The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

by Allan Stratton

  Mary Mabel, however, had the connections and motive to blow her cover. Miss Bentwhistle considered hiding. Where? For how long? No matter the town, big fish swim in the same bowl. And it wasn’t as if the name “Bentwhistle” wouldn’t ring bells. Oh, if only she’d been born the Baroness Jones.

  The Baroness called Dr. Meredith Whitehead for a house call. Dr. Whitehead was a distinguished heart specialist. To be more specific, he was an unemployed actor who’d once played the role of a distinguished heart specialist. Socialites didn’t care; he was better than the real thing. He had a winning bedside manner, a keen desire to get to the bottom of things, and a stethoscope that wouldn’t quit. The moment he walked in a room, female patients opened their mouths and said “Ah.”

  Dr. Wilson’s consultation put the Baroness in a jolly mood. His acting career was proof that disaster is simply another word for opportunity. In that light, Mary Mabel’s arrival might actually be a cause for celebration. Her “eureka” moment happened as Dr. Wilson poked about in search of her prostate. She hadn’t the heart to tell him she didn’t have one: Actors are so fragile, a criticism can ruin their performance; so instead she screamed encouragement. “Oh, God! You’re almost there! Yes! Yes! A little more! Oh! Ah! Eureka! EUREKA!!!”

  Years of small-town intrigue had taught Miss Bentwhistle that the surest route to security is to turn one’s enemies into dependents. Her “eureka” was a plan to dominate Mary Mabel and enrich her own finances in the bargain.

  Millions in presumed collateral had enabled the Baroness to enjoy the generosity of the city’s elite. Her cash flow, however, was non-existent. Holy Redemption Ministries had the opposite problem: cash flow, but no collateral. In different ways, the Baroness and the ministry were each dependent on the goodwill of the gullible. Why not marry their strengths and eliminate their weaknesses?

  Miss Bentwhistle recalled that Floyd had been an ally with respect to her Academy gala. Dr. Silver placed a call. Happily, Mary Mabel was sightseeing; Floyd was home and eager to talk.

  Floyd recognized the former headmistress the moment she stepped from her limousine. He was more amused than surprised; merchants in imagination have a talent for turning up in the unlikeliest places. He offered the Baroness a drink and congratulated her on the tragedies leading to her inheritance. “So,” he said as they clinked glasses, “what’s on your mind?”

  “I want to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  The Baroness inclined her head. “There’s a little radio station just outside the Hollywood Hills. WKRN. It broadcasts country music, weather reports, stockyard prices, and local obituaries. Understandably, the owners have been trying to unload it for years. It could be yours for a million.”

  “What would I want with a money pit?”

  “A money pit? You mean a gold mine! Sister Mary Mabel knows how to fill a collection plate. Imagine if that collection plate was passed throughout the greater Los Angeles area. Sister will star in a range of new programs. Breakfast sermonettes, lunchtime prayers for the sick, and on-air supper calls from the healed. The station will also feature hourly pitches for Sister’s Charity of the Week.”

  Floyd’s mouth watered. “One problem. I don’t have a million in seed money.”

  “But I do.” The Baroness beamed. “Wells Fargo will loan the money. A small portion of my jewels will serve as collateral. The repayment of principal and interest will be your responsibility, said costs and other expenditures to be deducted from your donations. You’ll have fun doing the books.” They shared a smile. “Incidentally,” she added, “as silent partner, I shall receive 50 percent of the gross.”

  “The net.”

  “If you insist. Providing we use my accountant.”

  Floyd licked his chops. A 50/50 split. Not bad. In theory, he had the added cost of Doyle’s 15 percent, the payoff for the Metrotone newsreel. In practice, he hadn’t paid the kid a cent, and wasn’t about to start. The reporter had asked for payments every six months, but events had outpaced expectations; Hearst had handed him a syndicated column and cash for his mother. If Doyle tried to play hardball now, Floyd would rat him out as a two-bit extortionist.

  So … Holy Redemption Ministries would enjoy its full 50 percent of the pie. And what a pie it promised to be. As the Good Book said: “To them that have shall be given.” Say what one might, the Lord was no Communist.

  Floyd raised his glass. “Here’s to the deal.”

