! Do it! Do it!”

  “Give ’em what they want,” Floyd whispered. He took her hands and forced them to her lips. Her fingers were cold as icicles. She placed them on the blind man’s lids. He let out a series of high-pitched yelps and convulsed, flopping about the floor on his back. Spittle spewed from his mouth. Then he bounced to his feet. Threw away his cane. Rubbed his eyes. Danced.

  “I can see!” He spun her around. “Praise Jesus, I can see.”

  The audience was on its feet, stomping and cheering.

  “The plates!” Floyd screamed at the ushers. “Pass the plates, goddammit!” He grabbed the tramp’s arm and hustled him out the back door, as collection plates materialized throughout the house under a glare of flashbulbs. The audience surged forward. Souvenir programs were thrust in Mary Mabel’s face.

  “Stay back!” It was her friends from the Chamber of Commerce. They formed a human shield and shuffled her out back to the Olds. Her beggar had vanished.

  “Best show we’ve had in Flint, ever!” cheered the Chamber president, thrusting bags of cash at Brother Floyd. “Come back anytime!”

  They peeled rubber, tearing into the night with a police escort.

  The escort departed at the edge of town, and they headed off to their next stop: Kalamazoo. Brother Percy’s forehead bubbled with dark thoughts.

  Floyd tried to cheer him up. “They loved you, Perce.”

  “Dey affed!”

  “Yeah, but they weren’t laughing at you. They were laughing with you!”

  Mary Mabel agreed. At the sound of her voice, the reverend screeched like an eaglet.

  “So be a Grumpy Gus,” Floyd said, and turned to Mary Mabel. “You were the cat’s meow.” He cataloged the virtues of her performance: the confidence, theatrical flair, and elocution “clear as a bell at the back of the house.” (Thank you, Auntie Irene.) Last but not least, he spoke in awe of her healing. “Yes sir, you have the gift. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “There was no fire running down my arms. My hands were blocks of ice.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. You were damn electric. Did you see that bugger twitch?” They neared a railway crossing. Floyd pulled the car to the side of the road. “Just a sec.” He got out and opened the trunk. From its depths, the tramp unfolded like an accordion, clutching a knapsack and a bottle of booze.

  “Much obliged for the ride.”

  Floyd gave him a wad of cash. “Adios, amigo.” Two seconds later, he was back in the car and they were off, leaving their friend by the side of the tracks.

  Mary Mabel was dumbfounded. “Why was our blind man hiding in the car?”

  “He wasn’t hiding. He was hitching a ride to his favourite terminal.”

  “In the trunk?”

  “He’s a little ripe for the back seat, don’t you think? Besides, these years of darkness have made him sensitive to the light.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you gave him money.”

  “A little gift to get him started on his new life. Surely you don’t begrudge charity?”

  Mary Mabel glanced in the rear view mirror at Brother Percy. He was staring out the window, fevered lips moving soundlessly in dark communion with the heavens.

  By the time they hit Kalamazoo, it was the middle of the night. Mary Mabel checked into her room and crawled under the covers, but sleep was out of the question. Each time she closed her eyes, she imagined she was behind the wheel of the Olds, careening down a mountain with Floyd’s foot on the accelerator. She dove for the brakes, but there weren’t any. She tried to steer, but the wheel came off in her hands.

  She turned on the bed lamp. Truth is simple; facing it is hard. With help from Floyd, the papers had invented her past. As of tonight, folks also thought she’d healed the blind. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? In her mind’s eye, she saw the Olds fly off the road and plummet into a bottomless canyon.

  The phone rang. It was 4:00 a.m. She gritted her teeth, determined to give her partner a piece of her mind. Only it wasn’t him.

  “What’s up, Buttercup?”

  “Mr. Doyle! Do you know what time it is?”

  “Best time to catch you unescorted. By the way, nice show tonight. Especially that bit with the blind guy.”

  A hole opened up in the pit of her stomach. “You were in Flint?”

  “The Chief’s put me on your tail with a byline.”

  “Where are you calling from?” she whispered.

  “Down the hall. I drove in as soon as I wired my story. Mind if I drop by?”

  “I don’t entertain gentlemen in my room. In any case, I’m sleeping.”

  “To
o bad. We’ve got lots to talk about.”

  “No we don’t.”

  “Bets? I just got back from Cedar Bend.”

  She dropped the receiver.

