The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

by Allan Stratton

  “Cat got your tongue? I was hopin’ to cut it out. Screamin’ don’t sound human without a tongue. Sounds more like cows. Hey, there’s a thought. Body parts. I can pickle your organs and sell ’em to the ministry. I hear there’s a market for relics.”

  “You’re the Devil incarnate.”

  “Yup.”

  There was only one way to escape.

  Mary Mabel raised her knees and jammed her feet hard on the accelerator. The car revved forward. Skinner kicked at her legs. She kept them rigid.

  Struggling for control, he held the wheel with his left hand, grabbed her hair with his right, and snapped her out of her seat. She twisted her head and bit into his wrist. He slammed her cheek on the dash. She sunk her teeth deeper.

  Then she grabbed for the clutch. The gears shredded. The limo spun like a top. The rear swung into a guard rail. The trunk buckled. The lid popped open. The bodies of two police officers bounced onto the road as the limo careened forward.

  She jammed the accelerator again. The limo veered onto gravel, swerved across the pavement, hit a second rail, missed a bend, and smashed headlong into a pile of rocks.

  Skinner flew through the windshield. She didn’t see where he landed. She was too busy running in the opposite direction.

  The Cat’s Meow

  Slick shook himself out and limped back to the car. Mary Mabel had vanished. He’d better do the same before anyone saw the wreck, not to mention the dead cops. He retrieved his shotgun and jerked his way to the guard rail.

  The city spread out below, a pan of twinkling lights. Slick experienced a moment of vertigo and pain, then adrenaline took over. Descending the steep incline on a zig-zag, he skittered past brush and boulders, periodically hopping across the gaps in eroded ledges. Things were going well until he hit a patch of dry clay. It crumbled under his feet.

  Suddenly, Slick found himself on his ass, tumbling straight down. A scrub tree on a narrow footpath stopped his fall. The trunk snapped. So did his back. His rifle flew out of his hands and clattered away. Silence.

  Slick was relieved to be alive, until he realized he couldn’t feel anything below the waist. Still, no time for self pity. He had a hunter’s instinct. And that instinct told him he was being watched. By whom? Mary Mabel? McTavish’s friends? The cops? Passersby? All he knew for sure was that he was exposed.

  A few yards away, the foot path widened into a small plateau covered in brush. Perfect camouflage. He dragged himself over and paused. He was still being watched.

  Slick determined not to panic. He pulled himself another three yards. He tried to pull himself further, but encountered a peculiar resistance. It fact, it was more than resistance. He was being pulled backwards. Perplexed, Slick looked over his shoulder. He froze. A mountain lion had his knee in its mouth.

  Slick would have screamed, but the cat leapt on his ribcage, driving the air from his lungs. It stretched itself luxuriously along his back, its front paws crimping his shoulders, its hind legs braced in the dirt on either side of his thighs. It nuzzled his neck. Licked its hot, wet tongue over his cheek and ears. Slick had the unsettling sensation the beast was aroused. Dammit, he thought, I’m about to get buggered!

  He wriggled onto his back. “Get yer goddamn paws off me!” he wheezed and landed an uppercut to the lion’s chops.

  The lion was delighted to find its toy so playful. It reared up and gave Slick a love tap across the stomach. That, Slick could feel. He scrabbled backwards fifteen feet on his elbows. The cat didn’t move. Slick was flushed with pride. He’d shown the critter who was boss. He confidently retreated another five feet. And another five feet.

  It was then that he noticed a peculiar grey rope glistening in the moonlight. The rope ran in a straight line between himself and the lion. In horror, Slick understood why the cat wasn’t moving. Its front paws were firmly planted on the end of his large intestine. As he’d retreated, his insides had been unravelling. The lion sucked them back like a string of spaghetti.

  As the beast eyed his liver, Slick sighed. It was all over but the dung beetles.

  Truth and Consequences

  The discovery of a second trashed limo belonging to the Baroness of Bentwhistle set off a sensation. The fingerprints in the trunk matched the bodies of the dead cops on Mulholland Drive; the same cops who were missing from the cruiser by the site where the Santa Fe express had collided with that pair of rutting hoboes. There was little physical evidence to identify the tramps, aside from some skid marks and miscellaneous flesh. However, when investigators found a set of dentures inscribed with the Baroness Bentwhistle’s name, the tabloids had a field day.

