Comrade Duddy had persevered, convinced that he was destined for revolutionary greatness; it was a matter of historical inevitability. Lately, however, the inevitable was beginning to appear doubtful. Duddy wanted to change the world, but he feared that all he’d ever change were his socks.
A fifth-generation miner, Duddy had been a bright, handsome lad. Before the Great War, his intelligence caught the attention of a union organizer for the Industrial Workers of the World (I.W.W.), who taught him reading, writing, and Marxist revolutionary theory, while his looks attracted the attention of the mine owner’s daughter, Lydia, who taught him more immediate ways to screw the bourgeoisie.
One night, Pinkerton’s men caught the pair in flagrante. Duddy was wrapped in a blanket, beaten with a baseball bat, and brought before the girl’s father. Randall Blackstone was at his wits’ end. He’d soon be reduced to filling abandoned mine shafts with the bodies of his daughter’s lovers. That would clean him of workers by spring. Cutting his losses, he had the couple married by dawn and shipped north to well-heeled cousins in Connecticut. They ran Pinecrest, an exclusive elementary school outside New Haven. Duddy was given a bath, a suit, and a class of forty first-grade students.
He was a favourite with the children, although his attempts at political re-education left them confused. In the words of Master Winston Van Buren IV: “If I was a worker, I’d quit and ride ponies.”
Duddy started to drink, especially at formal dinner parties arranged by his in-laws. He’d knock back the brandy until the guests were comfortably into their entrées, then launch into vivid descriptions of black lung disease. His wife was not amused: an affair with a worker was romantic; marriage to one was sordid.
Duddy’s career and marriage came to an abrupt end at the annual Pinecrest Thanksgiving Weekend. He’d organized the first-grade pageant. Wealthy parents filled the auditorium, expecting to see their little Pilgrims and Indians roll out a papier-maché turkey, shake hands, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Instead, the Pilgrims grabbed the turkey and threw the Indians to the ground, shouting: “We steal your land, and make you our slaves.”
At this point, Master Van Buren ran on in coveralls, waving a hammer and sickle. “Workers of the world unite!” he squealed. “Throw off your chains! Death to the capitalist bosses!” With bloodcurdling screams, the little Indians leapt to their feet and attacked the pilgrims with rubber tomahawks. The moppets staggered around squirting ketchup. Mothers fainted.
There was so much commotion that no one paid any attention to the explosion in the main office. Duddy’s mining experience had come in handy. One stick of dynamite had blasted away the door to the school vault. The sound was muffled by sandbags stuffed with the fur coats of visiting parents. Duddy hopped the 7:45 with two suitcases loaded with tuition fees and tuck money. He never looked back.
He spent the Great War organizing strikes for the I.W.W. in New Jersey, Minnesota, and Washington State. When the I.W.W. collapsed, he joined the Communist Labor Party, which begat the Communist Party of America, which begat the Workers Party of America, which begat the Communist Party of the United States of America.
Comrade Duddy was happy to follow the party line until the Communist International decreed that labour leaders were greater enemies to workers than fascists. Duddy was outraged. He made a rude joke about Lenin and sheep, and was promptly expelled from the Party. He didn’t care. Within the week, he’d founded the Independent Bolshevik Alliance, a syndicalist group dedicated to industrial slowdowns and sabotage. The Great Depression had taken care of slowdowns, but it was still fun to blow stuff up.
The Independent Bolshevik Alliance peaked at three members. To expand his power, Duddy merged with the two-member Proletarian Alliance to form the Independent Proletarian Bolshevik Alliance. This entente was known as “The Great Leap Forward.” There followed “the Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Great Leaps Forward” as Duddy swallowed up the Proletarian Brotherhood and the Independent Proletarian Brotherhood, not to mention the Industrial Workers Alliance, the Collective Workers Alliance, and the Bolshevik Workers of America.
Since these cells included visionaries much like Duddy, doctrinal disputes were as common as manifestos. Marked by charges of revisionism and factionalism, they generally lasted till dawn and ended in black eyes and schisms. As a result, after years of leaping forward, Duddy’s I.C.P.B.I.I.B.W.A.U.S.A. had grown in name only.
