by Glenn Kleier
Ivy muttered, “And the Prophet wants to know, what’s up with Ariel?”
Four days since they’d last heard from her. It seemed that having passed the divine torch to Thornton, the Lord was done with Scotty. Or maybe angry over the continued delays in getting the videotape—Thornton had called earlier to report discussions with the Council were not going well. The Lord’s deadline was but sixteen hours away, and without the tape, Ivy and Scotty had no means to negotiate their fate with the Lord.
Ivy’s throat tightened. One way or another, their adventure was nearing an end. The crowds, reporters, and cameras would soon melt away, and she and Scotty would fade back into their desolate little lives to await whatever miserable fate Ariel refused to disclose.
Scotty, at least, had something to take his mind off their worries. Tonight was Halloween, and tape or no, he was attending Webster Hell with that vamp down the hall. Ivy could hear him in the bedroom changing into the costume he’d ordered online. She was curious to know what it was. He’d given her only a hint, describing it as, “A fitting way to end my captivity.”
At last, his door opened, and he clopped into the living room to announce proudly, “Ta-dah.”
Ivy’s jaw dropped, and she exploded in laughter.
Scotty frowned. “What?”
She couldn’t stop howling. He was in sandals and a long, red-and-white pullover robe cinched at the waist with a gold cord. In his hand was a cheap, telescoping staff that ended in a curly-cue. And most ridiculous, he sported a long white wig and clip-on beard.
“Who the heck are you supposed to be?” she blubbered.
“Moses, of course!”
Again, she erupted in peels. “Santa Bo Peep, is more like it.”
But seeing him wilt, she headed over, looking him up and down, trying to stifle her laughter.
“Relax,” she told him, “I can fix you.” She tugged on his fake beard. “Lose this and the wig, they make you look like a clown.” She pointed to the faux staff. “That goofy baton—you’ve got the real thing, use it.” And rubbing her chin as if making a finessed call, she finished, “Trade the robe and sandals for your hoody, jeans, and sneakers, and presto, done.”
His frown deepened. “Go as myself?”
“Isn’t that what Kassandra said, come as you are?”
“But it’s a masquerade. And I don’t want to be recognized.”
Ivy sighed. “You’ve no idea, do you? The hot costume this Halloween is you. Trust me, there’ll be a hundred lookalikes, everybody drunk or stoned, you’ll hide in plain sight.”
He seemed unconvinced. But snorting, he retreated to the bedroom, returning minutes later, back to himself.
It was time to go.
Ivy smoothed his hair, and handed him his real shepherd’s staff.
“There,” she told him, “you look great.” Giving him a kiss on his scruffy cheek, she shooed him out the door. “Go, have fun, you earned it. To hell with the Lord for one night. To Webster Hell.”
She finally got a smile out of him, and he paid her a thumbs-up, and left.
Chapter 106
Friday, October 31, 8:27 pm, Queens
Scotty paused at Kassandra’s door to collect himself.
A second date. He’d never had one of those before. House-arrest be damned, he was poised to enjoy a night on the town, beautiful woman on his arm, out in the company of other people.
He’d had his fill of orders. Week after week, scurrying to do the Lord’s bidding, anything asked of him, to the best of his ability, at no small pain and cost. Only to be grounded like a wayward child. He recalled from the Old Testament, God had two sides. Kind, loving, and merciful. Angry, jealous, and vengeful. A two-faced God. Bipolar. And so far in his relationship with the Lord, Scotty had mostly seen the dark side. The side that took his mother from him.
He saw no such darkness in Ariel. Simply a messenger obeying orders. Like Scotty. But beyond the dazzle of her eyes was a deep ache he identified with. It gnawed at him. There was something very off in all this. Something superunnatural, and he’d no idea what.
Inhaling, he gripped the shepherd’s staff in damp hands and rapped it on Kassandra’s door. Suddenly there appeared before him a vision. An angel in a white, strapless, gravity-defying slip of a dress. Black lipstick and eye shadow, white pageboy wig, golden wings, a halo suspended above her head on the prongs of a tiara.
