The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

Scotty asked, “Does he…ever mention me?”

  She avoided his eyes. “I’m really, really sorry what happened.”

  Scotty failed to reply, and she snorted, “For Pete’s sake, I thought it was a stupid videogame. How was I to know? Blue Angels?”

  “You shouldn’t have been in my room on my computer. How’d you get my passcode?”

  “May the Force be with you? Please!”

  He sighed. “You did me a favor. I should have left years ago.”

  “So how you doing? Other than your foot.”

  “Good. Good.”

  He didn’t look good. Scotty was dearer to her than anyone in the world, but honestly, the way he kept himself. Circles under his eyes. Hair brushed with an eggbeater. Wrinkled T-shirt, stretched-out jeans, socks with holes. And those nasty, nasty whiskers. She gave them a tug. “Jeez, shave, will ya? You look like Rasputin junior.” She’d taken AP Russian history. The only reason Scotty had grown a beard was to hide behind it, like his hair. Somewhere underneath all that scruff was a nice-looking guy. “You seeing anyone?”

  “A shrink.”

  She jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, and he grunted, “Too busy with work. You?”

  “Pop keeps me on a short leash. Afraid I’ll meet a guy I like—not that I will.”

  There were some things she kept private, even from her brother.

  “Then you’ve had plenty of time to work on your college shortlist.”

  “It’s short, alright. BBC.”

  Bronx Business College. Scotty’s tone sharpened. “Dammit, Ivy, you promised. You’re not going to that schmuck hole. You’re gonna get a legitimate degree.”

  That was her dream, too, and that’s all it was. Pop, who never went past high school, thought BBC highbrow.

  “…You apply to those schools we talked about. American, Washington, the others. Don’t worry about tuition, we’ll deal with that later.”

  “Yeah, the rest of our lives.”

  His face clouded, and his voice fell. “You’ve got a real shot at a scholarship. Your grades, your college boards. Regardless, I’m setting money aside.”

  Who was he kidding? He’d been employed less than six months at a zippo job.

  “Scotty, it’s fifty bucks an application. We can’t even afford that.”

  But seeing him darken, she relented. “Okay, okay, I’ll get a list together.” And giving Homer a pat, she stood. “I’d better go.”

  “Not till you meet Mrs. Steiner. She’d never forgive me.”

  Scotty had mentioned his neighbor in texts and brief chats. The “grandmother” Ivy never had. Pop’s parents had skipped out on him when he was a toddler. All he had left of them was his birth certificate with their names. Ivy had met Mom’s parents only as a newborn, at Mom’s funeral. There were photos of them holding her. Kind-faced. From Idaho. They’d passed on.

  Ivy bid Homer goodbye, grabbed her jacket, and Scotty ushered her downstairs, stopping at 1-B. Before he could knock, the door opened to engulf them in opera music and the scent of cinnamon. Greeting them was a petite, gray-haired lady in a long coat, buttoned up. Ivy assumed the woman was about to go out, yet she wore indoor slippers. She held a pie, thrusting it into Scotty’s hands. Apple crescents grinned up through windows of golden, cross-hatched crust.

  “I’ve been watching for you,” the lady said, voice soft, eyes magnified by wire-rim glasses.

  Scotty’s face puzzled. “Thanks. But what’s the occasion?”

  “A little treat for all you do for me.” She turned to Ivy. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”

  “My sister,” Scotty said. “Ivy, meet my good friend, Mrs. Steiner.”

  Ivy extended a hand, but Mrs. Steiner pulled her in for a hug, gushing, “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you, Ivy.”

  Ivy returned the compliment, and the lady beckoned them inside.

  “Can’t stay long,” Scotty told her as they entered, “Ivy’s on borrowed time.”

  “You’ve time for a slice of pie, at least.”

  Mrs. Steiner noticed Scotty’s limp. “Gracious, what did you do to yourself?”

  “A little fall, nothing serious.” He glanced around, frowned, and said, “Man, it’s cold as a meat locker in here. What’s with your heat?”

  “No idea, it’s been like this all week. I’m waiting to hear back from Samood.”