  The limo yielded two other sets of unexpected prints:

  One was traced to a skeleton found a hundred yards downhill from the car; forensics made the identification based on a partial thumb print. This print matched that of a Mr. Slick Skinner, a Canadian businessman lately released from Bellevue. When his wife was contacted, the phone line crackled with whoops of glee.

  The second set of prints, tragically, belonged to Sister Mary Mabel McTavish. Police also found a bow from her Match Girl costume, which had snagged on the limo’s clutch.

  The discovery of Mary Mabel’s prints established conclusively that Brother Percy Brubacher hadn’t murdered the evangelist. Not only were his prints nowhere to be found, but he’d been incarcerated before the replacement limo had even been bought. In any event, police had been growing suspicious of his confession. Brubacher had given them a dozen false leads regarding the whereabouts of the murder weapon, and he barely had the mechanical smarts to flip a light switch much less operate a wood chipper.

  Brother Percy was furious to have his guilt challenged. This was another example of the conspiracy to deny him his place in history. Fortunately for Percy, the public didn’t care about the truth. With his wild eyes and mangled jaw, he made a perfect villain. His face became a popular Halloween mask, and at Fourth of July fireworks “The Little Red Schoolhouse” became “Percy’s Little Red Chapel.” A lawyer for the state also licensed his name for use in Hollywood shorts, the most famous of which was Hell’s Bells starring the Three Stooges. In this flick, a look-alike Brother Percy chases the Stooges through a haunted house while hammers and cement blocks are bounced off his head.

  Alas, fame didn’t bring happiness. Brother Percy was plagued by nightmares about the wood chipper and hellfire. Claiming that Satan was a fly who’d betrayed him, he begged God’s forgiveness and swallowed a bottle of insect repellent.

  He was much happier after the lobotomy. He’d sit quietly in a corner of the ward, blessing the white-robed angels who brought him meals and pills, and nodding his head in time to the beautiful piped music. Percy had secretly feared that Heaven would be filled with cherubs singing hymns with little soprano voices and harps. What a pleasant surprise that God preferred recordings of Cole Porter.

  Meanwhile at the Heavenly Dwellings, Floyd had assumed that Miss Pigeon’s hysteria was connected to the death of her old friend. However, when Wells Fargo announced that it would search for the baroness’s will in the strongbox containing her jewels, she came to him and confessed. The collateral for his Ponzi empire was two hundred pounds of bricks and a handful of pennies and pins.

  “What should I do?” Miss Pigeon wept.

  “You should pray, Dolly,” Floyd said, as he stuffed an overnight bag. “You should pray very, very hard.”

  Miss Pigeon’s prayers were soon answered. She escaped the cage by singing like a canary. She knew nothing about Doyle, but her full-throated warbling on the subject of Hollywood parties made an instant bestseller of her subsequent autobiography, Baptist in Babylon.

  The F.B.I., in concert with the R.C.M.P., followed up on Miss Pigeon’s remark that Floyd liked to stay at the Twins Bed & Breakfast in London, Ontario.

  The Twins entertained the detectives over homemade rhubarb pie and tea.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Cruickshank stayed with us frequently over the years,” sniffed Miss
Millie, “but he was a no-account scoundrel who never paid his bills.”

  “He took advantage of poor spinster girls,” Miss Tillie confided.

  “That he did,” Miss Millie agreed. “So, when he showed up on our doorstep a few nights back, we sent him on his way for good.”

  The detectives nodded sympathetically. “Any idea where he is now?”

  “Hell,” said Miss Millie.

  “At least we hope so,” her sister added.

  The detectives accepted a second piece of pie and a tour of the garden. “Good luck with that new rose patch.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Millie. “We were up all night digging.”

  “Oh yes.” Miss Tillie beamed. “And laying in the fertilizer.”

  Several years later, the Twins’ rose patch spawned a prize-winning cultivar. They dubbed it “The Floyd.”

