drifted down the empty hallway. The floorboards slid like slick oil beneath his feet. He was tense as he waited to hear the harsh clang of the school bell, signaling that—as always—he was late for class.
Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled at his best friend, Ray Makki, who was tagging along a few paces behind him. In a slow, sludgy voice that echoed and never seemed to stop, Petey said, “Come on, Ray! We’ve gotta hurry up, or Old Lady Doyle will nail our butts.”
Ray chuckled softly.
“Heck, Petey, she’ll nail our butts no matter what we do.”
Ray’s dark, dead-looking eyes were like windows that were no longer able to reflect light. His gaze shifted over to Mr. Clain, the janitor, who was standing by one of the open classroom doors. Mr. Clain scowled deeply as he watched the boys approaching. From behind, Ray grabbed Petey’s shirt sleeve and gave it a quick tug.
“Hey, come on! Wait up! Don’t leave me behind.”
Petey drew to a halt. Glancing slowly over his shoulder, he waited until his best friend caught up with him. The corridor glowed with an eerie golden iridescence that made it look like it stretched out forever in both directions.
“Don’t worry,” Petey said with a soft laugh that echoed hollowly in the hallway. “You know I’ll always wait up for you.”
“That’s ‘cause we’re best friends, right?”
Petey nodded, his head moving slowly up and down as though on a spring.
Then they started walking again, side by side.
They glided past the motionless janitor and continued on down the hallway to where Mrs. Doyle stood waiting for them in front of her open classroom door. Her flabby arms were folded across her chest. Her pale face was set in a deep scowl as she watched them coldly, shifting her eyes without blinking or moving her head.
Petey stared at her and wondered if he and Ray would ever make it to her classroom on time, but he almost didn’t care, now that he and Ray had made it past Mr. Clain. He cringed inside, feeling the cold glare of the janitor’s gaze drilling into the back of his head; but when he turned around and looked, the janitor was gone.
“Yeah,” Petey said, his voice nothing more than a hollow whisper that rustled like dust in the empty hall.
“We’re best friends . . . forever. . . .”
—for Matt Costello
The Voodoo Queen
“Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
Came, as though bubbling honey, for love’s sake. . . . ”
—Keats: Lamia , 64-65.
L ove can change us all, it’s true.
You know, there’s that old joke about how a woman will try and try to change the man she married, and then complain twenty years later that he’s not the man he used to be. An old joke, but true. Love does change us all. We all find that out sooner or later. Unfortunately for Dennis Levesque, he found it out a little too late.
I t was springtime in Hilton, Maine, a small mill town nestled in the mountains of the central part of the state. Some folks would say that you can’t use those two words “springtime” and “Maine” in the same sentence without fear of contradicting yourself, and most years, that’s probably true. No matter what the TV weatherman says, there’s as good a chance of a blizzard in April as there is in November. Sure, the plow ridges may he gone, the Red Sox may be swinging their bats in Fenway Park; and the dirt roads may turn from ice-glazed skids to mud-slick washboards, but only the swelling buds on the trees and the song of the peepers down in the marsh can convince you that winter might truly be over.
It was a Friday evening, late in April, and a cold wind was blowing down off nearby Watcher’s Mountain. In spite of the cold, Dennis Levesque was sitting outside on his porch. He had his feet propped up on the rickety railing, and was drinking a beer as he leaned back in one of the faded lawn chairs. He had left this particular chair out on the porch all winter. The straps were frayed and
Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled at his best friend, Ray Makki, who was tagging along a few paces behind him. In a slow, sludgy voice that echoed and never seemed to stop, Petey said, “Come on, Ray! We’ve gotta hurry up, or Old Lady Doyle will nail our butts.”
Ray chuckled softly.
“Heck, Petey, she’ll nail our butts no matter what we do.”
Ray’s dark, dead-looking eyes were like windows that were no longer able to reflect light. His gaze shifted over to Mr. Clain, the janitor, who was standing by one of the open classroom doors. Mr. Clain scowled deeply as he watched the boys approaching. From behind, Ray grabbed Petey’s shirt sleeve and gave it a quick tug.
“Hey, come on! Wait up! Don’t leave me behind.”
Petey drew to a halt. Glancing slowly over his shoulder, he waited until his best friend caught up with him. The corridor glowed with an eerie golden iridescence that made it look like it stretched out forever in both directions.
“Don’t worry,” Petey said with a soft laugh that echoed hollowly in the hallway. “You know I’ll always wait up for you.”
“That’s ‘cause we’re best friends, right?”
Petey nodded, his head moving slowly up and down as though on a spring.
Then they started walking again, side by side.
They glided past the motionless janitor and continued on down the hallway to where Mrs. Doyle stood waiting for them in front of her open classroom door. Her flabby arms were folded across her chest. Her pale face was set in a deep scowl as she watched them coldly, shifting her eyes without blinking or moving her head.
Petey stared at her and wondered if he and Ray would ever make it to her classroom on time, but he almost didn’t care, now that he and Ray had made it past Mr. Clain. He cringed inside, feeling the cold glare of the janitor’s gaze drilling into the back of his head; but when he turned around and looked, the janitor was gone.
“Yeah,” Petey said, his voice nothing more than a hollow whisper that rustled like dust in the empty hall.
“We’re best friends . . . forever. . . .”
—for Matt Costello
The Voodoo Queen
“Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
Came, as though bubbling honey, for love’s sake. . . . ”
—Keats: Lamia , 64-65.
L ove can change us all, it’s true.
You know, there’s that old joke about how a woman will try and try to change the man she married, and then complain twenty years later that he’s not the man he used to be. An old joke, but true. Love does change us all. We all find that out sooner or later. Unfortunately for Dennis Levesque, he found it out a little too late.
I t was springtime in Hilton, Maine, a small mill town nestled in the mountains of the central part of the state. Some folks would say that you can’t use those two words “springtime” and “Maine” in the same sentence without fear of contradicting yourself, and most years, that’s probably true. No matter what the TV weatherman says, there’s as good a chance of a blizzard in April as there is in November. Sure, the plow ridges may he gone, the Red Sox may be swinging their bats in Fenway Park; and the dirt roads may turn from ice-glazed skids to mud-slick washboards, but only the swelling buds on the trees and the song of the peepers down in the marsh can convince you that winter might truly be over.
It was a Friday evening, late in April, and a cold wind was blowing down off nearby Watcher’s Mountain. In spite of the cold, Dennis Levesque was sitting outside on his porch. He had his feet propped up on the rickety railing, and was drinking a beer as he leaned back in one of the faded lawn chairs. He had left this particular chair out on the porch all winter. The straps were frayed and
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