The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  He looked up, miserable, and she said, “You’re soaked, you must be freezing. Come, let’s dry you off and get you some coffee.”

  Grumbling, the man finally exhaled, rose, and followed her inside. She took his jacket and hung it on a chair by the radiator, seated him on the couch, and headed to the kitchen.

  “I’m Elizabeth Steiner,” she called back. “Betsy.” Returning with a tray, she set a pot of coffee and some pastries and napkins on the table in front of him, handing him a dishtowel.

  “Joe Butterfield,” he said, drying his hair, raking his fingers through the tangle. “How’d you know I’m his father?”

  She sat beside him. “He has your eyes.”

  He grunted and took a long drink. “Good java,” he muttered. “Much obliged.”

  “Try a strudel.”

  She pushed the plate nearer and refilled his cup. He grabbed a slice, took a bite, and his eyes widened. Swallowing, he took a larger bite, and she suggested, “They’re made to dunk.”

  He dipped and gobbled as if he’d had no breakfast. Pausing to wipe his mouth on the towel, he said, “So, Betsy, you know the boy.”

  “And Ivy. They’re delightful. Scott’s been very kind to me.”

  He took another drink, and scowled. “Then maybe you can explain what the hell he’s up to with this prophet bullshit.”

  “I wouldn’t call the ability to see the future ‘bullshit.’”

  “It sure as hell ain’t a miracle. I raised that boy, and I’m telling you, he ain’t no prophet. He’s got no religion.”

  Mrs. Steiner shrugged. “Who knows why God chooses the leaders He does? Moses was a reluctant prophet, too.”

  “Moses, my ass. Somebody’s dupin’ him. He’s an easy mark, livin’ in that fantasy world a his. Damned if I let him drag Ivy into it.”

  The anger in his eyes burned deep. Mrs. Steiner suspected an old wound that this current rub with Ivy had simply inflamed. Whatever the rift, it was disturbing. The man couldn’t even bring himself to use his son’s name.

  “I told that boy when I threw him out, leave your sister be, and he goes behind my back.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Mrs. Steiner said, “what did he do that you threw him out?”

  Joe laid a hard stare on her, and she feared she’d overstepped herself. But he replied, “Boy’s a shiftless dreamer. His mom made him that. Spoiled him. Before she passed, I swore I’d raise him right. I tried, and I failed.”

  “Aren’t all boys shiftless dreamers?”

  “A man grows out of it. Livin’ at home, he never wanted a job. Just stay in his room like a bum. On the Web, playing games and God-knows-what all hours. Still, I fed him, clothed him, kept a roof over him. Then one day he’s out somewheres. I walk by his room, and here’s Ivy on his computer watching filth. Filth he brought into my home. Things no girl should ever see.”

  Not knowing how to respond, Mrs. Steiner said nothing.

  “Boy was a burden even ‘fore he was born. Ivy’s all I got, I ain’t lettin’ him ruin her, too.”

  Mrs. Steiner blinked. “For heaven’s sake, Joe, how can a child be a burden before its born?”

  The man’s face clouded. Slapping his knees, he stood and retrieved his coat. “The rain’s let up,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Betsy, thanks for breakfast.”

  And he left.

  Chapter 87

  Saturday, October 25, 7:50 am

  the skies above New York

  Scotty smiled. He’d never seen Ivy so excited. He followed her eyes out the window of their little jet as Lady Liberty raised her torch to them in passing. And no sooner had the seatbelt light switched off than Ivy was up chatting with the flight attendant, inviting herself into the cockpit.

  The thrill in her face was well worth whatever Wrath Scotty had risked by bringing her along. He shared her exhilaration. This was a lifestyle neither had ever experienced—and after tomorrow, would likely never experience again.

  Far below, the grid of city and suburb gave way to patchworks of forest and broad farmland, and Ivy returned to her seat with drinks and snacks.

  “Try the shrimp,” she urged. “Delish.”

  Scotty did, and it was.

  She cocked her head and squinted at him in that quirky way Mom used to when she had something on her mind. “So, you won’t share the Sacred Secret?”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “I’d like to know why the Lord won’t trust me. At least tell me about the Shackleton tape.”

