When I first started writing all those years ago, I was all over the place when it came to genres. The following story was one of my first published. I suppose you could categorize it as a fantasy, but it's unlike anything I've written in recent years. Much of it is based on growing up in Middletown, Delaware, and the times I spent in the woods and on the nearby lakes. Oh, and the many times I skipped school.
The story has only been published once, in Glassfire Magazine. I'm not sure of the year the story was published.
I thought it would be fun to post it here—more of a reminiscence than anything. I hope you enjoy it!
The Last Hooky
By Weldon Burge
Mr. McCardy, the truant officer, lurked in every shadow, ready to snare any errant student. Yet, Tommy Makepeace had eluded his grasp since the beginning of the school year. Tommy knew his luck was running thin, so he planned one last day of hooky to go swimming at Silver Lake. Indian summer had arrived, and he knew the bitter weather was only a week or so away.
He caught up with Joey Cranston in the school hallway the day before. "Joey, let's play hooky tomorrow," Tommy whispered in his ear. "Just one last hooky, down by the lake. Whaddaya say?'
Joey shook his head as he always did when the topic of skipping school arose. "My Dad would whip the tar outta me."
"Oh, c'mon! This might be our last chance."
"Can't. Sorry."
"Sissy!"
Tommy went solo.
* * *
Tommy hated his parents. They'd decided, without soliciting his opinion, to pack up and move to another town several hundred miles away. He thought that would land him somewhere near the heart of darkest Africa. It didn't. His worst fears unrealized, he was relieved and perhaps a bit disappointed to find that Middletown, Delaware, was an exact replica of the town he'd just left in Virginia.
There was one horrible difference. In Middletown, Tommy was the strange kid, the outsider not yet accepted. Joey Cranston latched on to him like a puppy and that stupid Susan Sullivan kept trying to talk to him in the cafeteria and on the playground—but they didn't really count. He had no friends. That's why Tommy played hooky.
The only fun aspect of moving to Middletown was the Everett Theater. His father was the projectionist, so Tommy sat in the projection booth every Friday night to watch the newly released movies and double features. He loved Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein, Abbott & Costello Meet the Killer, Mighty Joe Young, Angel and the Bad Man, and other John Wayne westerns, and especially the serials, like "Batman and Robin" and "Flash Gordon." He loved watching movies with his Dad.
Maybe he didn't hate his parents after all.
* * *
As Tommy raced down Hoffecker Street toward the east side of town, Mr. McCardy suddenly turned the corner at the end of the block ahead of him. Tommy dove behind the huge hydrangea in front of old lady Tyler's house. He hunkered down, praying that the truant officer hadn't seen him. Large black boots stopped on the sidewalk not three feet in front of him. The massive boots reminded him of the Frankenstein monster's. He held his breath. From under the bush, he heard McCardy mutter, "Damn kids." Then the man moved on down the block.
Once he was sure McCardy was no longer nearby, Tommy ran the rest of the way to the edge of town. From Farmer Green's fields, he could reach the forest that surrounded Silver Lake by working his way through the millions of rows of dry field corn. A twelve-year-old boy could find plenty of places to hide out there.
Tommy loved Indian summer. The days were still warm but getting shorter. The leaves made their magnificent metamorphosis, creating fiery orange and red splashes throughout the trees. Who needs musty books and cold desks and cranky teachers screeching chalk on blackboards? The forest taught him more in a day than a legion of teachers could in a year.
When Tommy reached the edge of the forest, he hurried to the stream that fed the lake. He took off his shoes, stuffed his socks inside, and tied the laces so that he could hang the shoes around his neck. He then waded into the stream, overturning rocks on the bottom to watch crayfish scoot backward in tiny puffs of mud. Tommy wondered if they were actually alien creatures that, if you weren't careful, would burrow into your flesh. He couldn't imagine anything worse than being infested with crayfish.
Tommy then searched for gold along the path, pretending to be Humphrey Bogart in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. He often found chunks of quartz with what looked like gold speckled throughout. As he gathered rocks along the trail, he noticed a rock protruding from the ground like a miniature tombstone. Tommy tugged the stone free and wiped off the soil. The stone was perfectly flat and oval, polished smooth by time. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger and knew immediately what to do with it. He smiled and stuffed it into his shirt pocket with the other stones he'd collected.
When he reached Mighty Joe Oak, he knew he was near to the lake. Tommy named the tree because it was massive, the biggest in the forest, and maybe older than time itself. And he had seen Mighty Joe Young, his favorite movie of all time, at the Everett Theater with his father.
