The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (27 page)

Home

A
fter
the car wreck, Mary Mabel had headed back to the camp. She knew Skinner wouldn’t be near the place. Too many cops.

It took her three hours on foot. By the time she got to Barclay Side Road, there were barricades. There was also a crowd of gawkers, watching the ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks come and go. She made a wide detour above the tracks, figuring the authorities would still be dealing with the crime scenes.

She was right. The camp was untouched. She bobbed her hair with a rusty scissors and changed into the smallest set of clothes hanging on the lean-tos; Brewster’d said they belonged to a Comrade Duddy. If she was going to hit the rails on her own, she figured she’d better do it dressed as a man.

After she’d changed, she packed some cans of food and a can opener in Duddy’s satchel. She also packed her Match Girl outfit which she’d been wearing since San Simeon; it was pretty high, but she thought that someday she’d like a souvenir. Finally, she took the money stash hidden inside the junked car seat by the compost; she’d seen Brewster dip into it before heading out for groceries and whiskey; better to take it than leave it to rot, she figured.

Mary Mabel hoisted her new belongings and walked along the track away from the accident. At length, she reached a trestle bridge, where she waited till the trains were back in operation, and hopped the first one east. She had no clear idea of where she wanted to go, so she let the rails decide for her, swapping flatcars as the mood struck. Some nights she’d camp out in the middle of nowhere, and bathe in a stream if there was one handy. Other times, she’d curl up and fall asleep to the rhythmic clickety-clack of the track.

After about a week, she started to overhear tramps discussing reports of her death. They mourned openly. It was humbling and liberating. A good time to stare at the stars and to think.

Why did Mama set me on this journey?
she wondered. At first the answer seemed obvious. If she’d refused the call, Timmy Beeford would be dead. Or would he? Perhaps someone else would have laid on hands. Who can tell about anything? She remembered how Miss Bentwhistle had demanded that she deny her mama’s miracle or be put on the street. She’d refused and ended up a star.

Gosh
, she thought,
am I just a bubble of happenstance?

No sooner had the idea occurred than she had a vision. Not of paradise and angels, but of a place she had to go for her journey to be complete.

I
t took her a week to ride into Canada, and another few weeks to get east. In Winnipeg, she stopped to buy a dress. From there, she went by bus to Cedar Bend. The buildings stood where they’d always stood, but something was different. When she’d been little, the town’s focus had been the mill. Now it was the tourist sites commemorating the early life of Sister Mary Mabel McTavish.

She walked up and down Main Street, sticking her head into stores to see if she’d be recognized. If so, better to know now than to be surprised later.

The stores were empty. She found the owners at the barber shop. When she walked in, the men froze. At first she thought it was because they knew her, but it was because she was a woman. She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course no one recognized her. The camera plays tricks. More important, Mary Mabel was dead.

“What can I do you for?” asked the barber.

“My name’s Ruth Kincaid,” she said, pressing her luck. “I’m looking for a Mr. Jimmy McRay.”

The room paused. “We used to have a Ruth Kincaid McTavish in town,” the barber squinted. “She was the mother of our Mary Mabel. Might you by any chance be a relative? You bear a slight resemblance.”

“As a matter of fact, Mary Mabel was a distant cousin,” she said. “We didn’t have much in common, but I knew her a little.”

“Dying so young, it’s such a tragedy. But she’ll be remembered, oh yes, long after we’re gone.”

The room nodded solemnly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have the touch, would you?” asked a man with an overbite. “You know, being a relative and all?”

“I thought I did, once upon a time. But I’m no Mary Mabel McTavish.”

The man nodded. “She was one of a kind, poor thing.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the barber said, “Now about Jimmy …”

M
r. McRay was on the porch, as if expecting her arrival. He knew her at once. “I figured you’d be by sooner or later; I never do trust the papers.” He smiled. “That reporter fella passed on the photo of you and your mama, eh? I was hoping he might. How long you planning to stay?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Mr. McRay said he’d love to give her his spare room, but it wouldn’t be proper. However, his daughter, Iris, lived just a few blocks over. She’d never married. “Iris was the bosom friend of your mama. She’ll make you welcome.”

“Thank you. But please, Mr. McRay, no one can know it’s me.”

“I understand.”

