Charlie St. Cloud Part 5

"Peachy," she said. "Two kids with chicken pox and a third with a busted arm." Myrna's ancestors, the Dolibers, had been the first settlers to arrive on the peninsula back in 1629. Somewhere along the way, they had gotten into the funeral business and ran a monopoly all the way north to Beverly and south to Lynn. On busy days, every Doliber was put to work, even Myrna, who was known as the most superst.i.tious person in Ess.e.x County, and who kept a running list of ill omens like a twitch in the left eye or a white moth inside the house.

"Hey, Myrna, I counted thirteen cars in your funeral procession," Joe said with a mischievous grin. "That mean someone's going to die today or something?"

"Knock it off if you want your tip," she said, walking to the tail end of the hea.r.s.e. She opened the door and stood back. Charlie reached in, released the latch, grabbed a handle of the casket, and rolled it onto the cart.

"Here you go," Myrna said, handing Charlie an envelope. "Don't spend it all in one place." Most funeral directors padded the customer's bill with $100 or more for so-called cemetery gratuities, but then pa.s.sed only two dollars each to the workers. Myrna was more generous and usually tipped ten dollars.

The two men pushed the coffin across the lawn and stopped beside the grave. Charlie lifted the foot of the box, which was always lighter, and Joe took the heavier head. It was a point of pride: Joe was the strongest worker in Waterside and he liked to show it. They carried the casket and positioned it on the lowering device. Everything was now ready for the funeral.

"Okay," Charlie said. "Break time. I'll catch you later down by the water."

"Ten-four, boss." Joe reached behind his ear for a Camel and strolled down the hill. Charlie walked up the rise and stood under a weeping mulberry for the best view of the proceedings.

Car doors were slamming, and men and women were coming up the hill. Dozens of firefighters in dress uniform stepped from their vehicles. Bagpipes played a wailing song. Charlie watched the tears wash down so many faces. Long ago when he thought he could weep no more over his brother's death, he had investigated the biology of crying. It turned out the muscles above the eyes were responsible, squeezing the lachrymal glands, producing the runoff. Since every adult was made up of about forty-five quarts of water, there was essentially no end to the amount of tears in the world.

He looked over the job one last time. He and Joe had done good work dressing the site, camouflaging the mud pile beneath the carpet of Astroturf and spreading a canopy of roses and carnations around the hole. Now, where was the dead man in the crowd? Often Charlie would see the departed walking the aisles or weaving among the tombstones while the mourners sniffled into their Kleenexes. With their familiar glow, the deceased might sit under a tree or lean against the casket to take notice of who had managed to come for the burial: old girlfriends, office rivals, long-lost cousins. Insincere eulogies could provoke the dead to scoff vociferously and hoot at phony tears. And, more often than not, they would be touched, even surprised, by what their lives had meant to others.

Charlie could always spot the luminous new arrivals. Those who died violently sometimes had sc.r.a.pes or limped from broken bones. Those who pa.s.sed away after a long illness were weak and hobbled at first but soon regained their strength and shape. Charlie remembered how banged up Sam had looked after his own funeral, but within days he was back to his old self.

For some, of course, attending their own funeral was too much. At first, they stayed away. Then after a day or two they'd appear at Waterside and make peace with the end. Finally, they'd fade away to heaven, the next level, or wherever they were headed for eternity.

It all depended on how quickly they wanted to let go.

Charlie listened to Father Shattuck begin the ceremony. His few remaining hairs were as white as his collar and had been meticulously spun around his head like a sh.e.l.lacked halo. Only a gravedigger would know the Father's true secret. His dramatic performance was identical every time-all the way to the climactic pauses in Psalm 23 as he walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I shall fear no evil . . .

And then, he read from Ecclesiastes. "There is a season for everything," he intoned. "A time for every occupation under heaven. A time for giving birth, a time for dying; a time for planting, a time for uprooting what has been planted; a time for tears, a time for laughter; a time for mourning, a time for dancing; a time for searching, a time for losing; a time for loving, a time for hating . . ."

