Charlie St. Cloud Part 16

Now she was above him, moving in a swirl of motion, caressing him all over. Now they were swinging more, the hammock wobbling, and the coconut drink flying, bouncing across the deck into the ocean. Now she was all around him, pulling, pressing, dancing to some inner music.

It was fast at first, then it turned slower. The swaying in the hammock ceased. Their faces were side by side. Her mouth was open. Tendrils of hair draped over his chest. Her breathing was strong, and she made little sounds that were not quite whimpers. Then her intensity began to grow, and her arms tightened around him. Her hips were pus.h.i.+ng harder. She put one hand behind his neck.

"I love you," she said, her eyes reflecting the sun and sky.

Just as he was about to swear his love, Charlie heard clanging. He lifted his head and looked down the length of the boat. An American flag fluttered at the stern. They were all alone, but there was more clanging, like someone beating a pan. "What's that?" he asked, but Tess didn't answer. Her eyes were distant now. She suddenly seemed far away. He struggled to make sense of the noise. Then a man's voice called out.

"St. Cloud! Charlie! h.e.l.lo?!"

The words shook him from his dream. He opened his eyes and rolled over. He reached out for Tess.

But she was gone.

"Tess?!" His heart ached as he leaped from bed to the window. Outside, silver sheets of rain obscured the cemetery. That racket had to be Tink down on the dock, clanging the bell on the post. A century ago, the clamor was the fastest way to summon the gravediggers when a casket from the North Sh.o.r.e had arrived by boat.

"Okay, okay!" he grumbled. "Give it a rest! I'll be right there!" He turned and grabbed his clothes from the chair. And there it was.

A note on the pillow.

His pulse quickened as he unfolded the piece of paper.

My dearest Charlie,As I write this note, I can barely see my hands or hold this pen. By the time you open your eyes in the morning, I know you won't be able to see me anymore. That is why I must go before you wake.I'm sorry to leave without saying good-bye, but it's easier this way. I don't want you to see this happening to me. . . . I just want you to remember our time together.I had hoped to stay longer. There's so much we could have done. I only wish we had cooked a few more meals, gone to a ball game-Patriots, of course-or even sailed the world. But I'll never forget how you opened my heart and made me feel more alive than I ever dreamed possible.Sam told me that the timing of moving on was my decision. But apparently it's not. I wanted to stay close to you but I can't anymore.I hate the thought of leaving, but I'm hopeful about what's to come. I'm not afraid. You see, I think we were destined to meet. There's a reason for everything, you said, and though it's a mystery to me now, I know it won't always be so.Someday, we'll be together. I believe that with all my heart. Until then, I want you to dive for dreams. I want you to trust your heart. I want you to live by love. And when you're ready, come find me. I'll be waiting for you.With all my love, Tess

Charlie felt the numbness spread from his fingers up his arms and all the way through his body. Dammit. When had he fallen asleep? How could he have let her go?

He threw on his clothes, folded the note, and put it in his s.h.i.+rt pocket. Tink was still clanging the bell on the dock. Charlie ran down the stairs and straight out the door. He didn't even bother to grab a coat. He raced across the lawn, weaving between monuments, splas.h.i.+ng through the puddles. When he got to the dock, Tink was in a lather.

"Been waiting here for twenty frigging minutes!" he said. "What took you so long?"

"I'm sorry," Charlie said. The rain was cold, and he was s.h.i.+vering in his T-s.h.i.+rt.

"You ready? Forget your coat?"

"It's too late," Charlie said.

"Too late? For what? You're the only one who's late."

"There's no point anymore." The water was streaming down his face and arms.

"What're you talking about?"

"Tess is gone."

"Did Hoddy call you or something? Last night you were the one who said we can't give up on her."

"I know," he said, brus.h.i.+ng the rain from his face. "I was wrong."

"What the heck are you talking about?"

"You won't find her out there. She's gone."

