The righteous burghers, whose stores indeed had benefited from the Academy’s clientele, scrambled to make amends.
Miss Bentwhistle would have none of it. “You call yourselves town fathers. Town eunuchs is more like it. Gelded pigs. Well you’ve killed the goose that laid the golden egg. I’m already packed. Yes! I’m leaving this little piss-hole you’re pleased to call home. I’m off to greener pastures. To a world that appreciates my gifts.” There was a knock at the door. Miss Bentwhistle checked her watch. “That will be my secretary and her brothers. They have arrived to fetch my bags and convey me to the station. Good day.”
Before the delegation could pick their dentures off the floor, Miss Bentwhistle had sailed from the rectory. Her grand plan was in motion. She was about to take on the greatest role of her life, a role commanded by destiny.
VII
The BARONESS and the SHOWGIRL
Opening Night
The new revival tour got off to a rocky start. All the way to Flint, Brother Percy shook with fury at the advertisements for the Miracle Maid decorating the Olds. On the bright side, he didn’t say much; his outpouring at the Twins had been so impassioned that he’d popped a few sutures. As a result, the only time he ventured a word was at the Sarnia/Port Huron border. The customs agent asked, “Do you have anything to declare?”
“YEZ!” Percy announced. “JEZUZ CHRIZE IZ MA PERZONEL LORE AN ZAVER!”
Floyd had made reservations at the Walden Hotel. The moment they drove up, a gaggle of curiosity-seekers mobbed the car. “It’s her! It’s her! Like in the movies!” Two police officers cleared a path, the doorman hustled them inside, a bellboy packed them into an elevator, and — bingo — they were on the third floor in front of their rooms. Mary Mabel was put in the middle. “The rose between two thorns,” Floyd joked.
After they’d had time to freshen up, Floyd knocked on their doors and asked if they’d care to join him for supper. Brother Percy preferred to fast. Until his jaw was healed, he’d be out of commission preaching-wise; he hoped this might inspire God to get a move on with his recovery. Mary Mabel wasn’t hungry, either.
“Butterflies,” Floyd said with a wink. “Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” Mary Mabel closed the door and flopped on her bed. Her premiere was in less than twenty-four hours. What if there were critics? What if they hated her? Should Mr. Cruickshank do like “Auntie” Irene? Before opening nights at the Milwaukee Little Theater Guild, she’d send the local reviewer a box of chocolates.
All week, Floyd had reassured her. Their hosts were filling the first half with local children’s choirs. This guaranteed a crowd of appreciative parents. After intermission, she’d talk about Timmy’s resurrection, a tale she knew backwards. Then there’d be preselected questions from the audience, a freewill offering, the choirs would return, she’d give the kids a hug, the crowd would sing “Amazing Grace” and everybody’d go home happy: “It’s as simple as cows.”
Mary Mabel took ten deep breaths. What right did she have to worry? She had food, shelter, and a future. And not just any future. The chance to perform — to fulfill her childhood dream! She counted her blessings over and over, even managing a thought for her hotel room. It was so different from the ones she and her papa had stayed in during their vagabond days. For one thing, she could look under the bed without blushing. For another, the mattress didn’t bite.
Soon Mary Mabel was off to the land of Nod … and a most peculiar dream. She imagined that she’d woken to a commotion outside her room. “She’s in here!” the crowd shouted, hacking through her door with fire axes. “Don’t let her get away!” She hid in the closet. To her surprise, it was filled with nurse outfits. She swam through rows of uniforms, the mob in pursuit. What’ll I do when I reach the back wall? she panicked. But there wasn’t a back wall. The closet kept growing. Soon there was no light. No air. She was tangled in clothes. Choked by coat hangers. Suffocating in fabric.
That’s when she woke up for real, twisted in bed sheets, to an argument coming from Floyd’s room. Whatever her partners were yelling about, she had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with her. She retrieved the water glass by the bathroom sink, pressed it against the wall, and cupped her ear. The reception came in dandy. Floyd’s end of it, anyway.
