“You’re fit for a heavenly choir!” Floyd agreed. “Now collect yourself in the powder room, while we collect ourselves on the porch. We’ll call you for your entrance.”
A Game of Poker
Doyle arrived to find Floyd on the verandah rocker, a twin on either side. They made an arresting trio. The Misses Millie and Tillie had effected their own reconstruction and were in fine fettle, slender and bright as a pair of hollyhocks, a vision in ruffled peach taffeta, white feathered hats, and floral parasols. Floyd, by contrast, was grey as cement, the drab garden gnome between them.
So where’s he stashed the girl? Doyle wondered, as he stepped gingerly over the pumpkin and zucchini vines that snaked across the crumbling stone walkway. Squirrelled away, I’ll bet, until I pay the handler’s fee.
Floyd struggled to his feet. “Mr. Doyle, you’re in good time,”
“The early bird catches the worm.”
“May I introduce the Thompson Twins.”
Doyle tipped his hat. The Twins arched their backs and nodded smartly.
“Brother Floyd tells us you’re a reporter up from the States, Mr. Doyle,” Miss Millie chirped. “On behalf of my sister, may I say what a privilege it is for the Twins Bed & Breakfast to entertain an important visitor such as yourself.”
“Our late father loved Americans,” Miss Tillie leapt in, handing him a freshly dusted business card, rescued from behind the radiator in the vestibule. “He once took a trip to Cape Cod, and we have cousins in Des Moines.”
“Oh yes, rest assured, we keep out the welcome mat for our American guests. Make sure to mention that in your article.”
“Your readers will also want to know we offer meals.”
“And for the price of a smile we treat our visitors to homemade apple cider and a slice of our very own rhubarb pie.”
“A tour of the town on horse and buggy can also be arranged.”
“And remind your readers that there’s no snow in summer.”
“And in winter we’re well supplied with hot water bottles.”
Floyd realized he wasn’t the only entrepreneur on the porch. Since they’d heard that American press would be dropping by, the Twins had been impossible. In ten years, their only publicity had been the handful of flyers they’d left at the tourist information booth on Highway 2.
“Millie, if they write us up, think of the visitors!”
“We can air out the third floor!”
“Put cots in the study!”
“Hang the Stars and Stripes!”
“Hire a maid!”
Visions of greenbacks had driven them nutty as fruitcake. This accounted for their peach taffeta outfits, resurrected from matching attic hope chests. It accounted as well for the heavy, oversized three-piece suit in which Floyd sweltered. When he’d emerged from his tub, the pair had informed him they’d bundled his clothes into the old wood stove in the kitchen, replacing them with articles from their late father’s bedroom. “This is far more respectable. Papa only wore it to funerals, and even if it’s a mite ancient, good taste never goes out of style.”
(In truth, Floyd’s clothes hadn’t been burned at all: they were hiding out under the sisters’ big brass bed, along with odd socks and underpants pilfered over the years from the suitcases of various gentlemen guests. These made the most delightful mementos, something to snuggle next to late at night, or wear about the house with the drapes drawn. Who knew sin could be so thrilling?)
The sisters were now a runaway train, their conversation rapidly running away along tracks headed far from Floyd’s destination. Clickety-clack, they barrelled through Family History. Clickety-clack, through Tales from the B&B. And then — toot toot — “Let’s take a tour!” as they set upon Doyle, grabbing an elbow each and making a beeline for the front door.
Floyd slammed on the brakes. “Ladies, ladies! We’ve business to attend to.”
Miss Millie bit her tongue. “Come Tillie, we mustn’t disturb the menfolk. But before you repair to the States, Mr. Doyle, you must have a taste of our pie. There’s a piece with your name on it.” And with that, she and her sister linked arms and swept indoors.
The men prepared for their game of poker. Doyle hadn’t been dealt much. He needed access to Mary Mabel, but he hated to fold to a fee dictated by Floyd. Careful not to tip his hand, he feigned indifference, ambled to the edge of the porch, stretched, slouched on the railing, and casually surveyed the yard.
Floyd sidled over. “So pleased you could drop by.”
Doyle fixed his gaze on a haphazard patch of corn by the birdbath. “Un-hunh,” he yawned, inhaling the garden air, along with the faint smell of mothballs from Floyd’s long-storaged suit. “I was expecting to see Miss McTavish.”
“She’s at her devotions. There’s so much to pray for, what with our upcoming pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
Doyle turned from the corn in the yard to the corn on the porch. “You’re going abroad?”
“We aim to take Sister’s healing touch to the lepers of Jericho.”
Doyle tried not to choke. “When are you embarking?”
“As soon as God provides the wherewithal.” Floyd batted his eyes, as beatific as a stained-glass window. “The costs are fantastic. Passage, trunks, travel clothes, toiletries. And once landed, food, lodging, and the rent of a herd of camels to carry our cargo of Bibles.”
“In short, I’m to cough up for the interview?”
“Should the Holy Spirit so move you.”
“How much?”
“‘Blessèd are those who give, for they shall receive.’ Your colleagues from Scripps-Howard and Associated Press are expected shortly. I’m sure they’ll want to give plenty.”
Doyle fingered the ace up his sleeve: “Scratch and Scoop have split for Toronto. I’m the only game in town and I’m afraid my wallet’s as thin as my patience.”
Floyd faltered. Doyle might be bluffing, but he couldn’t afford to find out. “Not to worry,” he patted the reporter’s arm. “Sister will co-operate, whatever the contribution. In fact, I’ll give you a deal. An interview on the house. Why should a few lepers stand in the way of our friendship?”
Doyle checked his nails. He saw the sweat on Floyd’s neck. “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your morning.” A cocky salute and he headed down the walkway. “Good luck in the Holy Land,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Give my regards to Jesus.”
He was halfway to the gate before Floyd caught up. “I don’t think you heard. You can have Sister for free.”
“Who cares? There’s a reason I’m the only one here. I’m being patsied to write a story leaky as a sieve.”
“No. On my honour as a gentleman.”
“Like I said.”
“But Mr. Hearst wants the story. You told me.”
“That was last night.” Doyle’s eyes danced. He hadn’t had so much fun since he’d snapped the mayor of Tulsa getting spanked at Diamond Lil’s. Time to drop his bombshell. “The Metrotone boys hit town this afternoon. I’m in charge.”
“Newsreels!” Floyd exclaimed.
“There’s two stories I can tell,” Doyle continued. “One’s about wee Timmy Beeford, never dead, but very injured, thanks to you. We’ll shoot him at the train station in a wheelchair pushed by his sainted aunt and uncle, heading back to Kansas and life in a new home paid for by the Hearst chain of family newspapers.” He paused. “Or I can tell the tale of a Miracle Maid sent by God to heal the sick. Praise the Lord and jiggle the cash box.”
Floyd took a deep breath. “How much do you want?”
“Ten percent of next year’s take.”
“Ten?” Floyd staggered. “Five!”
“Suck a turd,” Doyle sneered, and hopped the fence.
“All right! Ten!” Floyd called after.
“Fifteen! That’s ten, plus five for the insult. Wire the money every six months to a numbered account. Strictly on the Q.T. Understood?”
Floyd nodded.
“I’ll be back with the
crew at three.”
“Okey-doke.”
They shook hands.
“You’re a smart man,” Doyle said. “Stay smart, my stories’ll make you rich. Screw me, I’ll nail your nuts to a tree.”
Lights, Camera, Action
At 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
After 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.
The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish Page 9