And, Charlie thought, a time for new material . . .

Father Shattuck finished, and Don Woodfin, the chief of the Revere Fire Department, stepped forward. He was a gaunt man with a thick mustache that bridged two hollow cheeks. His dress hat rested on his lanky frame like a cap on a coat rack. "In our 119-year history," he began, "we have suffered six line-of-duty deaths. We gather here today to mark our seventh." He bowed his head. "We thank you, Lord, for the life of a great man. We are grateful for his devotion to a fireman's duty, for his dedication to the preservation of life, and for the way he faced danger."

In the front row, a woman and her baby boy wept. "We ask the comfort of Your blessing upon his family," the chief said. "May they be sustained by good memories, a living hope, the compa.s.sion of friends, and the pride of duty well done. And for those who continue to battle the fiery foe, we pray for Your guidance and strength. Keep them safely in Your hands. Amen."

Charlie noticed immediately when a man approached him under the tree. He was wearing a firefighter's dress blues and he seemed lost in thought. There was a faint glow around him that made it clear: He was the dead man, and this was his funeral.

"Can you see me?" the man said after a while.

"Yes," Charlie whispered.

"Are you dead too?"

"No, not yet."

The man scratched his neck. "You look so familiar," he said. His face was grizzled and his voice was as rough as gravel. "Wait," he said, "you're the St. Cloud kid, right? Charlie St. Cloud?" He was pulling off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms tattooed with images of the Virgin and Child. "I'm Florio," he said. "Remember me?"

"I'm sorry," Charlie said. "My memory's fuzzy."

Near the grave, the chief was invoking the fireman's prayer. Florio folded his arms and bowed his head.

When I am called to duty, G.o.d,Wherever flames may rage,Give me strength to save some lifeWhatever be its age.

Then the chief gave his cue, and Charlie stepped forward. He flipped the jam break on the lowering device. The coffin began its dignified descent.

Charlie looked at the name carved on the stone.

FLORIO F FERRENTEHUSBAND-FATHER-FIREMAN19542004

And then he realized: Florio was the fireman who'd saved his life.

The coffin b.u.mped gently to the bottom of the grave. Charlie pulled the straps and tucked them beneath the Astroturf. Then he stepped back to the mulberry tree as mourners began to throw roses onto the casket.

"My G.o.d," he said to Florio. "I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you."

"Don't worry," Florio said. "It was a long time ago, and you weren't in very good shape."

"What happened to you? I had no idea-"

"It was an easy two-alarm in a residential unit," he began. "We breached the front door with the battering ram. Rescued a little girl and her mom. Kid was screaming her head off about her cat and dog. So I went back in to get them, and the roof fell in." He gave an uneven smile. "That's it, lights out." He scratched his square chin. "All for a cat and a dog. And you know what? I wouldn't do it any different."

Florio looked across the lawn. "You seen them? A cat and dog? Could've sworn they were here earlier. Running all over the place with a crazy little beagle."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Charlie said. "They may follow you around for a while."

Firemen wiped their eyes with their sleeves. Some crouched in silent prayer. Then the woman came forward, cradling her baby boy.

"My wife, Francesca, and our new son," Florio said. "We tried for years to get pregnant, and it finally happened. G.o.d bless them. No better woman on this earth, and Junior is my pride and joy." His voice began to break. "G.o.d knows what I'll do without them."

"It's too soon to think about that," Charlie said. "Give it some time."

They watched as his wife and baby left the grave, pa.s.sed the other mourners, and got into a limousine. Then Charlie began filling the hole, and Florio watched. Shovel after shovel. Dust to dust.

"You know," Florio said after a while, "I've thought about you a lot over the years. I felt so bad I couldn't save your brother. Beat myself up pretty good about that one. I always wondered what happened to you. You married? Any kids? What have you done with your precious life?"

Charlie kept his eyes to the ground. "No wife, no family. I work here and volunteer at the fire station."

"Oh yeah? You a fireman?"