Not an angel of Ariel’s distinction, of course, no human possessed such ethereal qualities. And none of Ariel’s virtue, either—the dress had revealing gauze cut-outs. But by far, the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met in person.
“You look amazing,” he told her.
“And you look Prophetic,” she said with a wry smile. “I’d invite you in for a drink, but our car’s waiting, and it’s got a stocked bar.”
Grabbing a white shawl and matching clutch, she shut the door, looped her arm through his, and whisked him downstairs and out into the night.
The crowd went nuts. Cops rushed to form a protective phalanx, and Scotty threw his arm around Kassandra, shepherding her to a black Escalade, people lurching and screaming. He slid her into the rear compartment and followed, the driver locked the doors, and they inched away.
“Damn,” she gasped. Her wings had been crushed in the scrum, and she removed them, tossing them on the seat. “So much for my angelic side,” she said with a grin. And opening a minifridge, she removed a bottle, showing Scotty the label.
Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle.
He’d no idea, he’d only ever had André.
The cork took all his strength, and when it popped, Kassandra caught spray. She just laughed.
“Before the night’s over,” she said, blotting herself with napkins, “we’ll both be soaked.”
An intriguing image.
Chapter 107
Friday, October 31, 8:55 pm, Queens
Mrs. Steiner sat watching cable news when surprised by a light tapping on her door. She glanced at the clock. Who could it possibly be at this hour?
Switching off the TV, she went to check, peeping through the spyhole, astonished to see Joe Butterfield scowling in the hallway. Next to him stood a cop. She opened, and the cop said,
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. Mr. Butterfield here says you’re expecting him.”
She wasn’t, but replied, “Yes-yes. Please come in, Joe.”
He did, and the cop added, “He’s not to go upstairs.”
As if she could stop him.
The cop left, and no sooner did Mrs. Steiner shut the door than Joe spurted, “I want my girl back.” His speech was slurred. “I ain’t meetin’ with the boy. Set me up with Ivy, me an’ her.”
A tall order, and not something Mrs. Steiner felt comfortable doing. But perhaps this was an opening to help the damaged family on a path to recovery. She took his jacket and directed him to the couch. He sat downcast, knee pumping, looking more bedraggled and forlorn than ever.
Mrs. Steiner excused herself to the kitchen and returned with a glass of milk and plate of cookies, setting them in front of him, taking a seat beside him. He picked a cookie and took a bite. Nodded. Another bite. His knee eased.
Mrs. Steiner asked, “Have you been watching Scott on TV?”
His knee resumed pace. “TV’s busted. I ain’t here ‘bout the boy. What do I gotta do to get my girl home?”
Mrs. Steiner sighed. “What happens if Ivy does come home?”
“I ain’t gonna punish her, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. She goes back to school, that’s all. She graduates.”
“And after that?”
“Community college. Then a job where she can live at home. Lots a kids do.”
Ivy had higher aspirations, Mrs. Steiner knew. She said softly, “You think that’s what Ivy really wants?”
“She’s too young to know. I know. I raised her.”
“Yes, and you raised her well. A bright, capable young lady.”
“And I damn well mean to keep
her that way. I know what’s best for ‘er.”
Mrs. Steiner folded her hands and sat back. “You know, Joe, even if she does come home, she can’t stay forever. Sooner or later, she has to make her own way. Children need to become independent. It’s healthy.”
From out of nowhere he flashed, “The hell you know what’s healthy for her?”
Mrs. Steiner recoiled. The man was scary mad. But as fast as he’d erupted, he recovered.
“Sorry, Betsy,” he moaned, shamefaced. “Forgive me.”
She saw profound pain. A sense of dread crept over her. “What is it, Joe?” she whispered, frightened. “What’s really going on?”
He looked away, and she placed a hand on his arm. “I only want to help.”
“Ya can’t,” he cried, turning back, face dark again. “Nothin’ anyone can do.”
Her heart faltered. “There’s something wrong with Ivy?”
Burying his face in his hands, he sobbed.
Mrs. Steiner squeezed his arm. “Neither Ivy nor Scott know?”
He shook his head.