  “You men are always in a hurry,” the Baroness purred. “WKRN is only the beginning. The promotional tool to launch the deal of the century!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dear friend,” — she placed her hand on her bosom — “I refer to the greatest sensation to hit Los Angeles since the quake. The Heavenly Dwellings!” Miss Bentwhistle proceeded to sketch her vision on the back of a napkin. “The Heavenly Dwellings will be a complex of apartment buildings extending from a central Prayer Tower, a.k.a., the WKRN transmitter. Purchasers may buy permanent residence, or a week of recreational access per year.”

  As with the radio station, Wells Fargo would loan the money, the Bentwhistle jewels serving as collateral, and the ministry would repay principal and interest. The wrinkle? The ministry and the Baroness would hold joint title on the complex in trust for their purchasers, the Heavenly Dwellers.

  “The faithful will be attracted by their access to Sister Mary Mabel,” the Baroness enthused. “Our little star will take her radio microphone outside at noon each day for a live laying-on of hands at the Prayer Tower. Now there’s a show worth a listen!”

  The Dwellings would also be marketed to spiritually minded organizations. Churches could buy apartments as retreats for their ministers, deacons, and parishioners. National service groups could underwrite whole blocks in exchange for promotional considerations broadcast on Sister’s Charity of the Week.

  Best of all, units would be sold for less than market value, even though 60 percent of all payments would be skimmed by the ministry and Baroness “in consideration of professional services rendered.” This financing would be possible thanks to the miracle of ever-expanding markets. As the Baroness explained it, down payments on apartment two would help to build apartment one; down payments on apartments three and four would help to build apartment two; and so forth.

  “Sounds like a Ponzi scheme,” said Floyd.

  The Baroness brushed the air with her hand. “Capitalism is a Ponzi scheme. Boom and bust, boom and bust. Has the Depression taught you nothing?”

  “Yeah. The bust part. What happens when we go belly up?”

  “Don’t be absurd. We’re not selling a South Seas Bubble. We’re selling L.A. real estate. Location, location, location. And our location will be next to God’s heart. Not to mention a hop, skip, and a jump to the ocean. Besides, Sister will attract the hopelessly infirm. God willing, they’ll drop dead before they hit the beach, leaving us their deposits and a mention in their wills.”

  “What if they all survive?”

  “In that unfortunate event, we make the Dwellings our permanent Charity of the Week. I can see the billboards. ‘Suffer the little children,’ saith the Lord. Support a Heavenly Dwelling for the sad little ragamuffins of skid row.’ Or, if you prefer, ‘Pity the sick and dying. Give them a Heavenly Dwelling till Jesus calls them home.’ As a bonus incentive, we’ll promise a lobby display of donors’ names engraved on marble scrolls headed The Heavenly Angels. Depending on the size of their contributions, we’ll list them as Archangels, Cherubs, or Members of the Choir.’”

  Floyd grinned. “Who’d have thought a Baroness could be so crafty.”

  “Nothing to it,” Miss Bentwhistle demurred. “After all, I’ve run a girls’ school.”

  Outside, Hearst’s private bus drove up. Mary Mabel had returned from sightseeing. Cruickshank went out to greet her.

  Miss Bentwhistle gritted her teeth. She’d won over the producer, but Mary Mabel would be a harder sell.
As the girl approached the trailer, she prepared to swallow her pride. Miss Bentwhistle hated eating crow. However, eating crow was better than eating dirt.

  Partners

  Mary Mabel was flabbergasted at the sight of Miss Bentwhistle. Moreso when she discovered her old headmistress was posing as a monied baroness. “You don’t have millions in jewels!”

  “I certainly do, my dear. Ask anyone.”

  “‘Anyone’ can be deceived.”

  “People who live in glass houses,” Miss Bentwhistle replied.

  Floyd interrupted to say that the Baroness had come with an interesting proposal.

  “She can leave with it, too,” Mary Mabel said. “Use me once, shame on you; use me twice, shame on me.”

  To Mary Mabel’s astonishment, Miss Bentwhistle fell on her knees. “You are right, my dear. I have sinned against you. Grievously. Pray, forgive my temper. Forgive my abuses. They are but several of my many transgressions. It is difficult at my age to try and set right a lifetime of wrongdoing, but with your help I should like to try.”

