The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (23 page)

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M
ary
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.”

A
nd 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.

“Pasadena won’t stay like this forever,” Mary Mabel said.

Doyle shrugged. “Nothing ever does. But it’s here for now and that’s what counts.”

Mary Mabel never offered Ma a laying-on of hands, nor did Ma ever ask for one. Still, when it was time to leave, Ma would hold her hands longer than necessary. Doyle would get annoyed. “Ma, she has to get back for the supper show.”

One evening as he drove Mary Mabel to work he said, “She listens to your programs.”

“That’s nice.”

Doyle didn’t smile. “Yesterday I caught her touching the radio during your healing hour.”

“She says she’s feeling better.”

“She’s gotten out of Buffalo.”

Mary Mabel paused. “K.O., lots of other people are touching their radios and claiming miracles. You write about them.”

“My mother’s not ‘other people.’ She’s sick, not senile. Tell her to knock it off.”

“You tell her.”

“Why me? I’m not the one who claims to have magic fingers.”

The following day they were friends again. Doyle skipped into the station waving an embossed card. “Guess what? I’ll be seeing you at San Simeon this weekend. Mr. Hearst’s invited me and Ma to his costume ball! She’ll be so proud.” He picked Mary Mabel up and twirled her around. She had an itch to tousle his cowlick.

Westward Ho!

W
hile
Mary Mabel was preaching on WKRN, Brother Percy Brubacher was engaged in a national tour of sacrilege. Satan had told him to get out of New York fast; it was only a matter of time before the loony bin realized it had the wrong guy. Percy wondered if he could pick up his stuff at the Belvedere. Satan said, “What, are you nuts?” The money coat enabled him to buy a cheap suitcase, toiletries, nondescript travelling clothes, a new little black book, and a book of bus schedules. A shave and a haircut made him unrecognizable.

Satan had warned him that when the cops wised up they’d be looking for a pattern to his movements, so Percy avoided one. He’d go to the bus station, close his eyes, and randomly point to a destination on the schedule board. The buses were rarely full. Percy would sit alone at the back making graven images of the Fly with toothpicks and chewing gum.

On arrival at each new town, he’d eat a plate of mash, then set off to desecrate the church closest to the terminal. His abominations were non-denominational: he peed in Catholic confessionals, put toads in Episcopal holy water, stole from Presbyterian offering plates, and wrote dirty jokes in Baptist hymnals. Mormons he left alone; they were already a desecration, so what was the point?

In addition to run-of-the-mill sacrilege, Percy determined to violate each of the Ten Commandments. Graven images aside, he’d already worshipped Satan, blasphemed God, stolen church collections, dishonoured his father’s memory, coveted Mary Mabel’s success, borne false witness against her in various rants, and forgotten the Sabbath — indeed, he no longer remembered the days of the week. He was on a roll: eight commandments down, two to go: adultery and murder.

Adultery was hard. The idea of sex was terrifying, much less sex with someone other than himself. Percy decided to start small and work up. He fantasized Floyd with a hooker. It was a revelation. Percy took to self-abuse like a duck to water. Soon his pockets were stuffed with wads of toilet paper and a hip flask of bleach to burn away the germs.

After a month of practice and a severe skin rash, Percy was ready to go for the Scarlet Letter. He asked Satan to take him to a house of ill repute. Satan, who’d appeared as a cab driver, dropped him off at Lucille Stout’s. She was a part-timer who turned tricks whenever her husband Rudy was in the slammer, which was mostly. The minute she unhooked her brassiere, Percy ran screaming into the night.

The next night he returned with a plan. He closed his eyes and pretended he was Floyd. After ten minutes of awkward groping, Percy’s member remained as limp as an overcooked bean. Then Lucille took him in her mouth and Percy had a flash. He wasn’t Floyd;
Lucille
was. Out of the blue he saw stars. Fireworks. His little legume erupted into a prize-winning cucumber.

Percy was confused, troubled by the memories that surfaced of his early days rooming with Floyd. Sleeping in a twin bed in the same room as his partner had been heaven. If Floyd had asked him for a neck rub his world would’ve been complete. Instead, his pal had slipped out to be with landladies and harlots. The waves of hurt, anger, and jealousy had been unbearable — though not as unbearable as Floyd’s suggestion to fold the tent and part company forever, or, more recently, of being jilted for Miss McTavish.

Percy wobbled off Lucille’s verandah consumed with the remaining item on his agenda. Murder. The thought of killing Floyd overwhelmed him with despair. No matter how cruel, Floyd was the closest thing to a friend that Percy’d ever had. Mary Mabel, however, was another kettle of fish. The idea of driving a stake through her heart gave Percy goosebumps.

It wasn’t the first time he’d imagined her dead. Page after page in his little black books had been filled with prayers that she be trampled to death by well-wishers.

Fat chance. Those prayers had gone to God, who’d played him for a sucker. Now he sent his prayers to Satan. Satan encouraged him to take a more active role in the death of his enemy. Her murder would conclude his initiation into the world of darkness. And it would make him famous beyond his wildest dreams.

Percy was delighted by the suggestion. He hopped off Lucille’s verandah and tap-danced down the street.

Next stop, Los Angeles.

F
itz Feeney was the lawyer engaged by Floyd to represent Brother Percy in the wake of the Radio City disturbance. Floyd had hired him because he was cheap and incompetent. With any luck, his former partner would spend the rest of his days confined to a penitentiary or asylum.

