The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (13 page)

The
Academy Reception

F
loyd
planned for the tour to hit the road following Miss Bentwhistle’s ceremony. He’d lined up a dizzying itinerary to keep Mary Mabel in public view. “You’re hot,” he told her, “But today’s papers line tomorrow’s bird cages.” His ultimate dream was to play New York. First, though, they’d have to do regional tryouts. This meant touring the American Midwest. “When we hit the Big Apple, we gotta be slick as spit. Flop there and forever after we’ll be stuck winding our way through the loopier loops of the Bible belt.”

The first event was in Flint, Michigan, sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. It had rented the auditorium at Ulysses S. Grant Memorial High School, seating capacity seven hundred. Floyd thought that was perfect. As well as keeping down costs and expectations, a high school auditorium was both large enough to bring in a decent gate and small enough to guarantee a full house. “Folks want what they can’t have. If our first shows sell out, ticket sales’ll skyrocket. At top dollar, too.”

Box office wasn’t his only consideration. He announced that no matter how popular the tour got, he’d always advertise fifty free seats for the poor to demonstrate Christian charity. Mary Mabel asked why they couldn’t just open the doors and pass a plate. He rolled his eyes. “That’s how we ended up at the Twins’.”

Charity would also figure in the ministry’s choice of hosts. Floyd selected groups who planned to put their proceeds toward good causes. “This’ll build a loyal fan base. For instance, the Flint Chamber’s plowing its profits into a bucket brigade to clean abandoned storefronts. When folks see the improvements, they’ll think of us fondly.”

“Terrific,” Mary Mabel said. “And what’s our share of the profits to be used for?”

“The greater of glory of God.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“In the fullness of time.”

I
n the fullness of time, the greater glory of God turned out to be a secondhand Oldsmobile. Floyd made the surprise purchase with the advance money. He drove it back from Frank’s Auto Repair the morning of the leave-taking. The honking brought the household outside.

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to travel by bus?” Mary Mabel asked.

“God’s work can’t be tied to bus schedules.”

The Twins admired the chrome. “Very snazzy. Does this mean you’re able to pay your bill?”

“Not quite.”

“But you’ve bought a car.”

“It’s not a car. It’s an investment. Don’t fret. You’re first in line, next round of advances, as God is my witness.” The Twins looked doubtful. “Ladies, nothing hurts more than an absence of trust.”

Meanwhile, Brother Percy fulminated from the verandah. It wasn’t the automobile that had him hopping. It was the new paint job. The Olds was a blinding white emblazoned in bright red capital letters. The driver’s side read: G
OD
L
OVES
Y
OU
!!! This drove Brother Percy up the wall. To paraphrase the good reverend: “It’s a damned lie. God only loves you if you declare Jesus Christ to be your personal Lord and Saviour. Otherwise it’s off to the lava lake.”

If Percy was upset by the words “God Loves You,” it was a blessing that he failed to do a walk-around. On the car’s passenger side the lettering screamed: T
HE
M
IRACLE
M
AID
T
OUR
!!! And on the trunk: S
ISTER
M
ARY
M
ABEL
!!!

Mary Mabel was so embarrassed, she wanted to sprout wings and fly away. No such luck, so she ran to her room, crawled under the covers, and held her breath, hoping to
pass out.

Within minutes, Miss Tillie was tapping at her door. “May I come in?” She took the silence as an invitation. “You scurried off in such a hurry. Are you okay?” The young woman looked such a sight that Miss Tillie swept over and touched her forehead to check for a temperature. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“Nothing. I just want to die.”

Miss Tillie sat on the edge of the bed and cradled her. “There, there. It’s all right.”

Mary Mabel knew otherwise. Life was going so well, but the world felt topsy-turvy. All monsters under the bed. She wanted her mama. The recent visitations had been a blessing, but their glow was fading into memory.

“I miss her,” Mary Mabel blurted. “I’m afraid to forget what she looked like. I try to picture her every day, so she won’t disappear. Sometimes I can’t. And even when I can, I’m not sure I’m remembering right. She’s vanishing. Why can’t I hold on to her face? How can I be so awful? She loved me.”