  The sight of Miss Bentwhistle on the floor was embarrassing. She was much easier to deal with when she was ornery. Mary Mabel helped her back into her chair with misgiving.

  “Thank you, my lamb,” the Baroness said and pulled her hankie from her sleeve. “Admitting the truth is a frightening but necessary step on the road to salvation. As I have described to Mr. Cruickshank, the destruction of the Academy was my wakeup call. I had given it my soul, trampling on anyone and everyone to ensure its success. God took it from me that I might see the wretched hollowness of my life. I did. And was ashamed. Fortunately, as the Reverend Mandible likes to say, ‘The good Lord never closes one door without opening another.’ In the midst of my desolation, I discovered that I had inherited the family barony and the jewels that go with it. Like Saul at Damascus, I resolved to be reborn, resurrected into a life of good works. I have so admired how you have overcome adversity, my dear; adversity in which I, alas, have played no small part. I decided to come to you with my good fortune, not only to seek forgiveness and to make amends, but in the hope that I might contribute to the happiness you bring to others.”

  At this point, Miss Bentwhistle was overcome. She blew her nose and motioned for Floyd to outline her proposal.

  He explained that the Baroness had offered to provide the collateral for the ministry to buy a radio station. It would broadcast Mary Mabel’s message of hope across the state. Across the country, if it blossomed into a network. Moreover, the Bentwhistle jewels would secure a loan to enable the construction of “a city of God on earth — the Heavenly Dwellings,” a set of charitable and low-income apartment blocks designed for the sick, the destitute, and the dying.

  Reaching into homes to offer comfort to shut-ins, putting her name to the service of homes and retreats for the poor — the possibilities made Mary Mabel’s head swim. But no sooner was she prepared to accept Miss Bentwhistle’s charity, than her pride rose up, telling her to stay clear of the dragon at all costs.

  How cruel, Mary Mabel reproached herself. Miss Bentwhistle has humbled herself to me and begged to change her life. Why should I do anything but rejoice?

  Pride said that a snake could change its skin, but it was still a snake. Didn’t Mary Mabel think her confession was a mite rich?

  It’s her manner, she answered back. Besides, what about forgiveness? What about turning the other cheek? It’s what Mama would do.

  Pride answered that if her mama hadn’t been so forgiving she might have left her papa and had a decent life. There’s turning the other cheek, and then there’s being plain stupid. What proof did she have that Miss Bentwhistle was even a baroness?

  Well, Mary Mabel thought, I’ve seen her Coat of Arms and Family Tree often enough. They hung in the Academy’s dining hall for years. If Miss Bentwhistle’s descended from a baron, she might well have inherited the title. The banks and everyone else in town believe so. Am I smarter than the world? Down, Pride, down! I only have to look in the mirror to know that anything’s possible.

  Pride kept Mary Mabel’s stomach in knots, but it wasn’t going to make her deny the needy out of spite.

  “I’m sorry for being so harsh,” she said to Miss Bentwhistle. “Life takes us on such curious journeys. I’m glad we have the opportunity to put away a difficult past. Working on a radio station and building projects for the poor would be an honour. I thank you for the opportunity. I know my mama thanks you, too.”

  “God bless you,” Miss Bentwhistle wept. “And God bless your mama.”

  And so it came to pass that within days the Miracle Maid was sitting behind the microphone of Holy Redemption’s WKRN: “This is Sister Mary Mabel McTavish, Helping Heaven Help You.” The response was so positive that Floyd was soon making down payments on stations in the Midwest. It seemed proof to Mary Mabel that the collaboration with her enemy had been ordained. Her mama must be smiling.

  Over the next months, Mary Mabel’s schedule was gruelling. As well as the radio shows, she appeared at the Hollywood Bowl and the Los Angeles Coliseum. Floyd said it was important for her to stay in touch with her public, and that the publicity from these services would benefit the start-up of their emerging network.

  There was no question that they got publicity. Owing to the size of the venues, Floyd invested considerable time and money on production values. Once he had Mary Mabel roar up the aisle dressed as a cop on a motorcycle, siren roaring. She was joined by what seemed like the entire L.A.P.D. The gimmick was that she’d arrived to arrest sin. It made for great front-page photographs.