At least the cell could feed itself. Once every couple of months, Duddy would blow up a bank and the gang would hightail it to Mexico to drink tequila till the dust settled. Knocking off banks wasn’t stealing, according to Comrade Duddy. It was an act of revolutionary heroism in solidarity with the workers of the world.
Unfortunately, the revolutionary heroes had hit a snag in Laredo when their getaway car ran out of gas. Only comrades Duddy and Lapinsky had managed to scramble across the border ahead of a posse and tracking dogs, hauling ass for three days through a swamp filled with every biting insect in creation. They showed up delirious at Casa Mama Rosa, their heads the size of beach balls.
Duddy wished his fellow survivor was someone other than Lapinsky. The man was loyal, but he was also psychotic. Years ago a train had severed his left hand. Ever since, he’d worn it on a rope under his shirt. He used it as a back-scratcher. True, he doused it in aftershave to keep down the smell. All the same.
During the course of recuperation, Comrade Duddy spent much of his time retching in the outhouse. It was here that he met his latest recruit, Comrade Johnny Canuck; he got the nickname Johnny Canuck since he was from Canada.
Canuck claimed he’d been betrayed by his child and fired by his employer. Drunk as a skunk, he’d hit the rails and landed in Texas, where he vaguely recalled playing poker. The next thing he knew, he was in his underwear on a mule cart under a pile of rotting potato skins. The driver threw him on the roadside by Casa Mama Rosa. He’d been here ever since, cleaning the brothels’ bedpans and sheets in exchange for room, board, and a weekly tumble with one of the girls.
Canuck’s Spanish was limited to “sí,” “mañana,” and “muy bonita tits.” Consequently, he had no idea about anything, except that he was stuck in a foreign whorehouse. When he’d heard Duddy grunting English in the crapper, he’d thrown open the door, fallen to his knees, and kissed the comrade’s crusty boots.
Duddy was so desperate to replenish the troops that he recruited the lost soul on the spot. It was a move he regretted. Comrade Canuck wasn’t interested in Communist theory regarding the means of production; all he cared about was the sharing part. As the gang trekked back to America, he’d helped himself to most of their supplies.
Now Stateside, Comrade Duddy was filled with despair. He’d just delivered an oration on the I.C.P.B.I.I.B.W.A.U.S.A.’s glorious return from exile, and of its triumphant storming of the border, hidden in a boxcar, disguised as sacks of chicken feed. Nobody listened. As he preached revolution, Comrade Canuck had made a bed out of a pile of crumpled newspapers, while Comrade Lapinsky had picked dried sinew from a knuckle on the Hand. “Dammit!” Duddy cursed as he climbed to the boxcar roof, “The revolution is wasted on morons!”
“Comrade Duddy?” Johnny Canuck scrambled up beside him. He had an earnest look and a fistful of newspaper. He pointed to an article with a big picture. “Can you read this for me?”
Duddy glanced at it. “It’s bullshit. Bread and circuses. Sister Mary Mabel McTavish is playing Radio City Music Hall. She’s going to be strapped to a lie detector.”
“I have to see her.”
“That whore? That stooge of the capitalist bosses?”
“Watch your mouth,” said Comrade Canuck. “You’re talking about my daughter.”
New York, New York
Hearst’s editorial made Mary Mabel feel like a criminal. Doyle, on the other hand, said it had saved their bacon. The prospect of a polygraph test would distract the public from the daily dirt. He called it her “trial by fire.”
“Right,
” she snapped. “Like what they had for witches.”
Still, Mary Mabel could see that Hearst appeared to want her to succeed. Aside from the challenge, he’d sent them under-the-table instructions. They were to cancel all performances till after Radio City. Officially, so the Miracle Maid could rest. Practically, to keep her clear of mischief.
Mary Mabel thought they should carry on as normal to show a clear conscience, but Doyle explained that if the tour didn’t cancel first, nervous sponsors would likely cancel on their behalf. Bad press. Besides, rival syndicates might try to create news, organizing pickets at the theatres, planting hostile questions, or arranging riots. No, until Radio City the tour was to stay in seclusion, except for photo shoots with former sponsors. These would appear with Doyle’s articles, which he promised to pack with testimonials from fans and hatchet jobs on accusers.
“You’re focused on public relations,” Mary Mabel said. “What about truth?”