“If the car bothers you so much, we’ll get a new paint job. All black with flaming orange letters. ‘The Doomsday Special: Repent or Burn.’ Okay? Or how about ‘Brother Percy: The Hell and Back Tour’? Think that’ll draw crowds? Face it. Folks don’t give a rat’s ass about you. It’s her they want. God answers her prayers.”
“Whadeja mean he answers your prayers, too? Your prayers killed a kid. Hers brought him back to life.”
Howls of outrage.
“Who cares if it’s bullshit? It’s what they think.”
More outrage.
“Don’t threaten me, you sonovabitch!”
Door slam. Stomping back and forth in the hall. The stomping came to rest outside her room. She held her breath. More stomping.
“Keep it down,” someone called from the end of the corridor.
A rant, followed by the sound of Brother Percy’s door banging shut. He was still raving. Mary Mabel tiptoed over and pressed her glass to the wall. It was like he could see her. “SHE-DEVUH!” he roared through the plaster. “SHE-DEVUH!” His wastepaper basket hit the wall by her ear. She leapt back. He pummelled the wall with his fists.
Then his phone rang. They froze. It kept ringing.
Percy answered. “WHOZIT?” Incomprehensible grunts and explosions. His caller appeared to be talkative. On a hunch, Mary Mabel scampered over to listen at Floyd’s wall. Success.
“How many times do I have to say it? I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry!” Floyd exclaimed. “It’s just, right now we need her … Whadeja mean ‘why’? Cash flow, you idiot. She’s a hot ticket … Look, will you keep it down? You want the front desk to call the cops? You want to wreck your opening night?… Of course it’s your opening night. Who cares if you’re not preaching? You’ll be introduced and applauded. And once you’re back to normal, you’ll headline … No, I’m not lying. Heck, you’re God’s anointed. Heir to Billy Sunday … I am not making fun. I swear on the grave of my grandmother … Yes, Perce, of course we’re friends. Best of friends … I care about you, too. Now say your prayers, get some sleep, and don’t do anything you’ll regret … Amen, pal.” Click.
Silence. Mary Mabel put her glass to Brother Percy’s wall and heard a strange sound. Brother Percy was crying.
Mary Mabel tossed and turned all night. She’d known that Floyd played with truth. But did he really think her miracle was a fraud? What were his actual plans for Brother Percy and her? Speaking of Percy — should she be moved to pity, terror, or both? By morning Mary Mabel wasn’t fit for company. She stayed in her housecoat, huddled in a blanket with the drapes drawn. Floyd honoured her DO NOT DISTURB sign till ten. Then he knocked with a cheery, “Rise and shine.”
She opened the door a crack. “Mr. Cruickshank, I hate to be rude, but like the sign says, I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“We have an invitation for lunch. The Chamber of Commerce.”
“Send my regrets.”
“Can’t. They’re the sponsor. No sponsors, no cash flow.”
“Rumour has it I’m the cash flow.”
A careful pause. “I’m not sure what you overheard last night, but when Perce and I get to arguing, sometimes I say things I don’t mean to keep him in line.”
“Oh. And do you ever say things you don’t mean to keep me in line?”
His eyes flickered. “You owe me an apology.”
“And you owe me an answer.”
He leaned in. She could smell his breakfast. “I won’t be called to account in a public hallway. Lunch is at noon. I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty.”
The Chamber of Commerce was a crowd of very loud men in very loud suits. They stank of cigars.
They thought they were funny. Floyd was in his element. Brother Percy, on the other hand, feared for his life. He got stuck between two bankers who slapped his back with the enthusiasm of Swedish masseurs. Mary Mabel was spared the more robust shenanigans, including the bun toss. In fact, the only thing that threatened her was the conversation: “So you’re from Canada. Any igloos in your neck of the woods?”
“Can’t wait for the show. Will you be tap dancing?”
“As a healer, what do you recommend for a cold?”
At first she tried to make herself disappear by staring at her mashed potatoes, but Americans are relentlessly friendly. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you had that mole?” She closed her eyes and pretended to pray. Even that didn’t work. “Look, she’s fallen asleep! Isn’t that the sweetest thing? Wakey-wakey!” When a geezer in plaid came up, pinched her cheek and remarked that she was the spitting image of his daughter, she’d had enough. “Pinch me again and I’ll bop you one.”