  “Hey, you still there?”

  “Yes,” she recovered.

  “I’m doing a feature on your childhood for the national rotogravure. If you’re worried about your reputation, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  Mary Mabel’s biographer was sprawled on an easy chair in the conversation nook to the left of the registration desk. A worn briefcase was on the coffee table in front of him. They were alone, except for the night clerk dozing by the switchboard. Figuring the best defence is a good offense, she strode over, head high. “How dare you trouble my former neighbours? You have no right to spy on me.”

  Doyle looked up casually. “Says who?”

  “How long do you intend to hound me?”

  “How long do you intend to stay in business?”

  “I’m not in business.”

  “Spare me. I hear your ministry claims you found a missing toddler through the power of prayer.”

  Mary Mabel took a deep breath. “Mr. Doyle, I know you plan to ruin me. At least let me ruin myself. For the record, I never found anyone.”

  “Oh?” He gave her a wry look. “That’s not what they say in Cedar Bend.” She stared in disbelief as he pulled a deck of photographs from an envelope in his briefcase and handed her the one on top. “See anyone you recognize?”

  It was a picture of a group of men outside the barber shop. “That’s Mr. Whitby, the barber,” she said cautiously. “When I was three or four, he’d spin me around on his chair.” She pointed at a man in suspenders. “I think he ran a junk shop. And this man raised chickens. He always wore bandages on account of they pecked his hands raw. The rest I don’t remember. Why?”

  “They’re the town council. Each of them swears you saved not one child, but a couple of dozen. They also say you rescued an old woman from a bear and resurrected a dog.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Are you calling the town council a pack of liars?”

  “Yes … no … I …”

  “You were young,” he prompted. “You’ve forgotten.”

  “I’d have remembered things like that.”

  He shrugged. “Commemorative plaques are popping up everywhere.”

  “Mr. Doyle, those stories aren’t true and you know it.”

  He held up his hands. “I only know what folks tell me. So zip your lip. False modesty will spoil your reputation and insult your friends.”

  Mary Mabel paused. “Why are you protecting me?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Her stomach did somersaults. “You care about me?”

  The mention of affection made Doyle itchy. He cleared his throat. “I have a few more pictures. Let me know if they spark memories. Any details’ll help my story.”

  The first photo was easy. “That’s Mr. Woo. He hasn’t changed a bit. He bribed me with almond cookies to stop playing hopscotch in front of his restaurant.” The next few were of Slick’s Lodge. She played dumb. After these were pictures of the house where she was born. The place looked smaller than she remembered, and it was odd and a little sad to see that tree growing through it; when she was little, its branches barely tapped her window pane.

  Then came pictures of the park. “That’s the war memorial. Teenagers went there to smooch. In winter, these picnic tables were moved into a big circle around an outdoor skating rink.” He passed a picture of the playground equipment. Mary Mabel paused. “That’s where they found Mama,” she said quietly. “It always felt strange to see kids having fun where she died.” She didn’t mention that when the wind whistled through the swings, she thought it was her mama’s voice, crying her name. She’d run around in circles screaming, “Mama, I’m here. Mama, I’m here.”

  “One to go,” he said, and handed her the final snapshot. It was of two women and a baby. At first, Mary Mabel didn’t recognize them, but when she saw how Doyle studied her reaction she took a closer look.

  “Oh, my God. Mama! She looks different than I remembered.”

  Mary Mabel gazed at the photo in wonder. Time had betrayed her memory as surely as the visitations had blinded her eyes. But the longer she stared, the more her childhood resurrected before her. Yes, she thought, this is Mama, who washed me in a tin tub, brushed the curls off my forehead, and told me stories to keep away the night.

  Doyle passed her another surprise. It was a small package wrapped in newspapers and elastic bands. She opened it and nearly fainted. There before her was a green saucer with gilt around the rim, the mate to the teacup her papa had smashed when he stormed off from the Academy.

  “What’s the big deal?” Doyle asked. “It’s only a chipped piece of china.”

  “It’s not!” she exclaimed. “It’s a sign. Oh Mr. Doyle, you’ve been sent by an angel. You’re the answer to a prayer.” She gripped his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

  He jolted backwards. “You’re pretty frisky when you’re off your leash.”

  The night clerk roused. He gave them a look and coughed. Mary Mabel removed her hand from Doyle’s arm. The clerk pretended to read the sports pages.