"Dammit, St. Cloud, you're out of your mind." He gunned the boat engine. "I'm going without you. And screw you for wasting my time." He pushed away from the dock and cursed as he steered into the channel.

Charlie stood for the longest time, soaked by the freezing rain. He watched Tink's boat disappear into the mist. Slowly, he felt himself steeling inside. The emotional fortifications were going up. The defenses and b.u.t.tresses were moving into place. And just as he had done for thirteen years, he forced his mind to ignore the hurt.

It was Monday morning. The week was starting. His workers would be arriving soon. There were graves to dig. Hedges to cut. Headstones to set. And when the day was done, his little brother would be waiting.

Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

IT WAS A MISERABLE DAY, EVEN FOR A FUNERAL. A ABRAHAM Bailey, one of the richest men in town, had died in his sleep, and Charlie, bundled against the wind, was on Eastern Slope, dressing the grave. Good old Abe had made it to 101 years old. In the morbid calculus of the cemetery workers, that meant the coffin would be lighter and the job therefore easier. Centenarians never weighed much. Bailey, one of the richest men in town, had died in his sleep, and Charlie, bundled against the wind, was on Eastern Slope, dressing the grave. Good old Abe had made it to 101 years old. In the morbid calculus of the cemetery workers, that meant the coffin would be lighter and the job therefore easier. Centenarians never weighed much.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders at the thought. Those were the kind of grim facts he would have to ponder every day for the rest of his life. Along with the iron gates and stone walls, they were the bleak realities that immured the cemetery, like the chill in the air. He dreaded the frigid months ahead, not least because the cemetery was actually colder than anyplace in the entire county. In summer, all that marble and granite stored the heat and raised the temperature, but when winter came with snow and rain, the stone held the frost and made it worse.

Charlie now slogged through every step by rote. He dug the hole with precisely twenty-six scoops of the backhoe. He covered the dirt pile with Astroturf. He installed the lowering device.

With every action, memory fragments exploded in his mind: Tess's eyes, her laugh, her legs. Down the hill was the lake where he had first seen her. Stop! Pay attention to the job, he admonished himself. Set up the tent. Put out the chairs. Arrange the floral tributes.

Deep down, he felt some strange kind of motion sickness, like he had lost his balance or his rhythm. His world of obelisks and mausoleums seemed unstable, and he steadied himself on his shovel. He peered into the muddy ground that he had opened. It wasn't his most careful work. The earthen walls weren't even, but only he knew how they should look. He brushed away a few stray clumps of dirt and smoothed the surface around the opening.

Next, he pulled the lopping shears from his cart. It was time to tame some of the wild shrubs that so infuriated Fraffie Chapman and the Historic District Commission. Old Charlie would have ignored their demands for another year or two, but New Charlie didn't care anymore. There was no point. He would start the clipping job before the Bailey funeral and then would bring the rest of the workers over to finish it off. He reached into the low branches of the bushes, cut out some dead leaves, trimmed a few inches from the top, and shaved some more from the side.

Then he stopped.

His will was broken. His edge was gone. He had lost his drive. The tape-recorded bells in the Chapel of Peace began to ring. He listened. And remembered. Walking under the moon. Making love in the candlelight. The images rolled on, merging with the murk in his head and blurring gray like the cloud cover. For thirteen years, he had been inured to the pain and drudgery of this place, but how could he possibly dig and mow for forty more? Did he really want to spend his whole life here, only to be buried near his brother with a bronze Weedwacker for his memorial? How was he supposed to pretend that life was any good without Tess?

His eye caught sight of a big man lumbering up the hill, moving between the tombstones. The afternoon light filtered right through him. His hair was neatly combed and gelled, but the contours of his fireman blues were gauzy. It was Florio Ferrente, the firefighter, and he was fading.

"Greetings," he said.

"Hey, haven't seen you in a few days."

"Been real busy," Florio said, "trying to look after the wife and son."

Charlie leaned his shears against a monument. "How're they holding up?"

"Not so good. It's been real rough. Francesca isn't sleeping. The baby won't stop crying."