"I got certified as a paramedic. I put in a few nights a month. I'd do more, but I can't go too far from here."

"You know, I was a medic for more than twenty-five years. Seen a lot, but only two or three people ever came back from the dead like you did." He paused. "That was a gift from G.o.d, son. G.o.d had a reason for saving you. He had a purpose. You ever think about that?"

A long minute pa.s.sed as Charlie shoved more dirt into the hole. Of course he had thought about that. Every single day of his life, he wondered why he hadn't been taken instead of Sam. What on earth was G.o.d's reason? What purpose did He have in mind? Then Florio broke the silence again.

"Don't worry, son," he said. "Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out. But you'll hear the call. You'll know when it's time. And then, you'll be set free."

TEN.

THE CORNERS OF HER EYES AND MOUTH WERE FLAKY WITH dried-up salt from the ocean. Tess brushed away the deposits and remembered the last time she had looked like this. No storm had made such markings. Instead, the white residue had been left by the flood of tears after her father's funeral. Back then, her mother had wiped the grains from her face, saying they were a reminder that tears and seawater had mixed together for thousands of years. dried-up salt from the ocean. Tess brushed away the deposits and remembered the last time she had looked like this. No storm had made such markings. Instead, the white residue had been left by the flood of tears after her father's funeral. Back then, her mother had wiped the grains from her face, saying they were a reminder that tears and seawater had mixed together for thousands of years.

Tess also had a whopper of a headache, and her body was black and blue from the battering she had taken. Actually, black and orange would be more accurate, with great blotches of Halloween color everywhere on her arms, hips, and thighs. But the welts and bruises didn't seem to matter just now. What was foremost in her throbbing brain was that she was back on solid ground exactly where she wanted to be: Waterside Cemetery near her father.

She sat in the mottled shade under the maple next to his grave. The lawn was damp, but she didn't mind getting a little wet. She had thrown off her sneakers, rolled up her pants, and was relis.h.i.+ng the sensation of just being there in one piece. Her toes wiggled in the gra.s.s, and she stretched her legs. She looked down at the granite marker that bore her father's name. She knew she owed her life to him. After that miserable storm, he had guided her home to safe harbor. "You know, I never stopped talking to you out there all night," she said. "You must've heard me."

Of course, she didn't actually believe he he was right there with her under the tree. That was plain silly, just like the witches in Salem. Dad wasn't lolling around the cemetery, waiting for her to show up. No, he was out there somewhere, a force of energy, or something like that. And if there was a heaven, he was surely sipping beer on some celestial tuna boat, waiting for a strike. was right there with her under the tree. That was plain silly, just like the witches in Salem. Dad wasn't lolling around the cemetery, waiting for her to show up. No, he was out there somewhere, a force of energy, or something like that. And if there was a heaven, he was surely sipping beer on some celestial tuna boat, waiting for a strike.

Tess lazed on the lawn, put her hands behind her head, and stared up at the rust-colored leaves. This was the one safe place in the world. The wind was gusting from the north now, and big cauliflower clouds filled the sky, making it one of those rare afternoons in New England, impossibly crisp and fresh, like a Rome apple from Brooksby Farm.

Then an image from last night grabbed hold of her mind: Querencia Querencia flipping over, the world inverting. "Jesus!" she said out loud, sitting up. She rubbed a bruise on her forearm. She had definitely learned her lesson. Three hours capsized without electricity or radio had scared the h.e.l.l out of her. Now she had to make good on her promise to her father. flipping over, the world inverting. "Jesus!" she said out loud, sitting up. She rubbed a bruise on her forearm. She had definitely learned her lesson. Three hours capsized without electricity or radio had scared the h.e.l.l out of her. Now she had to make good on her promise to her father.

She scooted across the gra.s.s and leaned against his stone. It was cool against her sore back and felt good. She turned her head and pressed a cheek against the rock. She ran her fingers along the engraving, where moss was beginning to grow.