  Scotty handed Ivy the pie and headed for the living room radiator. Mrs. Steiner’s floor plan mirrored Scotty’s, but the similarity ended there. 80s-era decor in mint condition. A divan with needlepoint pillows, facing a TV. A mahogany dining set, matching sideboard, a bookcase filled with psychology tomes. The walls were full of framed photos featuring Mrs. Steiner in younger years, and a kind-faced man with playful eyes.

  Scotty looked up from the radiator to say, “I’ll be back,” and hobbled out the door.

  Ivy followed Mrs. Steiner to the kitchen where the oven door was open, burner on, a small table and chair pulled close. Sitting atop the table were a cup of tea and a newspaper. The only other person Ivy ever knew to get an actual paper was Pop.

  “Scott is such a sweet boy,” Mrs. Steiner said with warmth. “Always there for me.” She began to fill a tray with plates, cups, napkins and cutlery.

  Ivy felt a sadness pass through her. Scotty had been more father to her than Pop. Reading to her at bedtime. Helping her with her homework. Nursing her when sick. “I worry about him.”

  “How so?”

  “Ever see him with any friends? A girlfriend?”

  Mrs. Steiner said nothing, and Ivy added, “He’s a recluse. Growing up, he spent all his spare time in his room, online. His only friends were videogamers—and a few in his head.”

  The woman’s brow knotted, and Ivy assured, “He outgrew the imaginary friends. But it used to drive Pop nuts.”

  “We all have our coping mechanisms,” Mrs. Steiner said, patting Ivy’s hand.

  Scotty returned with a wrench and towel, and proceeded to bleed the radiators.

  Mrs. Steiner poured milk and cut the pie, telling Ivy, “Scott is so proud of you. He says you’re an avid reader with an encyclopedic memory. Only sixteen, and graduating high school in the spring.”

  “I skipped a grade in middle school.”

  “And I understand you’re going to college. What would you like to study?”

  “Still working on where, but I’m interested in poly-sci, foreign relations, and history.”

  “My–my.”

  They carried things to the dining room table, and Scotty joined them. Ivy felt heat emanating from the register.

  “The pie’s amazing,” Ivy said. Scotty agreed.

  Mrs. Steiner beamed and turned to Scotty. “Have you met our new neighbor yet?”

  His eyes lit. “Not exactly.”

  “Kassandra Kraft. Pretty little thing.”

  Scotty seemed wistful. “What’s she do?”

  “Didn’t say, we just spoke in passing.” Mrs. Steiner gave him a wink. “Why not take her a slice of pie and introduce yourself? She could stand to fill out some.”

  He continued wistful, and Ivy gestured to the photos on the wall, asking Mrs. Steiner, “Are these pictures of you and your husband?”

  Mrs. Steiner’s smile broadened. “You know, when Arty and I first met, he looked a bit like Scott.” She pointed out a snapshot of a bright-faced young man in a flowered shirt, longish dark hair and scruffy attempt at a beard, the stem of a carnation between his teeth. Behind him, out of focus, was an ocean of people on a hillside. “Woodstock,” she said.

  Ivy leaned in closer to the photo. Indeed, Arty had the same blue eyes as Scotty. Except Arty’s were dancing, and he was grinning in every shot. Scotty seldom grinned, and always behind a hand. His crooked teeth.

  “How’d you meet?” Ivy asked.

  “In a paddy wagon headed to jail. We were arrested together.”

  Ivy squinted, assuming she was teasing.

  Mrs. Steiner explained, “Spring
of ’68, SDS protests at Columbia.”

  Ivy knew. The nationwide activist movement, SDS. Students for a Democratic Society.

  “…The school was conducting weapons research for the Defense Department, and students occupied campus buildings to demonstrate. They rounded up seven hundred of us.”

  “Peaceniks,” Ivy said with awe. “I learned about the 60s in social studies. You went to Columbia? What was your major?”

  “I wasn’t there long enough to major in anything, but I always thought psychiatry would be a fulfilling career. Arty and I fell in love, dropped out, and moved in together. Such idealists.”

  “But you helped stop a war. Demonstrations go nowhere nowadays. We raise our voices, and the opposition shouts us down and sends in riot control.” She felt her face heat. “You watch, it’s all coming to a head. If Shackleton loses, there’ll be another Civil War, bloodier than the first!”

  Mrs. Steiner patted Ivy’s hand, and Scotty sighed and stood. He and Ivy gave out hugs, promised to visit again soon, and rushed off, forgetting the pie.

