The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (10 page)

Lights, Camera, Action

A
t
three on the dot, Doyle and his crew squealed up to the curb in a pair of rented jalopies. The boys, fresh from a Grand Trunk bar car, were ripe as roadkill. Hauling equipment over shoulders and under arms, they trampled through the garden, dripping sweat, waving off flies, and cursing a blue streak.

The Twins, waiting on the verandah with Floyd, pretended not to notice. “Back for that piece of rhubarb pie?” Miss Millie flirted. She gave her parasol a provocative spin.

“As a matter of fact, I’m back for a piece of that Mary Mabel McTavish,” replied Doyle.

The crew laughed.

“I must have gone deaf,” Miss Tillie bristled. “Did you say something funny?”

The boys stared sheepishly at their shoes.

“Sister’s in the west-wing conservatory,” Floyd intervened.

Mary Mabel, who’d been watching through a tear in the parlour curtains, scampered down the hall and hid behind a jungle of potted palms, the better to make an entrance. Not a moment too soon. She’d barely had time to pinch her cheeks than Doyle was at the portal.

“Holy Hannah!” he blurted.

Indeed, the Twins’ conservatory would knock anyone’s socks off. An airy room with pretensions to match, it had windows and French doors on three sides; a grand piano, legs modestly clothed in lace pantalets; a large wicker birdcage, vacant since Polly Parrot fell afoul of their father’s cane; and a clutch of extravagant wing chairs. The chairs were arranged in conversation nooks separated by a robust array of ferns that burst from iron pots and ceramic urns sporting Japanese motifs as imagined by Victorian decorators. Like the rest of the house, the conservatory had seen better days — several panes in a panel of small bevelled windows had been replaced with sawed boards wedged tight by strips of folded cardboard — but it was nonetheless impressive, a Dowager Duchess so grand no one would dare to remark on the runs in her stockings.

“This’ll make one helluva backdrop!” Doyle whistled. “So where’s the skirt?”

Mary Mabel let forth a ripple of laughter and emerged from the greenery, imagining herself Florence Nightingale bringing good cheer to the Crimea. “No need to be coarse, Mr. Doyle,” she teased. She strode across the room with a confidence surprising even to herself, and shook him by the hand. Doyle was struck dumb.

Mary Mable tried not to giggle. Floyd had warned her that he was a bad apple, but up close, he appeared no more fearsome than a lamb. To be sure, his cowlick defied brilliantine, and his collar could do with a scrub, but wicked? Hardly. Without suspenders his pants would fall down.

She saw him gawk at her bosom. “Have I spilled something?”

“Not at all,” Doyle sputtered. “Let me introduce my colleagues.”

Mary Mabel nodded to each in turn, astonished to find that Miss Millie had been right. None of them could look her in the eye, each as awkward as the boys bused in to squire Miss Bentwhistle’s debutantes at Academy formals. Might they actually consider her attractive? The idea made her palms sweat. She hoped no one noticed, especially Doyle, whom she was finding more alluring by the minute.

Luckily, observing Miss Bentwhistle’s young ladies had taught Mary Mabel the perils of infatuation: the most one can expect from young men are lies and bad poetry. She imagined herself the iron matron in one of her Rebecca Ramsay nurse novels. “I understand I’m to answer a few questions, Mr. Doyle,” she said. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

“You bet.” He cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles, and ordered the crew to secure their camera to a dolly at the entrance to the conservatory and to create a makeshift stage by the palms.

“Right away, Mr. DeMille,” the crew chief clicked his heels.

Doyle motioned her to a pair of wing chairs near the baby grand. “I’d like to have a private word,” he said, with a sharp look at Floyd, hunched on the adjacent piano bench perusing sheet music with the ever solicitous twins.

“I’ve a duty to protect Sister’s interests,” Floyd objected.

“Come now, I can protect myself,” Mary Mabel said. Scowling, Floyd relocated to the birdcage at the far side of the room.

Doyle glanced at the Twins. “Don’t worry about us,” Miss Millie sang. “The kitchen beckons!” She took her sister’s arm and away they sailed.