  She lowered her voice. “I have a confession. Timmy Beeford’s resurrection wasn’t as advertised. It wasn’t God inside me. It was Mama. Sometimes she’s come to me as a voice in my head, other times as a vision of light. Mr. Cruickshank said not to tell anyone: ‘Talk to God, they call you holy: talk to ghosts, they call you nuts.’ Anyway, lately she hasn’t come at all. Tonight, when I touched that blind man’s eyes, I felt absolutely cold. Then, on the road to Kalamazoo he got out of the car trunk and Mr. Cruickshank gave him money. I had a terrible feeling the whole thing had been faked. I was afraid Mama had abandoned me.”

  Doyle blinked like he’d inhaled smelling salts. “You do understand that I’m a reporter, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she replied smartly. “But you won’t betray my secrets.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Mama sent you. There’s always a reason for what she does, even when I don’t understand it.”

  “Slow down. I wasn’t sent by your mother. I was sent by Mr. Hearst.”

  “That’s what you think. I prayed for her to give me a sign if tonight’s healing was real. Well, she answered right away, didn’t she? You brought me her picture and her saucer, things I thought had been lost forever.”

  “That’s not a sign,” Doyle said. “It’s coincidence. I met the man who took that picture by accident: Jimmy McRay, father of your mama’s best friend, Iris, the other one in the picture. As for the saucer, finding it was luck, taking it was chance.”

  “The world’s too full of ‘coincidence’ for coincidence to be only coincidence. What looks like chance is part of a grand design. It’s destiny.”

  “You read too many books.”

  “History has stranger twists than fiction,” Mary Mabel shot back. “Everyday life, too. We say ‘What a coincidence’ and ‘What a small world’ all the time because in real life so-called flukes happen regularly. Oh, Mr. Doyle, if you want to know the truth about life, you mustn’t limit yourself to the ordinary.”

  He gave her a curious look. “How much do you know?”

  “Everything and nothing,” she said, beaming.

  “Well, you’re right about one thing. I’m keeping your secrets. My reasons, however, have nothing to do with the supernatural.”

  Mary Mabel laughed. “You men can never admit you’re wrong.”

  It was almost dawn. Mary Mabel happened to glance out the window. A tramp with big ears was squatting on the curb across the street. He rolled over, avoiding her eyes. Poor man, she thought, I wonder how long he’s been watching us, envying our comfort.

  She turned back to Doyle, about to say something, when her skin went alive with goosebumps. That tramp across the road, there was something familiar about him. She knew him from somewhere, from a momen
t tucked in her memory she couldn’t quite find. Impossible. She’d never been to Kalamazoo before in her life.

  She looked back across the road. The tramp was gone. Was she losing her mind? No, just tired. Déjà vu from too little sleep. She shook it off. Folks on the skids have the same look everywhere, she thought.

  “I should get to bed,” she said. “I look forward to talking to you again, though. Tomorrow, maybe? Mama never steers me wrong.”

  “Sure,” he winked. “Keep that saucer, if you’d like. The pictures, too. They’ve already been shot by King Features.”

  “Thanks.” She shook his hand.

  He held it. “Be careful who you talk to about this ‘mama’ stuff.”

  “Oh, I’m very careful, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Another thing. ‘Mr. Doyle’ makes me feel like an old man. Call me K.O.”

  “K.O. All right … K.O.” Mary Mabel collected her new treasures. “Good night … K.O.”

  The feel of his name on her tongue gave her tingles. “K.O., K.O., K.O.,” she whispered to herself as she skipped upstairs. The name tickled her lips. In fact, it was the most exciting name she could imagine. “K.O., K.O., K.O.”

  She couldn’t wait to whisper it again.

  The Baroness

  There were cheers and tooting horns as word spread that the train carrying the baroness had pulled into the station. The chief of the Los Angeles Police Department, supported by thirty of his finest, ordered the crowd to stay behind the barricades.

  Meanwhile, on Track 3, the baroness and her handmaid descended from their private car. They were met by a short, chubby gentleman sporting flashy cufflinks, dyed hair, and astonishingly white teeth. He offered the baroness his arm and led the pair along the red carpet that had been rolled along the platform, through the station, and outside to a white stretch limousine. Two security men followed, flanked by sharpshooters. They carted an imposing strongbox filled with jewels to a waiting Brinks truck. Everyone knew these jewels were worth ten million dollars.