William Peter Blatty
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Bestselling author William Peter Blatty warms our hearts with a funny yet deeply moving nostalgic tale of memory, mystery . . . and miracles.
Sister Louise in an orange hood and jumpsuit doing the perp walk into some courthouse croaking loudly, “On the merry Day of Judgment all you ACLU scumbags will be sweating!” This followed by Foley, Baloqui and a few other bystanders quietly applauding and murmuring, “Hear, now! Hear! Hear, hear!” Foley idolized Sister Louise. Her position on torture would have never been in doubt. Now my thoughts swirled back to Jane, this time to the puzzle of her cryptic words: “It’s okay to love me, Joey. But
that my head hurt. Too much was going on inside of it, too many delirious, mysterious fandangos all bombarding my brain like it was some kind of run-down cargo spaceship being battered by swarms of pissed-off meteors because an article in Science Magazine had referred to them as “space debris.” I took a last wistful look around for Jane and then started to wend my way droopily home, always watchful, of course, as the shadows of autumn gathered deeper, for a sudden Baloqui sneak attack. Though as
view the most dashing of the military services—flew a fighter jet, and after mustering out began flying for United Airlines. This was back in the “Main Line’s” early days when the door to the pi lot’s compartment was always left open so that the passengers could see that the pi lot wasn’t dead, this having been found, for some reason, to have a calming, reassuring effect upon the passengers. I’d stayed in touch with Baloqui all my life, and wasn’t surprised when he told me how he’d sought, in
when he’d turn his head around and hideously smile, fangs bared, at the passengers. “Sometimes they’d scream,” he’d told me happily. And now he was here. “What should I tell them?” Bloor asked. I said, “Nothing.” She studied my face, and then turned and started walking away. “Yeah, that’s probably best,” she said. “See you at the Christmas party.” In the meantime, let’s get this straight: I am not in some kind of “Happydale.” Okay? Sure, it’s Bellevue, but I’m not in their psycho ward. That
that she looked down at me and placed her hand on top of mine, which I could see but couldn’t feel. “Are you ready?” she asked. “Oh, no, please! A few minutes! Can’t I have a few more minutes? I need to finish what I’m writing, Mom! Please! Five minutes! Okay, four! Give me four!” “Go ahead,” she said softly. “Do what you can and we’ll see.” Well, my fingers fairly flew at the laptop keyboard, completing these final four or five pages, and in parting let me say I’d like to thank my director