  Scotty cringed, glancing around, relieved to see the flight attendant occupied. “No one can know about our Mission,” he whispered. “I made a mistake telling you who’s on that tape.”

  “I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  Everyone knew the salacious rumors of Shackleton’s past. Drinking, drugs, and wild parties.

  “No, I’m thinking, what’s Thornton doing with a tape like that? And more to the point, why does the Lord want it?”

  Ivy sat back. “I don’t know, but I gotta say, there’s something wrong about this. Ariel may be an angel and all, but she sure acts human. And don’t forget, when this business is over and done with, and she and the Lord vanish, we’re on the hook for any problems they leave behind.”

  Scotty shifted in his seat. He had to admit there was troubling incongruity to these Missions. The Lord had sent Scotty to save a spectator at a ballpark, the mayor, a town in Georgia, Alice Willoughby. But He’d also allowed people to die in a restaurant explosion, a bus to crash, people injured. In fact, as Scotty recalled from the bible, while God was loving, merciful and caring, He was also angry, spiteful, jealous and vindictive. An almighty Jekyll & Hyde. Divinely bipolar.

  Their jet sailed into cloud, the cabin darkened, and Scotty said, “Maybe if I fetch the Lord His tape, He’ll pull some strings for us in return. Get you into a good college. Help me find a job. Maybe there’s a silver lining in here after all.”

  It was smooth cruising to Tennessee, where they swooped over the autumn brilliance of the Smoky Mountains to land at a tiny airport carved out of forest. The hatch opened onto a perfect, balmy day. Too warm for Scotty’s hoody, and he left it in the plane, almost forgetting his staff.

  Reverend Thornton was on the tarmac waiting, gold cross lapel pin flashing in the sun. Behind him was a car and driver, and further back, cordoned off by chain-link and security, representatives of every news media Scotty knew of, and many he didn’t. Next to them were hundreds of neatly dressed, cheering people, if few minorities. Scotty marveled at how different things were here, reminded of the poor wretches huddled in the rain outside his building at home.

  Thornton greeted them smiling, handing Ivy a bouquet of flowers. He seated them in the back of the car, the driver stowed their overnight bags and staff in the trunk, and they were off.

  “We’re so thrilled to be here,” Ivy told the reverend, and Scotty seconded.

  “My honor,” Thornton told them, beaming. “I can’t thank you enough for your blessings, praise the Lord. We have a full day planned for you. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to begin by taking you to meet someone very special.”

  They chatted on the short jaunt to town, media following in a caravan. Scotty liked Thornton. He found him warm, jovial, upbeat, easy to talk to. Ivy seemed to like him, too. It would make their Mission here easier, Scotty trusted.

  “I’ve so many questions,” Thornton said, eyes dancing. “I want to hear all about your experiences with the angel and the Lord.”

  Scotty sighed. “Sorry, I’m not allowed. The Lord will only let me discuss the reason He sent me. If we can set aside some time later.”

  Thornton flashed disappointment, but recovered with a smile. “Of course.”

  The car rounded a curve to emerge from a timberline onto a spectacular vista. Before them loomed a giant white structure that reminded Scotty of the U.S. Capital building. A church. Drawing closer, he saw a nearby park with a prominent hill at
its center. Beyond that, another extraordinary white structure rising into the skyline—an office building. Then the full City came into dazzling view, and Scotty gasped, “Heavenly.”

  Ivy said, “A magic kingdom.”

  Thornton beamed again.

  They turned onto a main boulevard, traveling past a gatehouse into the parking lot of a hospital. A gateman held out the media, and Thornton took Scotty and Ivy inside into a private suite overlooking a garden. There they met a lovely lady, Alice Willoughby, in bed recovering from a successful medical procedure. She and Thornton were effusive in their thanks, Scotty assuring them the credit accrued entirely to the Lord. Scotty couldn’t help but note the tenderness the woman and Thornton shared. Ivy saw, too, shooting Scotty a wink.

  Back at the car, Thornton asked them, “Do you enjoy parades?”

  “I never miss Macy’s Thanksgiving parade,” Ivy said, adding with a laugh, “Not that I can get close enough for more than a glimpse.”