Feeney was a good Catholic who spent an hour a day in confession. As a lawyer, he more or less had to. His priest, Father O’Hara, thought Feeney’s biggest sin was continuing to practise law; his stupidity had sent innocent men to Death Row and widows to the poorhouse. O’Hara gave him a plaster statue of St. Jude and insisted he pray to it daily. (The priest made statues of the saints as a hobby. St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, was his favourite. He gave it to shut-ins and the sick. He also presented it at baptisms, since babies invariably turn into sinners.)

Fitz Feeney had prayed diligently to St. Jude re: the Brubacher file. If ever there was a lost cause, the preacher was it. He’d committed his crimes in front of six thousand witnesses, been arrested by the director of the F.B.I., and shipped to Bellevue after disabling five of New York’s finest. According to the shrinks, despite a month of drug and deprivation therapy, his schizophrenia had deepened. Brubacher’s alter ego, “Slick Skinner,” now claimed to own a hunting lodge in Cedar Bend — significantly, the home town of his estranged colleague Miss McTavish. “Skinner” also believed that he shared his cell with a horse. Refusing to answer questions, he bounced off the padded walls hollering, “Ask the mare, ask the mare.”

“I can’t imagine he’s appealing to Mayor LaGuardia,” confided the chief psychiatrist. “It’s no doubt a reference to his mother. ‘Mare’, as in a mama horse, or ‘
mere
’ as in the French.” He tapped his nose. “The mother. It’s always the mother.”

Something troubled Feeney. If his client weren’t crazy, he’d swear he was sane. “What about the mayor of Cedar Bend?” he asked. “Has he been contacted?”

The doctors were horrified. “Never encourage a patient’s delusions. Given half a chance, psychotics will have you believing black is white.”

Much like lawyers and psychiatrists
, thought Feeney. That night, egged on by St. Jude, he placed a Hail Mary phone call to Cedar Bend.

The mayor hesitated when asked about Skinner; since he’d gone hunting, the town’s disappearances had stopped. Nonetheless, he described Slick perfectly and confirmed each of his claims. “Is Slick in trouble?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” Feeney replied. “As a matter of fact, he’s about to come into a fortune.”

T
he next day, Fitz Feeney’s letter on behalf of his client sent shockwaves through the Bellevue Psychiatric Institute, the N.Y.P.D., and city and state bureaucracies. Especially after a new set of fingerprints established that the “Percy Brubacher” incarcerated at Bellevue was not the same Percy Brubacher who’d originally been fingerprinted at the Midtown North Precinct house. Feeney’s letter read as follows:

Dear Sirs:

Respecting the Case of Mr. Slick Skinner:

Whereas Mr. Slick Skinner, a respected Canadian businessman and tourist, was mugged and left for dead in a New York alleyway;

And whereas officers of the New York Police Department did find his body, and did deny him assistance, and did unlawfully confine him, during which confinement he duly was robbed a second time, and beaten beyond recognition by officers of said New York Police Department;

And whereas Mr. Skinner was thereafter illegally committed to the Bellevue Psychiatric Institute, during which detention he was subjected to deprivation, drug, and other psychiatric treatments and therapies against his wishes and in violation of his rights under the constitution of these United States of America and of international jurisprudence;

And inasmuch as I have been retained by said Mr. Skinner to seek punitive damages on his behalf against the aforementioned New York City Police Department and the Bellevue Psychiatric Institute, as well as the City and State governments of New York;

I ask that you or your representatives contact me at your earliest possible convenience, but no later than the close of tomorrow’s business day, failing which I shall be compelled to initiate civil and criminal proceedings against you, and to so advise the press.

Sincerely yours,

Mr. Fitzroy Feeney,

Attorney-at-law

In an out-of-court settlement, Feeney negotiated Slick’s immediate release. Subject to Slick’s silence on all matters relating to the case, charges of assaulting police officers were dropped, and he was awarded $10,000 in cash, less Feeney’s contingency fee. Doctors suggested he might like to spend a day or two under observation till the drugs wore off; he looked a bit jumpy.

Slick wouldn’t hear of it. “Gotta get a move-on. Time’s wastin’ an’ I got things to do.”

Later that afternoon, police made a terse announcement that due to a clerical error Brother Percival Homer Brubacher had been accidentally released from custody. Brubacher was described as armed and dangerous. A nationwide manhunt was underway. Citizens were urged to be vigilant. Citing security concerns, authorities refused to provide further details.

T
he Baroness Bentwhistle always remembered a face. Especially a face that had aimed a shotgun at her head. One week after Slick’s release, her limousine was pulling away from the WKRN radio station when she noticed the hunter peeking out from behind some bushes. She ordered her driver to stop. “Yoo-hoo. Mr. Woodsman,” she called from the window. “Over here.”

Slick stepped awkwardly from his hiding place. He was somewhat confused. Did he know this woman?

“Still looking for Mr. McTavish?” the Baroness inquired sweetly.

Slick had a flash of the laundry basket. “What’re you doing here?”

“Oh, this and that. About your friend, McTavish, he hasn’t shown up yet, but I suspect he will. I’m guessing we have similar dreams for his future. Give me a number where you can be reached. The moment I see him, I’ll let you know.”

Slick obliged. Since his payday he’d been staying in hotels. Nothing fancy, but they came with a front desk, and packs of matches with the phone number on them.

“Ta ta.” The Baroness drove off. She’d worried about what to do when McTavish arrived to see his daughter. Her connection to Mary Mabel ensured he’d show up on her doorstep with blackmail on his mind. Now, thanks to her woodsman, she could rest easy.