She found herself in tears, too, aghast. “Nothing can be done?”
“One thing. Keep her with me. She’s safe long as she’s with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
He mopped tears with a sleeve. “I, I never told nobody, don’t know why I’m tellin’ you. Ivy’s got the same thing took her mom. She don’t dare get pregnant.”
It took a moment for Mrs. Steiner to put it all together. Ivy’s mom died giving birth to her. The girl attended an all-girls school, and Joe wanted her in a commuter college, a neighborhood job, living at home on a tight leash under his watchful eye.
He was protecting his daughter from more than Scott.
“My God, Joe, Ivy’s a grown woman. You can’t hide her away. And you surely can’t hide her condition from her any longer. She needs to be on birth control.”
“I was workin’ up to it when the boy took her. Like he took her mom from me.”
Did she hear right? “You blame Scott for the loss of your wife?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
She looked to the photos on her wall. “I know the pain of personal loss, Joe. Help me understand yours.”
He regarded her blankly a moment, then stared out the window.
She nudged, “What was your wife’s name?”
“Rose.”
“How’d you meet?”
His eyes went more distant. “High school. She sat ahead a me in math. Terrible at it. I helped her, we got to be friends.”
“When did you marry?”
“Straight outta school.” He took a breath, eyes softer. “Don’t know what she saw in me. But we, we were happy. Big plans.” Again, he darkened, and his shoulders fell. “But she was Catholic. Very. No birth control ‘cept the rhythm method, which ain’t no method at all. Then suddenly, she’s pregnant.”
“You weren’t ready to be parents.”
“We had no money. But Rose loved kids, and I was okay with it. Till it went bad.”
“Rose didn’t know she had a condition?”
He shook his head. “Pregnancy-induced Autoimmune Anemia. Born with it. Ivy, too.”
Mrs. Steiner knew of the malady. A very serious threat.
He buried his face in his hands. “Rose had to be off her feet. Quit her waitress job, we’re livin’ off my lousy wages at a brickyard, all on me, medical bills pilin’. I work all day, come home, cook, wash clothes, dishes. No sex no more, afraid we’d lose the baby.”
Mrs. Steiner could feel the heat pent up all these years.
“…The birthing near killed her. They do a C-section, lays her up for months, me takin’ care a her and the boy. Docs say no more kids, and we live on with a shadow hangin’ over us. When finally she recovers, she wraps up in the boy.”
Mrs. Steiner placed a hand on his fist—a rock. “It surely put huge stress on your marriage.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Rose loved me, we worked at it. But what we lost, we never got back. Still, we managed. We were lucky for so long, then…”
“Nothing could be done for Rose?” He didn’t have to mention his wife’s stand on abortion.
His eyes welled again, and Mrs. Steiner fought her own tears. What the poor man must have endured, marking off the days to his wife’s delivery like counting down to an execution. Worse than Arty’s final months. Rose could have been saved.
Joe said, “Her last words to me, she made me swear to do right by the kids. I kept my word. I did my best. But you’d never know it by the boy.”
Unable to get over his wife’s death, Joe had heaped his bitterness onto his innocent son, resentful of his own child. And now, he saw Scott as a threat to his daughter. The problem was worse than Mrs. Steiner had feared, her hopes to reconcile the family, clouding.
He continued, “Ivy’s the image a Rose. Hold their high school pics together, same girl. Seeing her’s like seeing my Rose again.”
“And you know for certain she has her mother’s condition?”
“Her first time a the month, I took her for tests. She’s got the gene, all right. I keep up on the research, there’s no cure.”
“Then we’ve no time to lose. It’s not my place to tell her, but I’ll try to get her to sit down with you. They’re coming to dinner Saturday night, I’ll talk to her.”
He stood, blotting his eyes, looking as if he’d shed a great weight. “Much obliged,” he said. He took her hand and squeezed hard. “For everything.”
And leaving his coffee and roll unfinished, he grabbed his jacket and left.
Mrs. Steiner closed the door and leaned against it.
What a mess. She wondered if Scotty’s angel might be persuaded to work another miracle.