  Thornton chuckled. “I promise you a perfect vantage point to enjoy ours.”

  They arrived at a town square, parking in a reserved spot, and Scotty exited to see helicopters circling—National news networks. The streets were filled with festival-goers, who recognized Scotty when the driver handed him his shepherd’s staff.

  “Prophet,” they cried, rushing for him. But Thornton hustled Scotty and Ivy into a roped-off area in front of City Hall, up steps to a pavilion. There were buffet tables in the back, and bleacher seats facing the street. Also, a podium decorated with red-white-and-blue bunting and American flags. Not the stars and stripes, exactly. In the blue square of the flags’ corners where the stars should be was a large, golden cross.

  The pavilion was crowded with well-dressed people bearing gold-cross pins like Thornton’s. Spying Scotty, they cheered and swarmed. Thornton introduced Scotty and Ivy to the mayor, city officials, Church dignitaries, and on, who showered Scotty with praise and thrust pens and paper at him. He was embarrassed, not least of all by his atrocious-looking signature.

  People asked, “What’s the latest prophecy?” “What’s the angel look like?” “What’s God like?” “Can you help my arthritis?”

  Scotty demurred.

  A woman peered closely at his shepherd’s staff, and gasped, “The rod of Moses!” Scotty held it out for people to touch, and they did so cautiously as if it might strike them dead.

  Down by the street, a familiar voice called to Scotty and Ivy. Scotty saw Kyle Heath of Hawk News in an area restricted to media. Other reporters shouted questions. Scotty waved.

  Thousands of spectators filled the street, some displaying signs with bible passages, others with messages such as, “Power to the Prophet!” and “God Lives!” Scotty’s view of the parade route was blocked by buildings on his right, but he could see left across an intersection to marching bands, floats, and giant balloons queued behind a ribbon that spanned the street.

  Soon a man in a tuxedo took the podium, tapping a microphone. It howled, and the proceedings came to order. He announced himself as master of ceremonies, welcoming all. And in particular,

  “…Our beloved Reverend Penbrook Thornton and his esteemed guests of honor, Scott and Ivy Butterfield, of Queens, New York.”

  The crowd roared.

  “We have much to be grateful for today,” the man said, bowing his head, and everyone followed suit. “Oh Heavenly Father,” he intoned, “we thank You for the bountiful harvest You’ve bestowed upon us this season. We come together in tribute to Your beneficence, and to celebrate in Your honor and glory. Together we pray for Thy continued blessings upon us, our guests, and our festival.”

  A chorus of Amens answered, and he raised up to add, “And now, it’s my great privilege and pleasure to present to you this year’s Harvest Homecoming Festival Grand Marshal—” he turned to Scotty, “Mr. Scott Butterfield.”

  The crowd was jubilant, and Thornton urged Scotty to his feet. Scotty felt his face redden, half-standing, terrified he’d be asked to speak, quickly retaking his seat. The noise ebbed, and the man at the podium cried, “Let the festivities begin.”

  Another roar, and the street began to clear, people packing shoulder-to-shoulder along the sidewalks, crowding into storefronts, every niche and gap. The band struck up a hymn, a woman with giant scissors cut the ribbon, and the band strutted forward, followed by floats and balloons and more bands. As they passed the pavilion, they turned to pay homage.

  A large float lumbered by—Noah’s ark, with a man in flowing white beard standing alongside pairs of stuffed animals, including dinosaurs. Scotty felt Ivy’s elbow in his side.

  The parade continued, and Scotty’s arms grew weary waving. At last, he spied the end, a driver in a shiny convertible, no passengers. The car stopped in front of the pavilion, and Thornton said to Scotty with a smile, “Your ride, sir.”

  The mayor offered Ivy his arm, Thornton escorted Scotty, and they made their way down. Scotty was seated in the back of the car, Ivy one side, Thornton the other, mayor in the front. The driver started up again, and the media tracked along behind, some on foot, others in cars and vans as choppers hovered above.