  Scotty walked Ivy to the subway, and the nearer they drew, the quieter she became.

  “You’re not getting sentimental about me, are you?” he teased.

  She punched his arm hard, called him a jerk, and skipped off down the steps to the platforms, shouting back, “See you next week. If Pop isn’t wise to me.”

  Scotty’s arm still stung on the way home. Albeit, his ankle and back were better. He no longer needed a cane. He was feeling better about his plans for Ivy, too. If, in fact, the problem in his apartment was behind him, he could now devote himself fully to her tuition. A second or third job might do it. Nights, weekends. Ivy meant everything to him. Whatever it took, she wasn’t ending up like him.

  But the moment he opened the door to his apartment, his hopes vanished.

  Once more, Mom’s plant lay overturned, cat crying under the bed. Furious, Scotty did a quick search to find nothing else out of order. Rushing to the spycam on his desk, he removed the memory card and slipped it into his computer, hands trembling.

  On screen appeared a silent, black and white video showing the plant upright and seemingly untouched in the dimness of the living room. Scotty wished now he’d left the blinds open. Imbedded in the bottom left corner of the video was a timecode. He fast-forwarded until, at the 2:01 PM mark, the plant abruptly toppled. Scotty backed up to 2:00, resumed normal speed, and watched in astonishment as one instant the plant was there, the next hurled violently over as if by some invisible force. He replayed the recording in slomo, leaning in close. Yet he saw nothing to account for what happened.

  “Holy shit! Holy, holy shit.”

  Rising on unsteady legs, he crept to the felled plant. Now, in addition to the ring burned onto its back side, branches were broken. No marks on the floor or the walls in the corner behind.

  He staggered to his room and collapsed on the bed. These attacks felt personal. Yet nobody but Pop and Ivy knew the plant’s importance to Scotty, and no way either were involved.

  Homer hopped up beside him. Face it, man, Reggie’s right.

  Much as he tried, Scotty could muster no argument. Mom had also viewed life through a supernatural lens. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, mind hurtling back decades to his first encounter with things spiritual. A traumatic encounter he’d never gotten out of his soul…

  Scotty was five or six at the time. Surely Mom had taken him to church before, but this visit seared his memory. They’d entered through the vestibule, Mom holding his hand, leading him down the main aisle toward the altar. A huge, somber old church. Must have been a weekday, the nave was nearly empty. Scent of candle wax and stale incense. Lofty arches and stained-glass windows. Surreal. Intimidating.

  When they reached the communion rail, his eyes fell upon the figure central to all this pageantry. A realistic, life-size statue of the crucified Christ, suspended in space. Scotty froze in his tracks, screaming. Never in his young life had he seen anything so terrifying. He thought it a real man. Naked, contorted in agony, bleeding from countless wounds. He tore for the exit, his only other recollection that day was of Mom trying to comfort him on the bus home.

  And in the coming years as his religious instruction unfolded, he was unable to resolve his phobia of church, careful to keep those feelings to himself. Despite Mom’s convictions and his best efforts, he never could embrace her Faith. The same Faith that eventually cost her her life…

  Scotty’s thoughts returned to the problem at hand.

  What the hell was going on? How much more could his poor plant take? How much more could he and Homer take? Unless he solved this crisis, and soon, he’d be forced to move. But to where? His rent-controlled sublet was one in a million, not forgetting his security deposit and prepaid rent he’d forfeit. On his salary, he’d end up in a dump far from the transit lines, forced to find a roommate. The thought of losing his solitude sickened him.

  Yet he sensed things were only going to get worse.

  Chapter 11

  Monday, October 13, 8:27 am, the Bronx

  If Margo was upset with Scotty for missing Sunday services, she seemed no crankier at work today than usual. Regardless, she was off his list of suspected intruders. Scotty had come to a reluctant decision he chose not to share with Reggie and the sardonic Zing.

  Mom had always told him, especially toward the end when she grew weak, “God is a jealous God with a long memory. Keep the Faith, and even in your darkest hour, He’ll be there for you.”