Miss Tillie didn’t ask whom she meant. She didn’t ask anything, just held her. And Mary Mabel held her back. “I’m going to miss you very much. Promise me you’ll stay beside me this afternoon at the Academy.”

Miss Tillie hugged her tighter still. “I wish I could. But Millie and I won’t be there. We’d spoil the occasion.”

“Never.”

Miss Tillie cupped Mary Mabel’s head in her hands and stared deep into her eyes. “Folks in this town, they think they know everything there is to know about other folks. My sister and I … our father … well … it’s difficult.”

“I don’t care about the rumours.”

“Others do.”

“Miss Bentwhistle’s no saint.”

“It’s not just Miss Bentwhistle.” Miss Tillie kissed her hair. “Don’t fret. We’ll be there in spirit. Now you stay under these covers and I’ll bring you some tea and cookies.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It doesn’t matter. Tea and cookies make the world a better place.” Miss Tillie paused at the door. “You know, Mary Mabel, somewhere up there your mama’s looking down at you. And she’s very proud. I know it in my heart.”

M
iss Bentwhistle’s function was death on wheels. Local dignitaries, staff, and students, decked out in their Sunday best, sat on rows of folding chairs on the front lawn before a podium draped in Union Jacks. Mary Mabel was stuck centre stage, surrounded by the worthiest of the worthies. The mayor, the local member of Parliament, and the Reverend Brice Harvey Mandible, all gave speeches congratulating her and commending the headmistress under whom she’d flourished.

Miss Bentwhistle provided the keynote address. “Miss McTavish came to us a motherless child whom we took to our bosom.” Et cetera. This led to an announcement: the creation of a Mary Mabel McTavish Scholarship to be awarded annually “to a young lady of diminished circumstance.” Donations toward the award would be gratefully accepted, and publicized in the
London Free Press
.
Oohs
,
ahhs
, and much clapping. Miss Bentwhistle acknowledged the applause and turned to the Academy marching band. As they struck up “The Maple Leaf Forever,” she unveiled the plaque of honour. It was actually more of a billboard.

T
HE
B
ENTWHISTLE
A
CADEMY
, E
ST
.
1910

A
LMA
M
ATER TO
M
ISS
M
ARY
M
ABEL
M
C
T
AVISH

“W
HERE
L
ITTLE
M
IRACLES
B
EGIN
”

Mary Mabel was summoned to the lectern to deliver her thank-you speech. It had been prepared by the headmistress and was as flowery as an Easter bonnet. The words caked in Mary Mabel’s mouth. She cleared her throat and took a sip of water. It didn’t help. Searching the crowd for a friendly face, she spotted Miss Budgie, her eyelashes fluttering like butterflies. Mary Mabel put aside her text.“Above all, I would like to thank my English instructor, Miss Budgie. Her love of learning, dedication to fairness, and generosity of time, have meant more to me than she will ever know.”

Miss Budgie fainted.

Mary Mabel leapt from the stage and ran to her side. Miss Budgie rose to a round of applause from the gentlemen. In the background, Clara Brimley could be heard joking about her “fabled healing touch.” Mary Mabel didn’t care. Miss Budgie was all right, and she’d escaped the speech.

The reception that followed was mercifully brief. The stuffed and the starched shook her hand, while munching on petit fours. Then, none too soon, it was time for the show to hit the road.

Mary Mabel never saw London, Ontario, again. Would that she could say the same of Miss Bentwhistle.

Miss Budgie Flies
the
Coop

O
ne
week later, Miss Budgie sat alone on the floor of her classroom at the Bentwhistle Academy for Young Ladies. The desks were pushed against the walls, and she was surrounded by cardboard boxes. Boxes hauled out of the bank of filing cabinets at the back of the room, pulled off the long rows of shelves under the front blackboard, dragged from beneath the work table by the windows to her right, and from the supply closet to her left where they had been piled helter-skelter in a dizzying tower of such height and weight that they threatened the life and limb of anyone foolish enough to open the door.