  “It’s a rambler,” Miss Tillie told the press. “If it tries to take over your garden, just take a good stiff shovel to it.”

  • • • •

  While much was unknown, this much was clear: Sister Mary Mabel McTavish had undoubtedly met a terrible end. Police believed her body was probably buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the vicinity of Barclay Side Road or the Hollywood Hills. Whether it would ever be found would depend on luck: a sickening discovery by bird watchers, hikers, or area wildlife.

  There was national mourning. Sensing the mood of its readers, the press syndicates devoted special sections to the Miracle Maid, so tragically taken in the prime of her youth. Sins of the Holy Redemption Ministry were laid at the feet of “financial advisors who abused an innocent’s trust.” None were foolish enough to question the public myth-making.

  What with the general bloodfest, Hearst’s plans for a musical biopic seemed somewhat tasteless. The project was shelved. This was a killer as Gable was signed to play the reporter. With typical Hollywood “can-do,” however, screenwriters rewrote the vehicle as a comedy about a showgirl and a boxer called Cain and Mabel. It was the second-last film of Miss Davies’s career.

  Doyle didn’t care about the hoopla. He was off the beat, numb with grief. In this, nothing upset him more than his mother’s good intentions. She was a believer in things turning out for the best, even though experience proved the opposite.

  “They haven’t found the body,” she’d say.

  “They haven’t found God, either,” he’d reply.

  One day she went too far. He’d stepped out to get them groceries. When he got back, she was at the door without her walker.

  “K.O.,” she exclaimed, “I’ve just received a message from Mary Mabel. She wants me to tell you she’s fine.”

  “Please, Ma.” There were lots of these kind of reports circulating in the papers and on the radio. Supernatural visitations and dreams in which Sister would comfort the bereaved. Surely his mother had better sense than to give in to mass hypnosis.

  “I’ve seen her, too,” she said, trembling. “Wearing her Match Girl outfit. Oh, and smiling. Radiant as an angel.”

  This is it, he thought. It’s time for the home.

  “I can tell you don’t believe me,” she scolded. “Here. See for yourself.”

  She handed him the photograph and letter that had come with the morning mail.

  Dear Mrs. Rinker,

  Please give this to K.O. so he won’t worry.

  Yours,

  Mary Mabel

  Dear K.O.,

  Sorry it’s taken so long to get in touch. I’ve had my reasons. Don’t ask. Just know I’m fine.

  I send this in care of your mother in case anyone screens your mail. I plan to stay dead. Please don’t betray my trust. I know you won’t. If you think hard, you’ll know where to find me.

  All my love,

  M.M.

  Home

  After the car wreck, Mary Mabel had headed back to the camp. She knew Skinner wouldn’t be near the place. Too many cops.

  It took her three hours on foot. By the time she got to Barclay Side Road, there were barricades. There was also a crowd of gawkers, watching the ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks come and go. She made a wide detour above the tracks, figuring the authorities would still be dealing with the crime scenes.

  She was right. The camp was untouched. She bobbed her hair with a rusty scissors and changed into the smallest set of clothes hanging on the lean-tos; Brewster’d said they belonged to a Comrade Duddy. If she was going to hit the rails on her own, she figured she’d better do it dressed as a man.

  After she’d changed, she packed some cans of food and a can opener in Duddy’s satchel. She also packed her Match Girl outfit which she’d been wearing since San Simeon; it was pretty high, but she thought that someday she’d like a souvenir. Finally, she took the money stash hidden inside the junked car seat by the compost; she’d seen Brewster dip into it before heading out for groceries and whiskey; better to take it than leave it to rot, she figured.

  Mary Mabel hoisted her new belongings and walked along the track away from the accident. At length, she reached a trestle bridge, where she waited till the trains were back in operation, and hopped the first one east. She had no clear idea of where she wanted to go, so she let the rails decide for her, swapping flatcars as the mood struck. Some nights she’d camp out in the middle of nowhere, and bathe in a stream if there was one handy. Other times, she’d curl up and fall asleep to the rhythmic clickety-clack of the track.

