Outside, Mrs. Wertz and the women were calling the menfolk to supper. Timmy made a beeline for the food lineup, appetite whetted no end. What a spread! The fairground tables bowed under a weight of roast and boiled meats, fresh vegetables, salads, sandwiches, and pies of every description.
Timmy was a prize piglet, even gobbling a scoop of his aunt’s potato salad, except for the olive bits. These he stored in his pants pockets, where he hoped they’d dry into ammunition for his peashooter.
“You’re like a little oinker fattening up for slaughter,” Mr. Wertz said, laughing. How he’d regret those words, wish to gobble them back as surely as Timmy did butter tarts. For if the Wichita kid was as stuffed as a mounted deer head, within two hours he’d be as dead.
God’s Judgment
Eyewitness reports of the tragedy were as varied as the Gospels. Nonbelievers, outside the tent, focused on the explosion of the generator, and the sight of the eyes of God, ripped from the side of the trailer, whirling in a metallic ring of fire into the heavens. Believers within recounted visitations by the beasts of Revelation, and of electrical wires transformed to the snake of Eden spitting fire as they whipped and darted in demonic pursuit of sinners.
Most famous within this apocalyptic tradition was the account of Mr. Bud Smith, featured in the Stratford Beacon Herald. Mr. Smith declared that the Pit of Hell had opened up to the right of his lawn chair, releasing a Satanic legion of armed skeletons that he’d single-handedly dispatched with the aid of his cane. The Herald declined to report that old age had been bringing the grizzled ancient similar visions on a more or less weekly basis.
Most widely circulated, however, was the version of Mrs. Betty Wertz, written for King Features Syndicate by then cub reporter K.O. Doyle.
I SAW TIMMY BEEFORD DIE
by Mrs. Betty Wertz
As told to Mr. K.O. Doyle
It was a terrible night, the night Timmy Beeford died. Died, dead, in the Tent of the Holy Redemption!
Under the big top, the air was so hot you could bake muffins. And so high you’d swear the Bennett brains were fresh from yesterday.
Worst of all, the service was late. According to Brother Floyd Cruickshank, his partner Brother Percy Brubacher had been detained by the Lord. “That’s all very well,” said I to my Tom, “but it means we’re left suffocating in an abattoir.”
Brother Floyd could see the flock was restless. He urged a singalong. So me, Tom, and the rest of the Bethel gospel choir took to the stage with our song sheets.
No sooner had we launched into “Power in the Blood,” than a snap storm hit. Thunder and lightning to beat the band, building to the third chorus, when out of nowhere Brother Percy staggered up the aisle, soaking wet, hollering in tongues.
We have the like at church each Sunday, hands heavenward, palms up, but never before the invocation. The sounds lit the crowd like a brusher, tongue-speaking blazing through the tent. It was as if we’d been beset by demons.
I wonder if folks went strange on account of the heat or something in the mayonnaise. Whatever it was, it was madness, and above it all the squeals of a child. “Apple cider! Apple cider!”
I looked over to the boys. Timmy Beeford was standing on the front-row pew, pointing at Brother Percy with one hand, while he made the crazy sign with the other.
Right then and there, I should have marched off that stage and given those kids what-for. Instead I froze. And in the seconds that followed, I lost the chance to act forever. For I wasn’t the only one to hear wee Timmy. Brother Percy’s eyes bulged and his index finger flew forward. “THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN. EXODUS 20, VERSE 7.”
The congregation snapped to attention. A moment of silence, except for the storm. Timmy woke to the rage before him. Too late.
“WOE TO BLASPHEMERS, FOR THEY SHALL BE STRUCK DEAD, AND GREAT SHALL BE THE TERROR THEREOF!”
No doubt Brother Percy only meant to give the lad a scare. But no sooner did those words fly from his mouth than lightning hit the metal cross on top of the tent.
A roar like Armageddon. The pole split in two, cords severed, wires fried, bulbs exploded, glass sprayed, as the bolt shot down the line outside and hit the generator. An explosion. In the pitch black, the creak of bars bending! The tent was caving! Bedlam! Everywhere, a mob of screaming worshipers scrambling to escape!
I feared the boys would be crushed underfoot. A raging bear, I tore through the dark to find my cubs. Found them. Grabbed them. Carried them to safety.
But something was wrong. Timmy was a lump, as pale as the moon.
“He got tangled in wire,” Billy wailed. “It sparked something crazy. Mommy — Mommy — he’s dead!”
As God is my witness, so he was.
Resurrection
Mary Mabel could swear on a stack of Bibles about what happened when she arrived at Riverside Bridge. She’d climbed on top of the railing, peered down, and felt a chill at the sight of the river rocks. Her mama’s voice had rung in her head like church bells: “Let go. Let go.” She’d closed her eyes, stretched out her arms, and then … and then? She hadn’t a clue. The next thing she recalled was twirling barefoot, like a dervish, before a radiant young man bathed in light.
At the sight of the angel, she’d dropped to her knees in wonder. “Am I in heaven?” she asked. “Are you God’s messenger, Gabriel?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied, “I’m George Dunlop. Ambulance driver from London General.”
Mary Mabel shielded her eyes from the sun, and saw that her angel had chin stubble, pimples, and a grass stain on his left knee from scrambling down the embankment. They were standing on the rocks by the river’s edge. The driver looked embarrassed. “The Petersons spotted you,” he said. “They called for help. Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
He said she ought to come with him, which seemed a good idea. Though otherwise unharmed, her dance on the sharp stones had cut her feet.
Thing were slow at the hospital, typical of a Sunday. The town was taking the Lord’s Day to rest, what with Saturday night hangovers and church. Aside from a couple of orderlies and a janitor, Dr. Hammond was alone with his trusty sidekick, Nurse Judd. Dr. Hammond had been a drill sergeant on home duty during the Great War, and used his army whistle to boss the wards. He had a reputation as a crusty sonovabitch who saw the sick as a nuisance, and forestalled discussion by making their diagnoses as incomprehensible as possible. His motto, “What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” was a comforting thought, though patently untrue judging by his contribution to the local cemetery.
As Nurse Judd wrapped her feet in gauze, Mary Mabel imagined herself an Egyptian princess being prepared for burial, her grieving Pharaoh father leading the court in lamentations so profound that the river Nile o’erflowed its banks with tears. Meanwhile, Dr. Hammond was calling the Academy. He told the porter to inform Mr. McTavish of his daughter’s whereabouts. Then he returned, took out his notepad, and began asking Mary Mabel questions so silly she thought he was teasing.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Westminster Abbey.”
“What is the date?”
“1812.”
“Is George Dunlop the Archangel Gabriel?”
“Of course not, he hasn’t a trumpet.”
Dr. Hammond paused. “Are you a humorist, Miss McTavish?”
“No, sir.”
There followed a heavy silence animated by medical jotting.