She gazed vacantly at these stacks of boxes, and at the shadows of these stacks of boxes — ghastly spectres that quivered to the ceiling, thrown up by the smoky light of the coal-oil lamp beside her. Tears dripped onto the pile of foolscap sheets on her lap. What in the world was she going to do?

M
iss Budgie had never wanted to become a teacher. Like most everything else in her life, it had just happened. Even her birth had been an accident, a ten-year gap separating her from the youngest of her four brothers. As for her parents’ deaths, nothing had prepared her for those, either. Indeed, nothing had prepared her for anything.

She’d grown up expecting to stay on the family farm near Tillsonburg, helping her mother until she caught the eye of some young man at a box social. They’d marry and she’d raise a family of her own. Daughters would be nice, she’d thought, although she knew she ought to have at least one son to make her husband happy.

It was not to be. When she was just shy of twenty, her mother took sick with pneumonia and was gone within the week. Her father followed, of a heart attack, six months later. The family farm and all its belongings went to her eldest brother, John. His shrew of a wife made it plain that the kitchen wasn’t big enough for the both of them. Nor was there room with her other brothers. Murray lodged in a disreputable boarding house, while Robert and Henry worked at a cheese factory in Ingersoll, where they shared a room over the local menswear store.

The advertisement in the
Globe
seemed the answer to her prayers. The Bentwhistle Academy for Young Ladies, est. 1910, was seeking a person of Christian character to teach English Language and Literature, Home Economics, and Religious Studies. Miss Budgie had always cursed her high school certificate. She’d attended Tillsonburg Secondary as a means to expand her pool of potential husbands beyond the dire prospects along Concession 4, but her proficiency at academics had scared them all away. “Success brings nothing but failure,” she’d wept. Now, however, her education offered her the chance to redeem her life.

The interview had gone well. Miss Bentwhistle was impressed by her references, her Sunday school teaching experience, and the second prize taken by her deep dish boysenberry pie at the previous year’s bake sale in St. Thomas. She offered Miss Budgie the position on the spot: “You shall receive room and board, a small gratuity, and the prestige afforded by association with the Academy.” Miss Budgie accepted, convinced that her teaching days would be few. London was of a size to offer abundant matrimonial possibilities.

There were only three men on the Academy staff and each was problematic. The geography teacher was dull as dust, the Latin teacher dry as chalk, and the music teacher, Mr. Felix Fontaine, was a confirmed bachelor of impeccable taste, manicured nails, and a passion for Mozart.

Happily, Miss Budgie secured herself a place with the Wesley Methodist choir. Most of her male pew-mates were married or lived with their mothers, but Miss Budgie soon had the attentions of two tenors and a baritone. The tenors liked to talk, especially about themselves, and the baritone liked to listen. They had many a happy tête-à-tête over biscuits and tea in the Academy drawing room, but these ended abruptly when Miss Bentwhistle allowed that Miss Budgie should not mistake her school for a brothel. Henceforward, she would be free to entertain gentlemen callers only of a Sunday afternoon under the beady eye of head secretary Miss Dolly Pigeon.

The gentlemen callers disappeared.

And then, before she knew it, Miss Budgie turned thirty.

She consoled herself that at least she had a job. Or to be more exact, a vocation. For over the years, Miss Budgie had become an outstanding teacher, devoted to her subjects and her students. She owed her love of education to Mr. Fontaine. They had become fast friends, who liked to giggle and gossip over a game of crokinole in the Academy library. He taught her about music and art and literature. He made the classics come alive.

The day he left town, Miss Budgie was devastated. Miss Bentwhistle had gone looking for something in the long-abandoned coach house. What she found was never made entirely clear, but Miss Budgie understood that it involved Mr. Fontaine, the groundskeeper, and a garden hose.

