The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

by Allan Stratton

  The drunk tank was released in the morning. Brother Percy grinned. Satan had delivered him as promised; it had been His idea to switch clothes with that comatose stranger. The man was tall like himself, while the oversized tails allowed for his fuller frame. Still, it was a close call. Snapping the shower cap above those big red ears had roused the beast. Luckily Percy had managed to hide under a pile of hoboes.

  There were newsies hawking papers on every corner. Each had a banner headline heralding the triumph of the Miracle Maid and a large photo of Mary Mabel shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover. They had a smaller picture of him too, face-down, being mugged by Rockettes, along with a sidebar about a “disgruntled former employee” now locked up in Bellevue after starting a riot in the midtown cop shop. He was variously identified as Pierce Homer Brewbeaker, Pierce Homer Broobunker, or homely Perce Brubinker.

  Another injustice to be avenged. However, first things first; he needed to eat and he had no money. He held out his hand. “Spare change?” The crowd hurried by as if he didn’t exist. Percy was outraged until it dawned on him that Satan had given him the cloak of invisibility. Delighted, he made faces at the passersby. Then he skipped across the street to a sidewalk vendor, grabbed a hot dog off the grill, and waved it in front of the vendor’s nose. He expected the ghostly effect would make the man scream. Instead, the man asked what the hell Percy was doing and demanded two bits or he’d call the cops.

  Percy dropped the hot dog and fled. He hid in a stairwell. The smells from the grill had made him even more ravenous. “What must I do, Lord of Darkness?” Satan told him to check the lining of the jacket he’d stolen from the stranger. There was a small hole at the bottom of the inside breast pocket. Percy reached through into the lining. To his astonishment, it was full of bills.

  Things were moving too fast for Slick. One minute he’d been about to plug McTavish. The next he’d woken up in a stinking hole, minus his money coat. Then he’d knocked heads with an army of cops calling him a reverend, and gotten jabbed with a hypodermic. Now, from what he could see, he was in a straitjacket facing a table of shrinks.

  Mind you, what he could see wasn’t much. In the paddy wagon to Bellevue, the cops had renovated his face. His nose wandered from ear to ear, his cheekbones were somewhere in his forehead, and his eyes dripped like rotten cantaloupes.

  The chief psychiatrist cleared his throat. “Good morning, Brother Brubacher.”

  “I ain’t Brother Brubacher. The name’s Slick Skinner. I’m a trapper from Canada.”

  The table smiled indulgently. “Perhaps you could tell us what a Canadian trapper is doing in New York?”

  “I heard you had a bunch of the-aters. Thought I’d catch me some girlie shows.”

  The psychiatrists doodled. “How long have you been in New York?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Around.”

  “What are you living on?”

  “I got me a money coat.”

  Pause. “A ‘money coat’? What exactly is a ‘money coat’?”

  “Whaddya think? It’s a coat with money in it.”

  “I see. And how did you happen to get this magical ‘money’ coat?”

  Slick thought of all the tourists he’d robbed in Central Park. “I dunno,” he said. “Guess it was a birthday present. Or maybe I found it.”

  “Could you show it to us?”

  “Nope. Some bastard stoled it.”

  The chief psychiatrist wiped his glasses with the end of his tie. “It’s no use pretending. We know the truth about you, Brother Brubacher.”

  A question floated into Slick’s head. He’d have frowned, only it hurt too much. “Why do you keep calling me Brother Brubacher? Why would that fella be in jail?”

  “Perhaps you can tell us.”

  “Dunno. He’s strange, maybe?”

  “What do you mean by ‘strange’?”

  “You know, he talks to hisself.”

  The table exchanged glances. “How do you know he talks to himself?”

  Slick’s entrails congealed; he couldn’t very well say he’d stalked the miracle tour. “I s’pose I don’t.”

  “Sure you do,” the chief psychiatrist said gently. He ambled over to Slick’s chair, knelt slowly and whispered in his ear. “When Brother Brubacher talks to himself … Slick … is he talking to you?”

  Slick’s eyes bugged. “I’m not an imaginary friend if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s not what I’m asking,” the psychiatrist said calmly. “What I’m asking is … when Brother Brubacher talks to himself, are you the one who talks back?”