  Mostly though, Floyd filled the stage with animals. He got them from the McConaghie Family Circus and Petting Zoo. The McConaghies had spent their lives touring county fairs throughout California. Most of their animals had been caught in the hills and desert around Los Angeles: mountain lions, coyotes, bobcats, elk, turkey vultures, prairie dogs, and assorted lizards, snakes, and barnyard animals. They also had alligators, crocodiles, an old blind camel, a white horse painted with black stripes to look like a zebra, and a dead elephant stuffed with hay which they propped in a cage, its trunk in a tub of water.

  The McConaghie Family Circus had featured human acts, as well. The McConaghie boys had dressed like Tarzan and wrestled the crocodiles: The crocodiles were drugged; so were the boys. Little Belinda McConaghie, the youngest, wanted to be a ballet dancer, so her dad had put her in a tutu and stuck her on the high wire; she fell off so often that the routine turned into a trampoline act. For their part, Mr. and Mrs. McConaghie had performed on the trapeze. People flocked to see their midair collisions. Also to see Mr. McConaghie end the show by being shot out of a cannon.

  By the time Floyd found them, The McConaghie Family Circus was a more-or-less stationary attraction, set up by the roadside in what might best be described as a one-family trailer park. The boys, tubby fifty-year-olds, still wrestled the crocodiles. The crocs were now embalmed, but visitors didn’t care; it was scary enough seeing the brothers in their loincloths. Meanwhile, baby Belinda had given up the trampoline for fortune-telling, Mrs. McConachie sold lemonade and stale Crackerjack off a beat-up card table, and Mr. McConachie sat on his rocker swatting away flies.

  Mr. McConachie was surprised that Floyd wanted to rent his sheep. “They’re cute, but stupid as shit.” That was fine as far as Floyd were concerned. They just had to stand still, while Mary Mabel entered the stage carrying the littlest. “Hello,” she’d say to the kids in the audience. “I’m Sister Mary Mabel and this is Sally. She’s the little lamb that lost her way; the little lost lamb that went astray.” The kids would giggle. “Would any of you like to come up and pet little Sally?” Squeals of delight.

  The mountain lions were even more of a sensation. They appeared in a sermon called, “Dare to Be a Daniel,” based on the story of Daniel in the lions’ den. “Would you like to come up and pet the lions?” A surprising number of parents were eager to have their children cuddle predators. Fortunately, the
McConachie lions were senile, toothless, and doped to the gills. In fact, Mary Mabel had seen livelier rugs.

  Despite all the work, she had some wonderful getaways. Hearst invited her and her partners to various parties at San Simeon. It was tricky getting away, but Hearst was sensitive to refusals, so when possible, Sister’s appearance schedule would be rearranged and she’d make an audio recording for WKRN to play in her absence.

  Doyle was a little jealous of Hearst’s invitations. He told Mary Mabel it was because he missed her company, but she suspected it was really because he was dying to go himself. An invitation to a Hearst party meant you were a star. She dropped a few hints in Hearst’s ear about what great company Doyle was, and hoped for the best.

  But even if Doyle missed Mary Mabel when she was in San Simeon, he was at all her public appearances. She said that for a non-believer like him her shows must be torture. He joked that the real reason he came was in hopes of seeing a lion eat one of the kids. She smiled. Despite his tough guy routine, he loved the little moppets.

  Usually he brought his mother. He said the fresh air was good for her. Mary Mabel liked Ma Rinker a lot. After the show, Ma would invite her back to her new home for cookies and cocoa. Scrapbooks of Sister’s adventures were prominently displayed on the coffee table. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she displayed scrapbooks of her son’s accounts of Sister’s adventures. Her eyes beamed with pride whenever he was in the room.

  “K.O. tells me you’re very kind,” Ma confided one day when he’d stepped out on an errand. “He likes you.”

  “I like him, too,” Mary Mabel said.

  “Good.” Ma smiled knowingly.

  “I like him as a friend, Mrs. Rinker. That’s all.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Doyle and his mother had chosen a tiny bungalow in Pasadena. Neither of them could stand Los Angeles. They thought it was a contradiction in terms: a city of angels without souls. Pasadena on the other hand was small and neighbourly, with orange groves and mountains and fresh air. “Not too big to get lost in, and not so small that you feel alone,” is how Ma Rinker put it. There was a hospital nearby that could handle emergencies, and Doyle’s drive to work was a country breeze.