“Alone at last.” Doyle smiled.

Mary Mabel blushed. “I’m supposed to be afraid of you.”

“Is that a fact?”

“They say you’re a ruthless so-and-so. Still, I don’t believe everything I hear.” She’d intended to be charming, but he wasn’t amused.

“Your preacher pal’s been telling me a story about you resurrecting some kid,” he said. “No disrespect, but I’ve a nose for liars.”

“I’ll thank you to speak well of Mr. Cruickshank. He rescued me from the streets.”

“No doubt. But he’s still a preacher. A snake-oil salesmen touting God as the ultimate elixir.”

Mary Mabel paused. “You’re trying to get me angry, aren’t you? You think if I’m mad enough, I’ll say something I shouldn’t, and you’ll have a better story.”

“I just want the truth. See, I don’t take to supernatural hocus-pocus. Only fools believe in things they can’t see. Are you a fool?”

“No,” she said. “And neither are you. You believe in Mr. Hearst, but I’ll bet you’ve never seen him.”

“I don’t need to see him. He’s given me a job.”

“Well I’ve been given a job, too.”

“So I see. A mission from God.”

“I never said that.”

“If not a mission from God, then whom? Let’s talk straight. This ‘heaven-sent’ miracle stands to make you a bundle.”

She wanted to say that she’d starve before breaking faith with her mama — but if Doyle mocked God, what would he say about
her
? “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she answered calmly, “but if you only believe what you see with your eyes, you’re blind to life.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes. You can see pain and suffering — who can’t? — but you’ll never see the magic of hope. The mystery of grace. Given the horrors of this world, the real miracle isn’t that I raised a boy from the dead. It’s that people like you can get out of bed in the morning.”

“You think I’m in need of pity?”

“Most folks are. Human beings suffer so much, they’re afraid to dream.”

“I’ve no need for dreams.”

“But you’re not a human being. You’re a reporter.”

“True enough,” he laughed. “And I have eyes.” He shook a playful fist at the ceiling. “‘Curse you Billy Bounder!’ Sorry, Sister, the gig’s up.”

Mary Mabel choked. “About last night …”

“Relax. The Chief wants a story. I’m game. Just wanted you to know I’m not one of your suckers.”

“We’re ready,” called the crew chief.

Doyle swept his arm toward the stage, an improvised dais of milk crates, masked by coleus and angel wings. “It’s magic time. The camera will dolly up. I’ll ask a few questions. You’ll answer.”

She wanted to cry. Who did he think he was? Why should she care what he thought anyway? The fact that she did hurt most of all.

“Quiet on the set,” Doyle barked. “Roll ’em. And — action!”

The camera wheeled forward.

“What is your name?”

She stared straight at the lens. “My name is Mary Mabel McTavish.”

“Did you raise the dead?”

She felt the sting in the voice. No sound now but the camera’s whir. She was alone, naked, pinned like a bug. An emptiness opened in the pit of her stomach and grew till it threatened to swallow her whole. Nowhere to run, to hide, save by fleeing the room in tears. What — run and betray her mama?

She took a deep breath — and as she did, she saw stars, felt tingles. A river of warmth coursed up from the tip of her toes to the top of her head, flooding her with power. She was aglow. A Joan of Arc. Did she raise the dead? Her eyes blazed. “Yes!”

Reunions

A
fter
the inquisition, Doyle insisted that Mary Mabel accompany him around town for additional footage. “We need a reunion with the miracle kid.”

Floyd accepted on her behalf.

Fine
, Mary Mabel thought,
but I’ll make his life miserable
. She planned to do it by smiling. It was a trick Clara Brimley used at the Academy when she wanted to drive Miss Budgie crazy. Miss Budgie was Mary Mabel’s favourite teacher, the one who’d stayed after school and listened to her problems and lent her books. Clara didn’t care how nice Miss Budgie was. She chattered away and made faces right in front of her. And no matter what Miss Budgie said, she’d reply, in the sweetest voice, “Dear me,” or, “I’m sorry,” or, “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Conversations had gone like this:

Miss Budgie: Miss Brimley, this is the tenth time I’ve asked you to be quiet!