  “Hold on. I’m Slick Skinner. I’m real.”

  “Do you talk to him, Slick? Do you tell him what to do?”

  “I ain’t some crazy voice, dammit! I’m real!” Slick struggled in his chains and straitjacket as if his life depended on it.

  The chief psychiatrist conferred with the table. The judgment was unanimous: Only a true psychotic could lie with such conviction. The chief psychiatrist turned to the guards. “Return Brother Brubacher to solitary. Keep him restrained. And tell the ward nurse we’ll be ordering a full range of injections.”

  Making Pictures

  Doyle was given a few days with his mother to discuss the move to California. If she agreed, he’d pack up the apartment and fly out with her by week’s end.

  Meanwhile, Floyd and Mary Mabel traveled with Hearst to Los Angeles. Hearst’s friend, Marion Davies, greeted them at the airport.

  “So I’m going to be you,” she said, giving Mary Mabel a big hug. She insisted that the young woman stay in her place at Warner Brothers. “It’s sitting empty while I’m at San Simeon, and there’s a four-room trailer next door for your manager.”

  Hearst had arranged a small luncheon to introduce Floyd and Mary Mabel to the Misters Warner and Berkeley. It was held at his beach house in Santa Monica. He’d wanted a relaxed get-together with Marion and her dachshunds, but Warner hijacked the agenda. As soon they’d settled into their deck chairs and the waiters had served the appetizers — shrimps, avocado and mango slices — he flashed a serious set of teeth. “Great project, W.R. Only one problem. Who’s gonna play

  the girl?”

  “That would be Marion,” Hearst said tightly, tossing a shrimp to one of the dogs.

  Warner gave Mary Mabel a look. “You a school kid, angel cakes?”

  “Till recently.”

  “A virgin?”

  “Of course!”

  “So, no offense, Marion, but like I said, we got a problem.”

  Hearst’s face went blotchy.

  “Come on, Pops,” Marion said. “Jack’s pulling your leg.”

  “Is that right, Jack? Are you pulling my leg?”

  “Depends which one.”

  Marion laughed. Hearst didn’t. He banged the table so hard the silverware clattered. “Marion’s cast!”

  “Okay, okay.” Warner rolled his eyes. “And who do you want for the dead kid?”

  Hearst collected himself. “I want Mayer to loan us Mickey Rooney. Or do you think he’s geriatric, too?”

  “Not if he’s playing opposite Marion. Just kidding. Rooney’s a swell kid, swell. Providing you don’t mind having your chorus girls knocked up. By the time that friggin’ midget’s through puberty there won’t be a virgin north of La Jolla. Except, of course, for Marion.”

  Hearst yanked the tablecloth off the table sending salads, glasses and cutlery flying. “This party is over!”

  Mary Mabel and Floyd froze in horror. To the rest it was business as usual.

  “Don’t be such a Droopy Drawers,” Marion teased.

  “I think you’ve had too much ginger ale, my dear,” Hearst said, his eyes drilling holes through Warner.

  Marion winked at the waiters cowering in the doorway. “We need a tidy-up out here.” She rose and whispered something in Hearst’s ear. It did the trick.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” he ap
ologized. “We’ll have our sandwiches indoors.”

  They relocated to the dining room, except for the dogs who stayed to help clean up the food. The conversation switched from casting to content.

  Warner got to the point. “They tell me your mom’s dead.”

  “Yes,” Mary Mabel said.

  “This I like. No, this I love. We can make her into an angel.”

  Mary Mabel was speechless. Hearst was appalled. But talk of an angel got Busby very excited. He made a big frame with his hands. “I got it! The Miracle Maid sees visions, right? Well guess what! Her visions are production numbers! Picture it. She prays to the sound of a heavenly choir. Dissolve to a rotating staircase of clouds filled with tap-dancing angels! Chorus girls with harps and wings! Lots of mirrors. Dry ice. Strings. The camera pans up and up and up. Bingo, we’re at the Pearly Gates! Fifty, sixty choir boys flying around in silk pajamas and —”

  “Busby, what the fuck are you on?” demanded Warner.