  Well, no. Scotty’s darkest hour came soon after in a waiting room at a Bronx Hospital, Pop slouched drunk in the next chair as Ivy came into the world, and Mom departed. Mom’s promise and Scotty’s pleading prayers aside, God had abandoned him. And in return, filled with anger and bitterness, Scotty shucked his religion. Only to haul it back out last night and dust it off.

  Not that he didn’t believe in God, exactly, he simply didn’t like Him. Scotty embraced science. All the same, science said to keep an open mind to all possibilities. Suppose then that Mom’s God was real, and His patience with Scotty’s faithlessness had finally worn thin. Were these demonic events in Scotty’s apartment God’s punishment?

  Much as he wanted to rule that out, he couldn’t, and it left him feeling way over his head. Apart from the religion of his youth, he’d no exposure to the supernatural. Especially the sinister side—horror movies and graphic novels excepted. If forced to delve into this Unknown, he’d need professional help. And unable to sleep last night, he’d gone online looking for it.

  To his surprise, many such services were available. Paranormal consultants and investigators, psychics, mediums, crystal ball gazers, and on. Yet he knew enough to know you didn’t apply an occult fix to a spiritual problem. What he needed here wasn’t Ghostbusters, but The Exorcist.

  Lunchtime found him outside Schlompsky’s on the phone, pacing the sidewalk, jawing with the Catholic Archdiocese of New York. Getting nowhere. Mere mention of exorcism drew choked responses, and he was passed from one person to another like a collection plate. No one wanted to hear about restless spirits, much less arrange to have them expunged.

  Of course, Catholicism wasn’t the only religion to perform rites of exorcism. It was, however, the industry gold standard, in the business a thousand years longer than its closest competitor. Scotty refused to give up, and at last he found a sympathetic ear. An aide to the New York archbishop. An elderly woman, by her voice.

  She listened to Scotty’s story, then said, “Sorry, Mr. Butterfield, I’m afraid you don’t meet Church standards for the services you seek. We get so many requests, a huge backlog, and just one priest to handle the entire Northeast.”

  “I swear I’m not crazy,” Scotty insisted.

  “No, I don’t believe you are. But the current wait is a year or better, and frankly, as these matters go, yours sounds trifling. A minor, mischievous spirit, I suspect.”

  Scotty moaned, “It may be trifling to the Church, bu
t it’s terrifying to me and my cat. There’s got to be something I can do.”

  “You might ask your pastor to drop by and bless your apartment.”

  “That works?” Scotty didn’t have a pastor.

  She paused. “Truth be told, once a spirit settles in, it can take some effort to dislodge it. Special prayers and rituals.”

  Whatever it took. “Where can I find the prayers and rituals?”

  “Sorry, they’re not available. The Church keeps a tight lid on Her rites of exorcism. A dangerous business, not to be dabbled in. Only a specially trained priest can conduct the rite, and only with the expressed permission of the bishop.”

  “Even a minor case like mine?”

  “I’m afraid so. You might try praying to St. Michael the Archangel, patron saint of exorcism.”

  Thanking her for her time, he skulked back to work, flustered and depressed.

  Scotty continued in an anxious mood on the bus ride home, arriving at his apartment to find his forebodings borne out. He opened the door to a noxious reek, fumbling the light on to see his living room a wreck. As if a tornado had blown through. Chairs, lamps, bookcase upended. Cushions torn, stuffing everywhere. Magazines, papers, CDs strewn about amid leaves of Mom’s plant—toppled again. Many personal possessions were clawed and chewed almost beyond recognition. Including, to his dismay, the spycam and its memory card.

  If not the work of a demon, it certainly smelled of it. A demon enraged by Scotty’s delving into exorcism, either marking its territory or scaring the piss out of Homer.

  Shutting the door behind him, Scotty entered to detect a second odor. His nose crinkled at the sharp scent of burnt hair. Or fur. He moaned and his eyes flew to the bedroom door. Closed, but bearing deep scratches. No sound from Homer, and the latch was open. Scotty was certain he’d fastened it. Plucking the shepherd’s crook of the rack, wielding it like a club, he headed for the back room calling anxiously, “Here, Homer. Here, boy…”

  No response. If anything happened to his pet! The kitchen and bath were also ransacked. He pushed open the bedroom door and stared into the gloom, surprised to find the room undisturbed. Dropping to his knees, he held his breath and peered under the bed.