"I'm so sorry."

"So I got a question for you, Charlie." Florio seemed ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter. He was ready to move on. "I need to know, Charlie. How long does this last? You know, the pain? When Francesca hurts, I hurt too. It's like we're connected."

"You are connected," Charlie said, "and it lasts until you and your family release each other." He paused. "Some folks get there sooner than others."

"What about you?" Florio asked. His eyes were serious. "You think you got everything figured out?"

"I guess so. Why?"

"Just wondering." Florio looked Charlie up and down, then put his hat on his head and adjusted the brim. The light flowed through him.

"What's your point?" Charlie asked.

"I've just been thinking a lot," he said. "All my life, I went to church and read Ecclesiastes. You know, where it says there's a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to weep and laugh, to love and hate, to search and give up." He paused. "Trust me, Charlie. The Bible got it wrong. There isn't time in a man's life for everything. There isn't a season for every activity."

There were tears in his eyes, and he wiped them away with a s.h.i.+mmering slab of a hand. "Remember the end of my funeral? Father Shattuck said, 'May he rest in peace.' What a crock! I don't want to rest. I want to live." He shook his head. "But there isn't time for that. Know what I mean?"

"I do."

Florio looked across the vast lawn studded with granite. "I guess I better get going."

"You sure you don't want to stay?"

"No," Florio said. "Just watch out for my family, okay? Keep an eye on Francesca and the boy."

"I promise."

They shook hands, and Florio pulled him into an embrace. He hadn't been hugged by a guy this size in years. When they let go, Charlie saw the sparkle of a gold amulet around Florio's neck and recognized the engraved figure of Jude, patron saint of desperate situations, carrying an anchor and an oar.

Florio grabbed Charlie's arm. "Remember, G.o.d chose you for a reason." Then he walked away, a gleaming mountain of a man, disappearing among the monuments.

"You sure about this?" Joe the Atheist said, punching his time card in the box. "It's only three P P.M." The rest of the guys were lined up behind him in the service yard to clock out. Charlie had called everyone in from the field to give them the rest of the day off.

"You got a problem going home early?" Charlie said. "I'm sure I can find something for you to do."

"No," Joe said. "I'm good. I'll just be the first one at the Rip Tide today. You want to come along?"

"No, thanks," Charlie said.

"You doing okay, Chucky boy?" Joe said. "You really don't look so hot."

"I'm fine. See you tomorrow."

Charlie knew he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding his distress. It wasn't like him to call it quits so early on a Monday, the busiest day of the week. As a rule, most folks tended to die from heart attacks today. The coronaries usually came from hard living over the weekend or the stress of the work-week ahead. By afternoon, the burial requests from the funeral homes always started to arrive. It was true in cemeteries around the world.

But he was done with work for the day. He didn't care if the orders went unfilled or the boxwoods and yews ran wild.

And so after his last employee clocked out, Charlie drove the little cart to the cottage by the forest. He went straight to his armchair, plunked himself down with a half bottle of Jack Daniel's. He stared at the wall right in front of him with the maps and circles that defined his life.

Twilight tonight would come at 6:29 P P.M.

He guzzled one shot and poured himself another. This wasn't like him either. He rarely drank and certainly not alone. But he wanted the pain to go away. He drained the second gla.s.s and poured a third. Soon his head was swimming and swirling through wild thoughts.

He was done with cutting lawns. He was done digging graves. The bliss of loving Tess, the exhilaration of the last few days, had made him realize how much he had sacrificed and squandered over the years. It was almost as if Sam hadn't been the only one to die in the accident. Charlie had forfeited his own life too.

He thought about Sam and the promise. At first, the gift had seemed the greatest blessing. But now he understood. He and his kid brother were both trapped in the twilight. They were mirror images, clinging to each other, holding each other back from what awaited them beyond the great iron gates.

This was the end. He was finished with waiting for sundown every night to play catch with a loving ghost. He was through with the boundaries of those circles on the map. And most of all, he was done with being alone.