Back in the car, Floyd lit into her. “Threatening a sponsor! Making sculptures with your damn potatoes! What on earth were you doing?”
“Getting a preview of Hell.”
“The Chamber of Commerce has busted its butt to make tonight’s event a success. The least you could have done was pretend to enjoy yourself.”
“I’d need a can of laughing gas.”
“That’s snooty, selfish, and just plain spoiled. Brother Perce is a walking bruise. Do you hear him complain? No sir. If somebody pinched his cheek, he’d turn the other one.” (Righteous whimpers from the back seat.) “You may not care for those boys, but they’re doing their best, clinging to families and businesses by their fingernails. Despite that, they volunteer for their town. They think you can help. You oughta feel privileged.”
She lowered her head. “You’re right. I was mean. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he replied, tossing her his handkerchief. “I want you to shape up. You’re an actress. Act.”
“I’ll do my best,” Mary Mabel promised. She blew her nose. In future, she resolved to be kind. She resolved to be generous. Above all, she resolved to act.
All Mary Mabel’s stage training, she owed to her “Auntie” Irene, a woman who, like herself, had had a childhood fantasy of becoming an actress. When Auntie Irene had told her parents her dream, they were so horrified they ran out and found her a husband. He was a third-generation undertaker by the name of Bigelow. Auntie Irene spent the rest of her days wearing black. “‘I am in mourning for my life,’” she’d say. And indeed she was. The closest she got to a life on the boards was bossing the Milwaukee Little Theater Guild.
Rehearsals were held on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and Saturday afternoons, except if there was a death in town, in which case they’d be cancelled. Auntie Irene was expected to attend the visitations. A visitation on a performance night meant the curtain was held till nine. In order not to delay things further, she’d wear her costume under her funeral duds and greet the mourners in full makeup. “The show must go on.”
Auntie Irene began each practice with exercises in elocution and gesticulation. Guild members would stride about in grand circles, while she’d bellow instructions from the sidelines. “Breeeeeathe from your diaphragms! Expaaaaand those resonating cavities! Chins up! Chests out! Keep your mouths wide! Your foreheads high! Emote!”
Her actors looked pretty simple, but Auntie Irene reminded them that they’d be performing on a stage, not in somebody’s kitchen. “Dramatic art is larger than life. King Lear raged on a heath, he didn’t pick fights at the donut shop. Thanks to the magic of theatre, the audience shall willingly suspend its disbelief.” Guild members agreed, noting Auntie Irene’s recent triumph as Juliet.
Mary Mabel was cast in every production. When the play didn’t have parts for children, her auntie put her on stage as a kitten or a footstool. This was because there wasn’t anyone back at the funeral home to keep an eye on her. In addition to yard work, Brewster was up to his ears stacking coffins, clearing mice out of their upholstery, and cracking the joints of unruly cadavers.
As for Mr. Bigelow, he didn’t keep an eye on anything but his corpses. Even when Auntie Irene took Brewster to her bedroom for private acting lessons, he’d stay below ground in the Land of the Dead — that’s what Mary Mabel called the basement room where he did the preparations. When the upstairs vocalizing got out of hand, she’d wander down to keep him company. He rarely noticed her. When he did, he’d give her a nod as if she were a spirit passing through. Then his gaze would return to the middle distance, and he’d slowly inhale fumes from the jar of embalming fluids by his side.
His addiction didn’t bother the bereaved. They appreciated his calm demeanor and took the glassiness of his eyes as shared grief. Like Auntie Irene, he was an actor who could play his role pickled, knowing exactly when to make a comforting gesture, or to pass a tissue, or to say: “Good evening, it’s a great tragedy, so glad you could come.”
Mary Mabel liked Mr. Bigelow. He cared about the dead more than most people care about the living. All of his clients’ rough edges were smoothed away, their hair combed, ties knotted, and jewellery adjusted with absolute devotion. They were also treated to sympathetic patter. He’d wax enthusiastic about their obituaries, or tell jokes. When he worked on a child, he’d sing lullabies. For those who died friendless, he’d make up stories about stacks of condolence cards, and tell them not to be disappointed by a low turnout, there was a bad storm brewing. If they looked afraid, he’d hold their hands. “Don’t worry,” he’d whisper, “you’ll be fine.” And they were. By the time they went on display, his clients appeared more lifelike than the actors at the Guild.