Chapter 108
Friday, October 31, 9:27 pm, Queens
The limo bore Scotty and Kassandra across a bridge to Manhattan, up 11th Street into an older section of the East Village. It stopped mid block before a large, orange-brick building with a theatre marquee. Red neon lights proclaimed:
Webster Hall—Greatest Nightclub on Earth
Lettering on the marquee read, Oct. 31—Go to Hell. And queued beneath it, stretching down the block, was a menagerie of wild-looking characters. Zombies, vampires, aliens, monsters, and indescribables. The limo driver opened Scotty’s door, and Scotty stepped out into muffled music pumping energy into the night. The champagne made him lightheaded, and he steadied himself with his staff, helping Kassandra out of the car and into her shawl.
As they gathered themselves for a long walk to the end of the queue, two men in sunglasses and suits materialized. The men greeted them by name, and ushered them to a private side entrance under a copper canopy and globe lights.
The doors opened as if magically, the music amplified, and Scotty and Kassandra were funneled through bouncers and metal-detectors into semidarkness split by laser lights. Before them lay a massive cocktail lounge packed with costumed partiers, its depth lost in fog.
They were led into a lounge past archways and a dance floor jammed with people flailing and pitching at each other in a frenzy, live band in the back. Kassandra smiled and moved to the beat, and Scotty’s heart revved. Never had he seen the likes of this.
Abruptly a guy with hands full of drinks turned into Scotty, barely avoiding a spill. They both blinked. The man had longish dark hair and a beard, black hoody, and a walking cane hooked over an arm. Like staring into a mirror. He gave Scotty’s shepherd’s crook a measured look, grinned and said, “You win, dude, bad-ass staff.”
Scotty smiled back. Ivy was right.
Pushing on, they were taken up a wide stairway to another packed dance floor. Cavernous. Four-story ceiling, elevated stage at the back with another live band, balconies overhanging the other three sides. Flanking the stage were giant TV screens streaming live shots of people dancing. Scotty imagined this the club’s grand ballroom in posher times.
He and Kassandra followed the men up on
e more level, and along a long, narrow hall with doors on the right every twelve feet, like a hotel. At one door stood a clone of their escorts, who admitted them into a private balcony with prime view of the stage and floor below. Stairs led down to a railing and a table with hors d’œuvres, set for two. A waiter swirled champagne in an ice bucket. The guards gave the area a once-over, and returned to the door as one man headed out, and two remained to keep watch.
Scotty wondered at all the security.
He sat Kassandra at the table, leaning into her, inhaling the scent of lavender. “This is incredi—” he began, when suddenly above them, a large, glowing object buzzed by.
Scotty gasped and ducked, shielding Kassandra.
Acrobats! Circe de Soleil-style performers in dayglow skeleton suits, soaring about on invisible wires. Twenty or more, executing impossible spins, tumbles and interchanges. The TV screens picked it up, crowd oohing and ahhing. Scotty grinned wide despite his teeth.
The waiter poured champagne, and when Scotty looked up again, the acrobats had been replaced by witches on broomsticks, goblins, ghosts, and howling banshees. As the performers wheeled by, they showered glitter and creepy insects.
A plastic spider landed in Scotty’s fondue.
Out on the floor below, a caped headless horseman entered on a live black stallion, chasing Olde Dutch settlers with a sword. Then appeared monstrous creatures on long, spindly legs, stalking the crowd, misting fog out their ends. Following them, the biggest dogs Scotty had ever seen. The size of lions, on leashes held by whip-wielding dominatrixes in black leather.
Ivy would have loved it, and Scotty sent her an Instagram. Meanwhile, his glass never emptied, the food kept coming, and he was feeling the effects. Finally, a band started playing, and Kassandra rose with a seductive smile.
“Ready to work off some calories?”
Scotty didn’t want to confess he was uncoordinated. But better than proving it, he said, “Not a good idea. I dance like St. Vitus.”
She laughed and pulled him to his feet, grabbing his shepherd’s staff. And ignoring his pleas, she led him away, informing their sentries at the door, “Off to get sweaty.”