  The length of the street was now visible, lined with spectators celebrating Scotty as if he were royalty. He was reminded, oddly, of Palm Sunday and Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Only to recall with discomfort the Fate that awaited Christ. Scotty felt a fraud. People still clung to the belief he was some holy emissary, despite his insistence otherwise, and it struck him the magnitude of the wave he was caught up in. The Prophet phenomenon had spread far beyond New York, deep into America’s heartland. Scotty was now the face of something over which he exerted no control; a strawman in whatever divine game was playing out. More than ever, he was determined to finish this Mission and melt back into the refuge of anonymity.

  But he worried about Ivy. Watching her drink in the attention, he feared that having tasted the good life, she might never again be content with how things were.

  Then again, maybe that was a good thing.

  Their car reached a block of taller business buildings, and suddenly a blizzard of streamers began to fall, so thick Scotty could hardly see. Each streamer contained printed words, he realized, like fortune cookies. Catching one, he read:

  Philippians 3:13—“Forget those things which are behind; reach forth unto those things which are before.”

  The crowd thinned, floats and balloons breaking off.

  Thornton glanced at his watch. “Okay, Mark,” he told his driver, and the car swung onto a side road, media pursuing.

  A beautiful white stadium came into view, reminiscent of the Coliseum in Rome. Attendants waved their car through a gate, closing the media off, and it stopped in front of the stadium. The bright sounds of John Phillip Sousa emanated from within. Thornton and the mayor escorted Ivy and Scotty from the car, through an archway and ramp to box seats on the fifty-yard line.

  Scotty was thrilled. He’d never seen a football game live.

  Once they’d settled, Thornton leaned in to say, “After dinner tonight, if it suits you, I thought we could discuss the Lord’s purpose in sending you here.”

  Scotty nodded, surprised to see the shine in the man’s eyes fade.

  “I’ve known this day would come,” Thornton said as if to himself, as if resigned to some dreaded fate. “The Lord will have His reckoning.”

  Chapter 88

  October 25, 1:00 pm, Talawanda

  Stan was out in the tent checking equipment, Ariel, Max, and Tia in the living room on laptops monitoring the Butterfields’ four-year-old trip to the City of God. The media had been all over it, updated news appearing constantly in the archives.

  Ariel watched the parade through tears, careful to hide them from Max. Every autumn when Ariel was young, Mom would take her to Homecoming, just the two of them. A magical time. Memories flooded back for her to cherish again. The flash of marching brass bands, jubilant in the sun. Bright uniforms, spectacular floats, in
flatables, fancy cars, cheering crowds.

  She missed her mother so. After coming to grips with Phil’s files, Ariel had reached out to her again. No response. Ariel told herself Mom was in no danger, Phil’s sickness targeted only young girls…

  The camera cut to a panoramic shot of the City, and Ariel wiped the nostalgia from her eyes. Not a City of God, but a gleaming-white internment camp, with impregnable walls of ideology.

  Stan popped in the front door, startling her to announce, “Another Timequake last night. Five-point-three magnitude, eleven-second duration.”

  The new seismograph had hardly been in operation a day.

  Ariel asked anxiously, “How big will the Big One be? Like the 1906 San Francisco quake?”

  Stan replied, “The San Francisco quake measured eight-point-two. Three points higher than what you and Max experienced. But seismograph scales are a logarithm, meaning the Frisco quake was actually eight hundred times bigger than yours. Compared to what’s coming, a hiccup, I expect.”

  Ariel grabbed Tia’s hand, and Tia squeezed back.

  Max rapped his knuckles on the coffee table, turning from his computer to say, “I just read a theoretical article on Time travel, and it may shed some light on the quakes we’re experiencing.”

  He had everyone’s attention.

  “The article gives an analogy to explain how changes to the past could affect the present. Imagine a sheet of cellophane stretched tight, with a bowstring penetrating it in the middle. The cellophane represents a membrane dividing past from present. The string is a timeline. The article suggests small changes to the past travel down the Timeline and build up against the membrane, creating pressure on one side.”

  Ariel pictured a flock of butterflies floating down the string, crashing into plastic wrap.

  “…Every now and then, a small change leaks through, causing quakes, and waves, and minor alterations to the present. Like what we experienced during the storm the other day—Tia’s hair, and her and Stan’s memories.”