“Public relations makes truth,” Doyle growled. “Facts never saved a soul from Old Sparky.”
As expected, Doyle found that former sponsors were too busy to be seen with him. That meant the Miracle gang was left to cool its heels in Tulsa, the reverends and Mary Mabel sticking to their rooms until two days before show time, when Hearst would fly them to New York.
Effectively they were prisoners. Floyd checked in on Mary Mabel occasionally, but decency required that he stay in the hall. As for Brother Percy, his room next to hers was so quiet she asked Floyd to see if he was dead. Floyd assured her that his friend was happily praying in a corner.
One thing broke Mary Mabel’s solitude: her evening phone calls from Doyle. He’d tell her everything was going well and she’d say, good, she was feeling terrific. In fact, she was crawling the walls. To escape the claustrophobia, she’d lie in bed and study the picture of her mama. If she stared hard enough, her mama appeared to be breathing. Other times, she’d curl up by the window, hold the saucer, and imagine her mama was sending messages in cloud formations, or in the whistle of the wind, or in the birds that landed on the ledge. Then she’d get a chill and wonder if maybe she was crazy.
If she was crazy, maybe her miracles were in her head. But that would mean the people she’d healed only imagined they were well, in which case they’d be crazy, too. Who makes the rules about who’s crazy, anyway? If it’s a matter of opinion, then K.O. was right: reality is just successful advertising.
Too much thinking is hard on the brain, but at least it passes the time. Before it seemed possible, Mary Mabel was packing her bags for the flight to New York.
Hearst’s plane was a marvel. The passenger cabin looked like a sitting room. It was panelled in rosewood and mahogany with leather sofas, armchairs, and coffee tables bolted discreetly to the floor. The panelling was covered in art, including a pair of Rembrandts and a da Vinci.
None of the trio had flown before and they were all a little anxious. Brother Percy had to be carried on by the plane’s butler; Floyd had given him a sleeping potion and he’d passed out. Thank heaven for small mercies, Mary Mabel thought. She’d been worried that mid-flight he might throw open the door to stroll the clouds in search of Paradise.
The pilot came on last and invited her to sit in the cockpit. As the plane took off, Mary Mabel’s nails nearly ripped the armrests, but she soon relaxed. The hum of the engine was soothing as a cat’s purr, and the clouds as whimsical as cotton candy. The earth spread out below like a giant quilt, patches of farms and towns stitched together by threads of road and fence.
We’re flying over millions of people with hopes and despairs, she thought. Yet from up here, nothing matters but the weather. She marvelled at cloud shadows sliding across rivers and fields: how strange that things can be worth nothing and everything at the same time.
There are three things Mary Mabel remarked about her suite at The Belvedere. One: it was so big it took her forever to find the bedroom. Two: there were so many pillows on her bed it took her forever to find the mattress. Three: the bathroom had two toilets, one of which they called “a bidet.”
Doyle met them in the lobby. They had an hour to unpack before he was to escort them to a luncheon interview with Hearst opinion-makers from the New York Journal-American and the Mirror. “Don’t worry,” he said, “the Chief’s wishes are known. You just have to show up and pay homage to the court.” Playing chauffeur was a big deal for Doyle. He was the new kid on the Hearst block, and showing Mary Mabel off was a great way for him to meet the big boys.
Happily, Brother Percy wouldn’t be around to embarrass him. The reverend had arrived at the hotel reeling from the after-effects of his sedative, and insisted on riding the luggage cart like a train conductor. “Doot! Doot! All abore vor da Burly Gades!” Floyd had popped him another pill and the bellhops tucked him into bed.
Lunch was at the Stork Club, the New Yorkiest joint in New York. The maitre d’ whisked them to Table 50 in the Cub Room. Five men and a woman were having a spirited conversation. Their host rose. “Please welcome K.O. Doyle,” he said to the others. “A member of the younger degeneration.”
“K.O. Doyle!” said the woman. “You’re quite the scribbler.”
Doyle blushed. “May I introduce Sister Mary Mabel McTavish and her producer, Mr. Floyd Cruickshank.”
“Winchell,” said our host, extending his hand. “Walter Winchell. Welcome to my home away from home. From your left, Mr. Damon Runyon, Mr. Westbrook Pegler, editor Mr. Arthur Brisbane, city editor Mr. Eddie Mahar, and table ornament Miss Dorothy Kilgallen.”