Clara: Dear me.

Miss Budgie: You’re the most difficult student I’ve ever had.

Clara: I’m sorry.

Miss Budgie: How am I supposed to teach with you carrying on?

Clara: I’m afraid I don’t know.

Miss Budgie tore her hair out, while Clara batted her eyes. There was nothing to do. If she’d sent Clara to the office for saying, “Dear me, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know,” she’d have looked like a hysteric. Which is exactly what she’d become.

With Clara in mind, Mary Mabel sat beside Doyle in the lead jalopy, hands clasped primly on her knees. He asked her about the local landmarks, what she thought of the weather, and who were her favourite movie stars. “Dear me,” she simpered, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know.” But to her dismay, Doyle didn’t get hysterical. He laughed!

Fortunately, she was able to ignore him once they hit the Rutherfords’. Timmy didn’t recognize her. Hardly surprising, he’d been off in a another world. What
was
surprising was that she didn’t recognize
him
. Memory had conjured a child more delicate than the boisterous tyke now picking his nose.

A couple of shots in the spotless front parlour, and Doyle had them headed to other locations. Aunt Grace insisted on coming along to supervise. Throughout the shoot, she hid in the back seat, gnawing her bran muffins. Doyle was pleased for her company; she’d brought along Timmy’s leash. If the kid hadn’t been tied to the nearest tree, who knows what he’d have gotten up to.

“So you’re from Kansas,” Doyle said, as they drove to the cemetery.

“Wichita,” Timmy nodded.

“I’m an American, too.”

“Are you going to take me home?”

“Not today.”

Timmy frowned, then brightened. “My daddy has a gun. We shoot gophers. Daddy says if people come from the bank we’re going to shoot them, too.”

“Your father said no such thing!” Aunt Grace exclaimed.

“Did too. My job is to get them to stand in front of the kitchen window. Daddy says I’m a decoy. When I grow up I’m going to be a soldier.”

“Sounds like fun,” Doyle teased. “Only one problem. Soldiers have girlfriends.”

Timmy made a face.

“It’s true. Soldiers have so many girlfriends, they can’t turn around without bumping into them. Isn’t that right Aunt Grace? Your little Wichita is going to be such a heartbreaker, he’ll be emptying out the convents.”

Timmy’d had enough of girlfriend-talk. “Guess what?” he piped up. “There’s brain-guts on the God tent! Real brain-guts. No kidding. Outside of people’s heads. All stinky and everything.”

C
ome four o’clock, Herr Director had what he needed. He snapped his fingers, declared the shoot wrapped, and bundled Mary Mabel back to the Twins. “Adios, Sister,” he said. “Me and the boys, we’re headin’ back Stateside. You’ll be coast to coast, top of the week.” He wiggled his ears and roared off.

“He’s sweet on you,” Miss Tillie whispered as the dust settled.

“He’s sweet on himself,” Mary Mabel replied.

As for Floyd, he looked like a corpse with a second wind. He slipped off his jacket and vest, loosened his tie and collar, stretched, and collapsed onto the old Muskoka chair on the porch. His wet shirt slapped the wood. “We’re on our way,” he beamed, as the Twins mopped his brow with a pair of tea towels.

The way he said it, to be “on our way” was to be in glory. However Mary Mabel had been on her way with her papa enough times to know that hope usually ends in despair. And if “on our way” meant constantly being insulted by the likes of Mr. Doyle, she’d rather have stayed put. At that very moment, she wanted nothing more than to remain in that yard, a garden so still the only sound was a blue jay ruffling its tail feathers in the birdbath. To be here, now, forever, amid brown-eyed susans, cosmos, and chrysanthemums — that would be happiness enough.

It’s a strange thing, happiness
, Mary Mabel thought.
It sneaks in when you least expect it, filling you up like a helium balloon, flying you high above clouds of doubt; but the tiniest thing, and you’re back in a swamp of worry
. That’s where she was now. After soaring in unaccountable bliss, a troubling question floated through her head and out of her mouth: “Why didn’t Brother Percy get interviewed?”