Things were never the same. The new groundskeeper was an oily rake, an odd-jobs man by the name of Brewster McTavish. His advances were as frequent as they were unwelcome. Miss Budgie had always longed to be pursued by a man. Now she was and it terrified her. Attempts to secure the protection of the headmistress were in vain. Marking papers in her classroom after hours was a particular danger. She’d lock the door, but McTavish had a key to every room in the school. One night, things threatened to get out of hand. She barely managed to scare him off by blasting away on the bugle she kept in the lower left drawer of her desk. The instrument had belonged to Mr. Fontaine, who’d been a bugler in the Great War. It had been overlooked in the haste of his untimely departure, and she’d slipped it out of his room to keep as a memento.

Mr. McTavish had not been her only distraction. Standards at the Academy had taken a precipitous drop. High marks were not something which the young ladies were required to earn, but which their teachers were obliged to award. The school’s decline reached its nadir with the arrival of Miss Clara Brimley, spawn of prominent Toronto lawyer Mr. Howard K. Brimley, Q.C. She and her set, a circle of privilege whose families contributed handsomely to Academy endowments and fundraisers, forged a tight-knit cabal that faculty challenged at its peril.

Miss Budgie fell afoul of the clique over an essay Miss Brimley scribbled on comic irony in Shakespeare’s
Twelve Nites
(
sic
). The paper was a thicket of spelling and grammatical errors submitted on crumpled foolscap smeared with ink scrawls. Miss Budgie circled and identified each embarrassment, made crisp notes regarding structure, form, and presentation, and confidently assigned it an
F
.

Clara was not amused. “If you don’t improve your attitude,” she said, “I’m going to speak to my father.”

“Be my guest,” Miss Budgie replied. Next day, the headmistress obliged her to raise the grade to a
B
, in front of a smug Miss Brimley.

“Does this satisfy you?” Miss Bentwhistle inquired of the complainant.

“I’d like her to apologize,” Clara simpered. “Also, to pay for my long-distance telephone call to father.” And it was so.

In the days that followed, Miss Budgie struggled to keep her grip. She asked Clara to stay after school. The girl sat at her desk and stared at the ceiling as Miss Budgie tried to explain the importance of responsibility and respect. Clara yawned and rose. “I have to go now,” she said. “I’m expected at the soda shop.”

“Sit down!” Miss Budgie ordered.

Clara smiled. She opened her mouth and screamed, “Ow! Ow! Stop it, Miss Budgie! Help!”

Miss Budgie fled the room.

With Miss Brimley in command, students no longer bothered to pass each other notes. They simply wandered the aisles and struck up conversations. It was Miss Budgie’s fault. If she had motivated her students, there wouldn’t be a problem. Or so Miss Bentwhistle had said before Mary Mabel McTavish claimed to raise the dead.

Ah, Mary Mabel, Miss Budgie’s one bright light. It had been difficult to forget that she was the daughter of Brewster McTavish, but the girl had been such a keen pupil that even that could be forgiven. Mary Mabel was the one student who hung on her every word. The one student who came to her outside of school hours to talk about books. The one student with the brass to stand up to Clara Brimley.

“That resurrection tale!” Miss Bentwhistle had thundered, moments after the girl’s expulsion. “You’re to blame for her imagination! You and your creative writing assignments! You encouraged her!”

“I understood motivation was my job,” Miss Budgie peeped.

“Insolent toad! You’ve motivated her onto the street. You’ll join her, too, if you don’t shape up!”

Of course, the headmistress changed her tune once association with Mary Mabel became desirable. Miss Budgie remembered the ceremony in the young woman’s honour. What a joy to know that happiness remained a possibility for a deserving few. And what a heavenly shock to hear herself praised from the podium.

Yet despite Mary Mabel’s kind words, Miss Bentwhistle had sent her neither a card of commendation nor a toffee. Instead, after the function she’d upbraided her on the front lawn before a gaggle of young ladies. “Your collapse was a sorry spectacle. It embarrassed the assembly, set a poor example for our pupils, and ruined the festivities.

Miss Budgie shrank as she watched her students titter and scurry off to gossip in the dormitories.