“Pinch a loaf, Walter.”
Hoots all around. They shook hands and sat down. Mary Mabel tried not to stare at Runyon. He was one of her favourite short story writers.
Winchell ordered a round of drinks, two bottles of champagne, and menus. Since Mary Mabel was on a tight budget, she asked for a glass of milk and a salad.
“Salad-schmalad. Make it a steak and a Waldorf. It’s on the Old Man.”
“Yes, and he’s very generous,” said Kilgallen. “Damon, tell Miss McTavish about your bill for that trip to Canada.”
Runyon rubbed his hands. “There’s this guy and this doll on the lam, see? The Old Man sics me on their tail and I get stuck in some burg the far side of Bumhole. Nothing to do but get stinkeroo, in the course of which enterprise I punch a yokel in the snoot and wind up in the town sneezer. Fine, I shmooze my way out with a couple of Cs and send the chit to the Chief. He was madder than somewhat. ‘What’s this for?’ he barks. I say, ‘Funeral expenses for my dead sled dog and flowers for the bereaved bitch.’”
“Along with his expenses, Damon sent a story that goosed the weekly run.” Kilgallen laughed. “The Old Man says he can’t afford us. The truth is, he can’t afford not to afford us.”
“Mr. Runyon,” Mary Mabel asked, “was that story ‘A Dead Cold Setup’?”
His jaw dropped. “You read it?”
“I read all your stories. At least all the ones I can find. ‘The Idylls of Sarah Brown’ is my favourite.”
Runyon loosened his tie. “I like this kid.”
A stumpy man in a white linen suit advanced on the table with a soft-cheeked companion. A phalanx of handsome young men in dark suits followed at a discreet distance. The lead pair were always in the news. Winchell shook their hands like they were old friends. “You know the usual suspects; let me introduce our guests, Sister Mary Mabel McTavish and Floyd Cruickshank.” To his guests: “May I present F.B.I. Director Mr. J. Edgar Hoover and Assistant Director Mr. Clyde Tolson.”
How-de-ja-dos all around.
“You gents care for a seat?”
“We’re on our way out. Just came by to say hello.”
Runyon cocked his head. “What brings you to town?”
“The Radio City show.” Hoover’s eyes slid in Mary Mabel’s direction. “I’ve been following your progress, Sister.”
“Gosh,” she replied, “I’ve been following yours, too. All those gangsters and Communists to catch. Yo
u’re everywhere.”
“Crime never sleeps. Neither does the Bureau.” He sounded so much like he did in the newsreels that Mary Mabel wanted to laugh. Hoover tipped his hat. “Till tomorrow.” A nod and he was out the door: a hard-boiled egg leading a side of beef.
“Edna Hoover and Mother Tolson. Interesting fans,” Runyon observed.
“Keep your trap shut,” Pegler hissed. “You want to get us in trouble?”
“Boys, boys, settle down,” said Winchell. “Have a drink.”
Kilgallen raised her glass. “Here’s to the game.”
There was a walnut Marconi in Mary Mabel’s sitting room. At suppertime, Doyle told her to tune in the Lucky Strike Magic Carpet Show; they’d be the lead on Winchell’s report. The familiar voice came in loud and clear: “Ohhhkaaay Aaamerica! Good evening Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. Let’s go to press. Tomorrow Radio City plays host to Sister Mary Mabel McTavish. Are those magic fingers the old phonus-balonus, or are they the real McCoy? Call me a chump, but I bet the holes in my socks, her curls are screwed on straight.”
Next morning, the advance press was mixed. One tabloid said, “She plays the role of L’il Orphan Annie, assuming God to be her personal Daddy Warbucks,” but the Hearst press glowed. Arthur Brisbane wrote, “In these dark times, we need a little pixie dust. Don’t let us down, Miss McTavish. Fly right and lift our hearts to the heavens.”
After breakfast, Hearst’s limousine took her to Radio City to get familiar with the auditorium and the polygraph equipment. Doyle and Floyd came along for the ride. Not Brother Percy. According to Floyd, he was boycotting the entire event on account of the Showplace of the Nation was a flesh-pot sucking souls to Hell.
The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish Page 20