Mary Mabel liked to sneak into the visitation room to look at the baskets of flowers around the caskets. Mr. Bigelow made sure there were lots, even for those who couldn’t pay. After admiring the flowers, she’d wander up and stare at the deceased. She was fascinated by their hands; they all seemed to be wearing pale silk gloves. Mostly, though, she concentrated on their eyelids. If she stared long enough, she began to imagine that the bodies were breathing. They weren’t lost in a terrible void. They were sleeping soundly, at rest in a land where dreams are good and every dream comes true.
She wished her mama had had a Mr. Bigelow. Her mama wasn’t at peace when they closed the lid. During the waiting-in, Mary Mabel had tried to climb into her coffin. They’d pulled her away, but not before she’d seen her mama’s face. It was hard and disfigured. The mouth crooked. The chin black. The tips of the nose and ears missing. Mary Mabel was too young to understand about death, much less about frostbite. All she knew was that something terrible had happened to her mama and it was all her fault.
After lunch, Mary Mabel went over her speech in front of the bathroom mirror till it was time to go to the auditorium. The children’s choirs were already there when she arrived, as bubbly as soda pop except for one little boy who sat in the back row crying. He’d gotten so excited he’d peed himself. Mary Mabel knew how he felt.
Soon the audience was gathering in the hall and the choirmasters were bundling their charges into nearby classrooms to await their entrance. The house opened. The crowd spilled in. Mary Mabel ran to her dressing room at the side of the stage, a closet filled with brooms, dustpans, and old boxes of decorations for school assemblies. Her heart did back flips. What if she froze? What if she fell into the orchestra pit?
Floyd gave her the half-hour call. The ten. The five. A thumbs-up. She peeked through the closet door to watch the first half. The house lights dimmed. The chatter subsided. The school band struck up “The Star and Stripes.” The audience clambered to its feet and the show was off and running.
Floyd began by thanking the Chamber for its hospitality, stressing how the evening’s proceeds would help to pay for downtown renovations. “Your attendance tonight is a tribute to your community spirit. Give yourselves a big hand.” They did. “However, you haven’t come to hear me speechi
fy,” he continued, preparing to introduce Brother Percy. “So with no further ado, please welcome a very special someone. The one — the only —”
The audience cheered before he could finish. At the sound of the roar, Brother Percy bounded on stage in his secondhand tails. He strutted about, flapped his arms, and crowed like a rooster. This continued for some time until he realized that the crowd was staring at him in stunned silence. A confused voice pierced the hush. “Who’s he? Where’s Sister Mary Mabel?” A murmur of shared puzzlement.
Brother Percy clawed his head, bent over, and squinted into the auditorium. Bright red circles ballooned on his cheeks. There was a titter. Apparently people thought he was a clown doing a warm-up act. Brother Percy reeled upright. He put his hands on his hips, elbows out, and glowered. The titters grew. He popped his eyes. Squeals of delight. He wagged a bony finger. The house was in stitches. He foamed at the mouth. He shook his fists. He brayed. Yet the angrier he got, the more they laughed. Soon everyone was holding their sides, rolling in the aisles, pointing. Brother Percy stomped from the stage to a rousing ovation.
The children’s choirs were also a hit. And then, in what seemed a blink, it was intermission. Proud parents slipped out for a smoke. Floyd gave Mary Mabel a fistful of recipe cards containing the audience questions that would conclude the show. He’d prepared a snappy answer for each. She was so afraid of blurting something stupid that she memorized them whole. A rumble of high spirits rolled back into the auditorium. The audience had returned for the star attraction.
Again the house lights dimmed. Again the chatter subsided. A spotlight on Brother Floyd. A fulsome introduction, thunderous applause, and suddenly Mary Mabel found herself outside her body, watching as she entered, curtsied, and blew kisses to the crowd.
The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish Page 15