Florio was right. He had been given a second chance. And he had wasted it.

At first, the solution came to him as a faint glimmer. Something like it had crossed his mind thirteen years earlier when Sam had died. Back then he had pushed the answer into the dark caverns of his mind where it had belonged. But now the idea made another dramatic entrance. This time it seemed almost irresistible.

Come find me, Tess had written in her note. The answer was right there in her letter. If he couldn't be with her on earth, then why not join her out there somewhere? Why not give up this world for the next? It would be over quickly. It would put an end to all the pain. Most important, he and Tess would spend forever together. And he could keep his promise by bringing Sam along to the next level. Tess had written in her note. The answer was right there in her letter. If he couldn't be with her on earth, then why not join her out there somewhere? Why not give up this world for the next? It would be over quickly. It would put an end to all the pain. Most important, he and Tess would spend forever together. And he could keep his promise by bringing Sam along to the next level.

He swallowed another gulp of whiskey and felt the burning in his throat. Was this so crazy? Would anyone really miss him on earth? No. His mother was all the way across the country with her new life and family. She probably wouldn't even notice if he was gone.

So what was he waiting for?

He got up and walked to the maps. He ripped them from the walls. He wouldn't need them where he was going. The room was spinning fast now. He reached out for a lamp to steady himself, but he lost his balance and fell to the ground. He landed with a thud, and his head slammed into the wood floor. He lay there stunned for a few moments and tried to focus his bewildered mind. He couldn't even remember what he had just been thinking about. His vision was fuzzy, and his head throbbed.

Then the thought came back to him again. It was the perfect solution to his problems, and only one question remained to be answered: How would he take his own life?

TWENTY-EIGHT.

COME FIND ME . . .

When Charlie awoke, he saw the words right there in front of him on Tess's note. His body ached, and he had an awful taste of booze in his mouth. Coruscating shafts of light angled down from the windows. The dismal rain had obviously cleared. He looked around and saw the mess on the floor: destroyed maps, shredded sunset tables, the empty bottle of Jack Daniel's.

He sat up and rubbed his head. What time was it? He checked the clock over the fireplace. 5:35 P P.M. Wow, he had been out for almost an hour. The last thing he remembered was ripping everything from the wall. Then he must have pa.s.sed out.

Through the grogginess, a sliver of a dream, tantalizingly incomplete, lingered in his consciousness. He was on the water in a storm. The waves were high and rolling. He was in a Coast Guard cutter. And that was all. The rest was just out of reach. He tried to bring it into focus, but the memory eluded him. The whiskey was blurring everything.

He scooped up the torn sc.r.a.ps on the floor. Like a simple puzzle, he put together three ripped pieces of the chart covering the North Sh.o.r.e from Deer Island and Nahant around the Cape to Plum Island and Newburyport. Then he rea.s.sembled four sc.r.a.ps of paper stretching from Hampton Beach to Cape Elizabeth, including Boon Island and Cape Porpoise.

Looking around again he saw that surprisingly one chart had survived his attack and lay apart with a ray of sunlight glancing across the Isles of Shoals. A draft of air nudged the page toward him, and Charlie wondered: Was Tess trying to signal him or lead the way? He grabbed the map and turned it around and around. It showed the area from Provincetown to Mt. Desert Island, Maine, and the stretch from Cape Ann all the way across Bigelow Bight. He studied the contours of the coast and ran his finger over the little islands five miles offsh.o.r.e.

The adrenaline surged, and the hangover instantly was gone. His mind was racing. Did Tess leave the map for him to see? Was this a message? Or was this flat-out drunken craziness?

He hugged the chart to his chest. As a boy, he had sailed every inch of that rugged coastline. He had explored the nine rocky outcroppings of the Isles of Shoals and had climbed to the very top of the old White Island Light. He knew where the waters were shallow and the ledges were hidden at high tide, and on countless fis.h.i.+ng trips there he had caught bushels of mackerel and bluefish.

Come find me . . .