“We didn’t want to scare anyone,” said Floyd, picking at a paint chip on the armrest.

“I’d quite forgotten about that poor man,” Miss Tillie tutted, “and him all alone in his sick bed. We ought to invite him for supper.”

“Nonsense,” said Floyd. “Brother Percy hates bother.”

“We’re having pot roast. It’d be no bother at all.”

“It would be for him. Nothing but chewing, chewing, and more chewing.”

Miss Tillie’s eyes filled.

“Mr. Cruickshank,” Mary Mabel asked, “is there a reason you want to keep us apart?”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he muttered darkly, and went indoors.

I
n her heart of hearts, Mary Mabel knew the reason. From their first encounter in the trailer-cab, she was certain Brother Percy was deranged. Her opinion was confirmed at supper. The household had just sat down when there was a caterwauling at the front door.

“God spare us,” cried the Twins, clutching their silverware to their bosoms.

Floyd investigated with the carving knife and tongs. Lo and behold, they weren’t beset by thieves and murderers, but by God’s own prophet, squealing like a pig, having sprained his ankle on the doorknob.

“For the love of Christ,” Floyd swore, and slipped outside.

From her post in the parlour, Mary Mabel had a front-row seat to the reunion. Brother Percy flapped his arms so much she thought he’d take flight. With all the wires in his mouth, she didn’t know exactly what he said, but the gist was clear. He’d nabbed Doyle, heading from The Ceeps for the train home, and heard about the newsreel and their new lodgings. What kind of fast one were they trying to pull?

“There’s no ‘fast one,’ Perce. The Yankees ambushed us with their movie cameras. Don’t worry. We sung your praises to the rafters.”

A loud grunt. If Floyd had made him out to be so fine, why hadn’t Mr. Doyle so much as snapped his photograph?

“Have you checked the mirror lately?”

Brother Percy wept. He’d lost his chance to be in the pictures. His first and only chance. He was a nobody; he’d always be a nobody.

“Buck up,” Floyd said. “You’ll be in newsreels galore, once your head’s shrunk. Why, we’re about to embark on the mother of all revivals with the Hearst press in our pocket. You’re going to be famous, Perce! Famous!” Spinning such dreams of tomorrow, he danced his partner down the block and out of sight.

Shortly after, they returned carting Brother Percy’s suitcase. Mary Mabel and the Twins watched as he hobbled up the path, next to lame owing to his altercation with the door.

“Should we offer him one of father’s canes?” asked Miss Tillie.

“Has life taught you nothing?” Miss Millie gasped. “If they have to crawl, you have a better chance to escape.”

Brother Percy tiptoed into the vestibule as if sin was lurking in the pantry. The Twins shook his hand, brought him to the table, and announced that after supper, they’d fix him up with a cot in the laundry room.

“If you wake up feeling peckish,” said Miss Tillie, “you can treat yourself to the pickled preserves next door in the root cellar.”

Percy was asked to say grace. From what they could make out, he began with the Lord’s Prayer, repeating the plea to be delivered from evil; proceeded to the Twenty-third Psalm, stressing how the Lord had prepared a table for him in the presence of his enemies; and concluded with a rousing admonition against the sin of gluttony.

The Twins praised his oratory and passed the platters. Brother Percy was forlorn. Owing to his wired jaw, he could only suck food through a straw.

“Poor thing,” Miss Tillie clucked, and scooted to the kitchen to fetch him “something special,” which turned out to be a thin purée of turnip and cauliflower. “It was a favourite of father’s, after he lost his teeth,” she said.

“Very nutritious,” her sister agreed. “And good for the bowels.”

Of that there was no question. Within minutes, Brother Percy became quite musical. His concert provided the excuse to leave the table. Floyd went to get some fresh air, while the Twins cleared the dishes. Mary Mabel was about to help, when Brother Percy fixed her with a hard look. “Ah af ma eye ah oo,” he whispered.

“Well, take your eye off me or I’ll give it a poke,” she shot back.

He fled the room with a shriek.