A squirrel spiraled up the trunk and disappeared into the tangle of branches above. Tommy followed it. He had climbed the tree many times before, but this day he went up higher than he'd ever braved. He pretended to be Mighty Joe Young saving the little girl from the burning orphanage, hanging from a branch by one hand miles above the ground.
Tommy froze, instantly aware that someone was watching him. A faint rustling noise came from below. McCardy? Because the leaves were so dense, he could only see the forest floor directly below him. Was that a moving shadow? Or just a play of sunlight through the limbs? Probably just another squirrel.
Tommy sat perfectly still on the branch for what seemed like hours until the eerie sense of being watched had passed. He shimmied down the tree. It was time to head to the lake—no more dilly-dallying!
He wanted one last swim in Silver Lake.
He hoped Mr. McCardy wasn't waiting there to cuff him.
* * *
The pond was surprisingly quiet. A subtle breeze rippled its surface. Tommy walked to the edge of the water and looked down at his distorted reflection.
Something stirred behind him, near the huge willow that stretched its feathery limbs across the water.
Oh no! Tommy thought. Not McCardy. Not now!
As he slowly turned, he heard a giggle.
Sitting beneath the willow was Susan Sullivan.
"I thought you'd be here, Tommy Makepeace," she said. She smiled at him the way she always did. She never smiled like that at anyone else. "Where's Joey Cranston?"
"Joey's too chicken to skip school," he said. He tried not to look into her eyes. They were traps to snare his soul. "I didn't think girls played hooky."
"Most don't. I do."
His eyes met hers. For some reason, he felt that years, long years, bridged that gaze as if he'd known her forever. He had to look away, break the spell, but could not. She instead broke the gaze. He immediately wondered who was bewitching whom.
"It's nice here by the lake," she said. "I think I know why you come."
"I come 'cause I want to be alone."
"That's not true. You hate being alone. This is the only place that makes you happy." She sighed. "I've been waiting here for you for so long."
Tommy turned again to the lake. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out some stones.
"I like to skip stones," he said. "That's why I come out here."
"How good are you?"
"The best."
He tested a stone in his hand, then hurled it. The stone hopped twice, then angled too sharply and plunged into the water. The next stone skipped five times. He wasn't satisfied. Joey had skipped a rock seven times and Joey was just a sissy. Besides, Susan was watching.
He pulled out the special stone, the one that reminded him of a tiny tombstone. The key was flexing the wrist and releasing the stone at the exact moment, imparting a flawless rotation.
He closed his eyes, concentrated, then let it fly.
The stone skipped ten times!
He turned to Susan with a victorious grin.
"I could never do that," she said, returning his smile.
"That's 'cause you're a girl." Just a stupid girl, he thought. But he liked the way she smiled at him.
He sat under the willow beside her. They stared at the placid water. He wanted to say something to Susan, anything, but the words would not come. Maybe he didn't have to say anything.
He pulled at tufts of grass by his side. A long, thin blade happened into his fingers. He plucked it from the earth, rolled it gingerly between his fingers just to feel its wonderfully green texture, and then inserted it between his two top-front teeth. The blade of grass tasted like autumn. He could almost savor the waning sun, the slight chill in the air. He lay back in the soft grass to watch the clouds drift above the willow branches. The only sound, high in the tree, was that of a cicada, its raspy drone getting louder but oddly comforting.
Susan stretched out next to him in the grass. Her hand touched his. He didn't resist.
This is the place he always wanted to be, a forever place. He closed his eyes and smiled.
Tommy didn't see the long shadow extend across his prostrate form or McCardy's dark, massive hand reaching down for him ...
* * *
The green line on the EKG monitor flattened.
Dr. Kahlil switched off the monitor to end the drone of the EKG alarm. He then turned to Joe Cranston, who sat alone next to the hospital bed. "I'm sorry."
Cranston took Tom's hand in his own. The hand wasn't cold yet. "He had a heart as big and as strong as a horse."
"The cancer had pretty much spread throughout his lymphatic system," Dr. Kahlil said.
Tom nodded. "He called me Joey last night. Hadn't called me that since we were kids." He sighed, and shook his head. "Ever since Susan died three years ago, I guess he had nothing left. No kids. Not like they didn't try. They were childhood sweethearts. You'd think they'd invented love, they were so compatible.
"Last night, Tom was lucid for just a moment. He looked me straight in the eye and said, 'Joey, let's play hooky. Just one last hooky, down by the lake. Whaddaya say?' Before I could answer, his eyes lost their focus, and I knew he'd left me behind. He always left me behind. I guess I've always been afraid.
"Tommy always loved to play hooky."
© 2023 Weldon Burge