S
he didn’t remember much after that, of the days leading to tonight, with her on the classroom floor dripping tears, covered in foolscap, surrounded by boxes. She had flashes only: of the air alive with paper airplanes, of thumb tacks slipped onto the seat of her chair, and of turning away to stare out the window. Memories of staying late to tidy up, of wiping lewd drawings from her students’ desks, of fretting how to hide the swear word carved on the door frame, and of covering it up with a doily.

She also seemed to recollect that sometime — when? — she had been hit in the head with a flying piece of chalk, and had stood there like nothing had happened.… Nothing
had
happened …
had
it? And recalled the scene this morning, when her entire first-period class had staged a mock faint, all forty of them swooning to the floor
en masse
amidst a fit of giggles. She had an idea of herself weeping and of Clara Brimley batting her eyes and smirking, “Want a hankie?” Somehow she had ended up pressed against the blackboard, while Clara conducted her classmates in a chant of, “Boo-hoo, boo-hoo,” as they skipped out the door. There had followed the inevitable interview with Miss Bentwhistle. Why were her pupils roaming the corridors? What was the matter with her? And, by the way, where were the preliminary reports for the upcoming parent-teacher interviews?

Miss Budgie remembered apologizing: she had been sure the period was over, there must be a problem with the classroom clock; as for herself, she was perfectly fine, and the reports would be on Miss Bentwhistle’s desk first thing in the morning.

However the truth was that there
were
no reports. Since her students refused to do homework, Miss Budgie filled their class time with essays, tests, and work sheets. These had been collected every day since the beginning of the term. Unfortunately, none of them had been marked.

It wasn’t that Miss Budgie hadn’t
wanted
to mark them. It was that she c
ouldn’t
. No sooner would she pick up her red pen than she’d find herself heaving into the toilet. Her students’ work was deplorable, incomplete, and covered in doodles. If she graded it honestly, the brats would have her humiliated. On the other hand, if she inflated the scores, she would humiliate herself. So she’d done neither. She’d simply bundled the assignments into cardboard boxes, resolving to do them tomorrow. Soon, so many tomorrows had turned into yesterdays that she didn’t know where to begin. Paralyzed with terror, she had attempted to hide the boxes on curtained shelves, in filing cabinets, and behind the closet door, in the desperate hope that somehow they’d disappear. Only they hadn’t. They’d grown into the monstrous stacks whose giant shadows now filled the walls.

It was 2:00 a.m. Miss Budgie had yet to mark anything. She couldn’t manage to hold her pen, nor could she read. Words swam off the sheets in front of her. They floated in front of her face. What did they mean? Why wouldn’t they stay on the page? And how could she mark by lamp light? To impress parents, Miss Bentwhistle permitted her young ladies to use electricity at all hours, while, to cut costs, her teachers had been reduced to oil lamps!

In mid-sniffle, a smile flickered across Miss Budgie’s face. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? It was the answer to her problems. She began to hum. She wasn’t sure if it was something she remembered or something she was making up. Either way, it was a cheerful tune and put her in a very good mood as she danced about, emptying her boxes into a paper mountain at the centre of the room.

“Goodbye,” she laughed at the assignments.

And lit a bonfire.

M
iss Bentwhistle was in her nightie, tucking into her fourth nightcap when the alarm was sounded. She’d felt rather toasty, but had put it down to the alcohol.

“Good heavens,” she mused, hearing the tumult in the hall, “are there boys from the university on a panty raid?” She opened the door. Her rooms were immediately engulfed in smoke, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the sight of her secretary as sooty as a chimney sweep.

“Fire! Fire!”

Miss Bentwhistle blinked. Why, so there was.

“The school is lost!” Miss Pigeon cried. “We must save the girls!”

“To hell with the girls!” Miss Bentwhistle bellowed. She covered her mouth with a pair of old knickers, shoved Miss Pigeon aside, and barrelled down the corridor to the Academy Dining Hall. Inside were a pair of documents as precious to her as life itself.