  “Cloud nine!”

  “Cloud moolah-moolah. Those angels of yours better have big tits.”

  Busby spun around to Hearst. “It’ll make Marion the talk of the town! At the climax of her vision, she sails up to Heaven on a star. The Pearly Gates swing open, she waltzes in, and there’s God!”

  “Who’s God?”

  “Paul Muni. His head, anyway. It’s enormous. It beams light.” Busby gave a sly shrug. “Who am I kidding? Jack’s right. It’s too expensive.”

  “How much?” Hearst’s eyes had an odd light.

  “A hundred big ones.”

  “No problem,” Hearst announced grandly. “For Marion, the works.”

  “Great,” said Warner. “You pay for heaven, I’ll spring for the avalanche.”

  “What avalanche?” Mary Mabel asked.

  “The one where the kid gets killed.”

  “But he died in an electrical storm at a tent revival.”

  “Yeah. An electrical storm at a tent revival in the Rockies. The storm sets off an avalanche. The kid gets electrocuted and carried off in the slide. Your prayers lead to where he’s buried. Voila! His little fried frozen body gets dug up by a bunch of Indians, French fur traders, and some schmuck Mountie on a horse. You lay on hands, the kid resurrects, happy ending, roll credits.”

  “That’s not how it happened.”

  “It is now. This is the pictures, baby doll. You want reality, hang out at the morgue.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Warner, but if you want my co-operation I’d appreciate some respect.”

  “Respect? Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not even the writer.”

  “Jack, Miss McTavish, why don’t we work out the details later?” Hearst intervened.

  “Sure thing,” Warner said. “Like the little detail about who’s payin’ the friggin’ bills.” He whirled around and stuck a finger in Mary Mabel’s face. “You better learn to play nice or you’ll be doing miracles up in heaven with your mama.” He glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock. Gotta scram. I have a private meeting with Miss Crawford, if you know what I mean.” As he left, he called over his shoulder, “Gimmee a shout, W.R. Marion’s cast, but have a think about de Havilland. Or maybe Deanna Durbin.” He was gone before Hearst’s plate hit the door.

  There was an awkward silence. Busby took his leave.

  “I’m sorry,” Hearst fumed to Mary Mabel. “Jack is Jack. I’ll deal with him. In the meantime, please know I want you to be happy. There’ll be no more talk about an avalanche.”

  “Or trappers, or Mounties or tap-dancing angels. I don’t mean to be difficult. I just don’t want to be humiliated.”

  “None of us do,” Marion said softly. She turned to Hearst. “You know, Pops, Jack may be right about me being wrong for the part. No, really. I’m not a spring chicken anymore.”

  “Hush, hush.” Hearst took her hand and stroked it tenderly. “You will never grow old, Marion. Never. I forbid it.”

  The next morning, the storm had blown over. Hearst called the ministry to say he’d had an inspiration. He thought there should be a part in the film for a heroic young reporter, a certain “K.O. Doyle,” to be played by Clark Gable. He hoped Mary Mabel would approve.

  “Approve? You’ve made my day!”

  “I have a second present for you,” he enthused. “I’ve arranged for a private bus to take you and Mr. Cruickshank on a tour of the city.”

  It was a wonderful tour, although Mary Mabel felt odd travelling in a big bus alone with a tour guide and driver, while a waiter served her beverages and hot snacks and a masseur rubbed her neck and feet. Floyd had begged off. He said he was tired, but he smelled of hangover.

  Mary Mabel returned to her dressing-room-cum-mansion in the late afternoon. To her surprise, a stretch limousine was parked in front of Floyd’s trailer. A chauffeur was standing on the curb in full livery.

  Floyd sauntered out of his trailer. He had a big smile on his face. “Hey kid,” he whispered, “come see what the cat dragged home.”

  Mary Mabel peeked inside. There at the table sat Miss Bentwhistle.

  A Modest Proposal

  The Baroness Bentwhistle of Bentwhistle had been leading the life of Riley. In a few short months she had become a fixture in the society columns of the Los Angeles dailies. Dr. Silver, Lord High Secretary and Steward of the Calendar, pro tem, took his responsibilities seriously, reserving her Ladyship’s time for the most exclusive of exclusive functions. Securing the Baroness, and consequent media coverage of one’s event, required considerable wooing.