They walked to the cemetery, and he showed her where her mama was laid to rest. There was a white marble stone that read:

H
ERE
L
IES
R
UTH
K
INCAID
M
C
T
AVISH

1903–1922

L
OVING
M
OTHER OF
M
ARY
M
ABEL
M
C
T
AVISH

“I
N
O
UR
H
EARTS AND
M
INDS
F
OREVER
”

“Your papa didn’t have much time for markers. But thanks to you being so famous, town council put up this memorial. It’s in the visitors’ guide.” McRay pointed to his wife’s grave. “If you need me, I’ll be just over there with Gracie.”

Mary Mabel nodded thanks. She sat on the ground and closed her eyes. There was a light breeze. She smiled.

S
he stayed with Iris and got a job looking after the library. Town council voted her a stipend and looked after room and board. It was a mess; the last librarian had had glaucoma so bad he couldn’t see to sort the books. But in short order, she put things to rights, and more and more people began to drop in. She set up a children’s book club for Saturday mornings, and taught adults to read in her spare time.

Naturally, word got around that she was a shirt-tail cousin of Mary Mabel. Every so often, townsfolk and tourists would come by to tell her a tale about her famous relative, one that she mightn’t have heard. She got to love hearing these stories. In the end, legends about Mary Mabel McTavish were no different than legends about Robin Hood or Pocahontas. They had their own truth, even if it was a truth that never happened.

In her heart, she grew to know and accept that she wasn’t Mary Mabel McTavish anymore, and never would be again. Mary Mabel was a saint whose memory gave hope to believers. She was a town librarian who offered comfort through books. The Miracle Maid had died and she had been reborn in her passing.

O
ne night she wrote a letter to Doyle to let him know that she was well. Mr. McRay dropped by a few weeks later to say: “A friend of yours is in town. He’s staying at the Lodge.”

Doyle waited till closing time to put in an appearance. They didn’t say a word. Just beamed at one another. Then they laughed till the tears came. “Give me a hug” — the words came from their lips at the same time.

He took her to Mr. Woo’s for supper: wonton soup and a hamburger. They had banana splits for dessert and he proposed.

She got very serious. “K.O., you’re a true friend,” she said, “but you’re talking fairy tales.”

“I’m talking destiny.”

“Here’s destiny: your life is a continent away.”

He looked down. She held his hand. He shook her off and paid the bill.

They took a long walk beside the river. Doyle stopped to skip stones across the current. “You’re right,” he said at last. “This is a whole other world. But what if I came up for summer getaways? I’d like to get to know you. Here.”

She smiled. “I’d like to get to know you, too.”

Doyle shuffled. “I know you can’t make promises, but …”

She held up her hand. “With a little luck and imagination, anything’s possible.”

“I hope,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

They sat on the riverbank and talked till dawn. What would happen would happen, if it happened. Now was enough for now. It was a wonderful night. She felt no need to call on her mama for guidance. Nor did she ever feel the need again. In Cedar Bend, her mama was simply in the air she breathed. Her mama was at home, at peace.

And so was she.

About
the
Author

a
llan
Stratton is the internationally acclaimed author of
Chanda’s Secrets
, which was made into the Cannes Film Festival hit
Life, Above All
. His books are published in over twenty countries. Before turning to fiction, Allan wrote
Nurse Jane Goes to Hawaii
, one of the most produced plays in Canadian theatre history. His citations include the Canadian Authors Association Award, the ALA Michael L. Printz Honor Book, the CLA Best Book for Young Adults Award, the Children’s Africana Award, the Dora Mavor Moore Award, two Junior Library Guild selections (USA), three ALA Best Book nods, a
Times
of London
Book of the Week; and nominations for the Governor General’s Award (for both children’s literature and drama), the Forest of Reading Award, and the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour. He lives in Toronto with his partner and four cats. You can visit him online at
www.allanstratton.com
.

Copyright © Allan Stratton, 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Editor: Shannon Whibbs

Design: Jennifer Scott

Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Stratton, Allan, author

The resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish / Allan Stratton.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-4597-0849-5 (pbk.).-- ISBN 978-1-4597-0850-1 (pdf).-- ISBN 978-1-4597-0851-8 (epub)

I. Title.

PS8587.T723R47 2014 C813’.54 C2013-906070-7 C2013-906071-5

We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Canada Book Fund
and
Livres Canada Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit
and the
Ontario Media Development Corporation
.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

Visit us at:
Dundurn.com
@dundurnpress
Facebook.com/dundurnpress
Pinterest.com/dundurnpress