  After about a week, she started to overhear tramps discussing reports of her death. They mourned openly. It was humbling and liberating. A good time to stare at the stars and to think.

  Why did Mama set me on this journey? she wondered. At first the answer seemed obvious. If she’d refused the call, Timmy Beeford would be dead. Or would he? Perhaps someone else would have laid on hands. Who can tell about anything? She remembered how Miss Bentwhistle had demanded that she deny her mama’s miracle or be put on the street. She’d refused and ended up a star.

  Gosh, she thought, am I just a bubble of happenstance?

  No sooner had the idea occurred than she had a vision. Not of paradise and angels, but of a place she had to go for her journey to be complete.

  It took her a week to ride into Canada, and another few weeks to get east. In Winnipeg, she stopped to buy a dress. From there, she went by bus to Cedar Bend. The buildings stood where they’d always stood, but something was different. When she’d been little, the town’s focus had been the mill. Now it was the tourist sites commemorating the early life of Sister Mary Mabel McTavish.

  She walked up and down Main Street, sticking her head into stores to see if she’d be recognized. If so, better to know now than to be surprised later.

  The stores were empty. She found the owners at the barber shop. When she walked in, the men froze. At first she thought it was because they knew her, but it was because she was a woman. She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course no one recognized her. The camera plays tricks. More important, Mary Mabel was dead.

  “What can I do you for?” asked the barber.

  “My name’s Ruth Kincaid,” she said, pressing her luck. “I’m looking for a Mr. Jimmy McRay.”

  The room paused. “We used to have a Ruth Kincaid McTavish in town,” the barber squinted. “She was the mother of our Mary Mabel. Might you by any chance be a relative? You bear a slight resemblance.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mary Mabel was a distant cousin,” she said. “We didn’t have much in common, but I knew her a little.”

  “Dying so young, it’s such a tragedy. But she’ll be remembered, oh yes, long after we’re gone.”

  The room nodded solemnly.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the touch, would you?” asked a man with an overbite. “You know, being a relative and all?”

  “I thought I did, once upon a time. But I’m no Mary Mabel McTavish.”

  The man nodded. “She was one of a kind, poor thing.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then the barber said, “Now ab
out Jimmy …”

  Mr. McRay was on the porch, as if expecting her arrival. He knew her at once. “I figured you’d be by sooner or later; I never do trust the papers.” He smiled. “That reporter fella passed on the photo of you and your mama, eh? I was hoping he might. How long you planning to stay?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Mr. McRay said he’d love to give her his spare room, but it wouldn’t be proper. However, his daughter, Iris, lived just a few blocks over. She’d never married. “Iris was the bosom friend of your mama. She’ll make you welcome.”

  “Thank you. But please, Mr. McRay, no one can know it’s me.”

  “I understand.”

  They walked to the cemetery, and he showed her where her mama was laid to rest. There was a white marble stone that read:

  HERE LIES RUTH KINCAID MCTAVISH

  1903–1922

  LOVING MOTHER OF MARY MABEL MCTAVISH

  “IN OUR HEARTS AND MINDS FOREVER”

  “Your papa didn’t have much time for markers. But thanks to you being so famous, town council put up this memorial. It’s in the visitors’ guide.” McRay pointed to his wife’s grave. “If you need me, I’ll be just over there with Gracie.”

  Mary Mabel nodded thanks. She sat on the ground and closed her eyes. There was a light breeze. She smiled.

  She stayed with Iris and got a job looking after the library. Town council voted her a stipend and looked after room and board. It was a mess; the last librarian had had glaucoma so bad he couldn’t see to sort the books. But in short order, she put things to rights, and more and more people began to drop in. She set up a children’s book club for Saturday mornings, and taught adults to read in her spare time.

  Naturally, word got around that she was a shirt-tail cousin of Mary Mabel. Every so often, townsfolk and tourists would come by to tell her a tale about her famous relative, one that she mightn’t have heard. She got to love hearing these stories. In the end, legends about Mary Mabel McTavish were no different than legends about Robin Hood or Pocahontas. They had their own truth, even if it was a truth that never happened.