  The success of the Baroness had been immediate. Everyone had heard about her meetings with the banks. Preliminary auditions had been held in the sitting room of her presidential suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where the Baroness sat on a throne flanked by her Coat of Arms and Family Tree from the Heralds’ College of Westminster. Institutions sending less than their presidents were refused a hearing. Those whose presidents lacked personal pedigrees were summarily dismissed, for Miss Bentwhistle knew that the very rich were too polite to ask each other personal questions, and, in her situation, the fewer questions the better.

  Local media gave full play to her selection: Wells Fargo. There were front-page photographs of the Baroness and her strongbox of jewels surrounded by the bank’s board of directors.

  Wells Fargo had nearly lost out. C.E.O. Mr. John C. Wilcox III had asked that it be allowed to appraise the jewels. “What are you suggesting, young man?” the Baroness demanded of the sixty-year-old Mr. Wilcox. “If the Baron were with us, God rest his soul, I should not be forced to suffer such impertinence.”

  Mr. Wilcox assured her that his request was standard practice.

  The Baroness was shocked. “To think that your world is so steeped in chicanery and vice that even nobility cannot be trusted. What a sad comment on democracy. Be that as it may, while the humiliation of its clients may be standard practice at Wells Fargo, such treatment is as foreign to me as baked beans. Trust, Mr. Wilcox, is central to my relationships. It has been prized by my ancestors for over nine hundred years. Good day.”

  Mr. Wilcox apologized profusely. In her case the bank would make an exception.

  She refused to hear of it. “Do you honestly believe contrition can repair this breech?”

  The Baroness forgave him when Mr. Wilcox amended his apology to include the complimentary use of a limousine and driver.

  Following publication of the Bentwhistle/Wells Fargo entente, rumours of the jewels’ value spiralled upwards, from ten million, to fifteen, to twenty. When asked to confirm the speculation, both parties smiled discreetly. “No comment.” The stock of the jewels shot up again.

  All the while, Dr. Silver was an angel. The Baroness had only intended to stay at his home for a week. However, he insisted on a second and a third. Eventually, she and Mistress Dolly took up permanent residence, venturing forth as valued weekend guests at the tony getaways of the city’s elite.

  Dr. Silver came along for the ride. Now that he was con
sort to a baroness, he was much more than a flamboyant social butterfly; he was a player. In order to keep his prize catch, he catered to her every need. He made her a new set of dentures with her name inscribed in gold on the inside of her right molars. He even arranged a milk bath. “There is nothing for the complexion like soaking in fresh milk,” the Baroness had enthused. She’d been drunk at the time. Confronted by a room-temperature tub of the stuff, she was nearly sick. She soaked for ten minutes, then insisted that the milk be rebottled and sent to a downtown soup kitchen as an act of charity. That afternoon she had to stay indoors; the flies wouldn’t keep off her.

  Despite a few such misfires, life chez Silver was Shangri-La; a parade of occasions that offered special delight to Miss Pigeon. As a Baptist, she loved being scandalized. In fact she made a point of it. “God disapproves of dancing,” she told Miss Bentwhistle at one particular dinner dance, standing in Dr. Silver’s foyer hanging coats.

  “It’s not dancing, Dolly,” the Baroness replied. “It’s choreography.”

  The Mistress of the Wardrobe sniffed. “I also suspect that our host is ‘artistic.’ Dancing will do that to a man.”

  “Heavenly days, my dear,” said Miss Bentwhistle, “Dr. Silver’s not artistic. Just sophisticated.”

  The day Mary Mabel arrived in Los Angeles, the Baroness was in her housecoat enjoying a blueberry muffin. Dolly read her the announcement in the papers. The Baroness thought she was having a heart attack. It turned out to be gas.

  The glory of her disguise had been that a baroness was simultaneously important and inconsequential. A star in local society, a mere extra in national life. In other words, someone who could make a splash without fear of getting wet, providing she didn’t swallow a truckload of pills or run off with a busboy.