GEORGE C CARROLL19412002

"I knew you'd come through for me," Tess said with tears welling up. She wiped her eyes and sneezed. She had a simple rule about crying. It went back to childhood. She never let Mom or anyone else see her upset. Weeping was for wimps. But in front of Dad it was different. When she was sad, he never flinched. When she felt weak, he never wavered. In fact, he made her stronger. He had comforted her a zillion times through heartbreak and disappointment. Of course, he didn't always approve of her choices-especially those guys in college who spoke foreign languages and rode motorcycles-but he never judged. He definitely had a temper, especially after a few c.o.c.ktails, and he wasn't the most introspective or politically enlightened man in the world, but he was the only person who really understood her. No one else came close.

"I promise that I'll change," she said to the stone. "No more crazy stuff on the water. No more daring the Fates. I'll be a good girl." She paused. "I finally scared myself to death."

She rubbed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair. She felt another b.u.mp on the back of her head. Ouch Ouch. It was sensitive to her touch. When did that happen? Must have been when she capsized. The exact details of the night were a blur in her brain, and she still felt rotten from the pummeling waves and noxious fumes of diesel combined with that d.a.m.n salad dressing. She needed a shower and some sleep. She looked at her hands. Her thumb was banged up, and one nail was broken. An oblong bruise ran the length of her arm. Mom would love that. It was so ladylike.

Tess ran through the list of all the things she needed to do before the starting gun next week. Her first stop on Monday morning would be at Lynn Marine Supply on Front Street. She would give Gus Swanson an earful about that survival gear. Those leaking boots were inexcusable, especially when he charged her full price.

Next, she would have to face Tink in the loft. She dreaded the moment. He would give her the full inquisition, and then they would go stem to stern and tally the damage. Of course, the rigging would need tuning. The storm sail would have to be resewn. The hull might need fresh paint. Her team would have to work overtime to make the repairs in time for the race.

"I know," she said aloud. "It's a waste of hard work and money." That was what really made her feel the worst. Dad had left her a chunk of dough and had urged her to spend it seeing the world. It wasn't much, but he had broken his back saving it, and he wouldn't be happy watching her blow it on repairs. He was an old-fas.h.i.+oned sailor who didn't like expensive fibergla.s.s boats with Kevlar sails. "Sailing," he liked to joke, "is the fine art of getting wet and becoming ill, while going nowhere slowly at great expense." And yet, if the ocean was in your blood-and the two were almost chemically identical, he liked to remind her-you couldn't stop yourself from going to sea no matter how much it cost or how quiet the wind.

She sat silently for a few moments and she could hear his voice. G.o.d, how he howled at his own jokes. He would slap his knee, his eyes would squint, and his face and neck would turn red as he unleashed a big laugh. It was only a distant sound in her mind now, gray cells rubbing together, but the memory made everything all right. She waited for more of his laughter-more of that feeling somewhere deep inside. And then suddenly she heard the gunning of an engine and an awful drone. It sounded like a buzz saw. It was coming from just over the hill.

Tess jumped up, her dad's laughter disturbed, and stomped off to see what on earth was causing the ruckus.

What have you done with your precious life? Florio's words had lingered in the air long after he had gone off to the fire station to partake of the wine and cheese reception in his memory. No matter what ch.o.r.es were there to distract Charlie, the question followed. In the Dalrymple family plot, he poured the cement foundation for a new headstone and searched for answers. On the Mount of Memory, he chopped up an oak that had fallen in the storm and he wondered. What had he done with his second chance? Florio's words had lingered in the air long after he had gone off to the fire station to partake of the wine and cheese reception in his memory. No matter what ch.o.r.es were there to distract Charlie, the question followed. In the Dalrymple family plot, he poured the cement foundation for a new headstone and searched for answers. On the Mount of Memory, he chopped up an oak that had fallen in the storm and he wondered. What had he done with his second chance?

He watched a squadron of geese take flight in a tight V-formation, honking as they cleared the treetops, circling once over the grounds, then winging across the harbor. One thing was for sure: He had spent far too much of his precious life battling those evil creatures. Sure, painters came to Waterside to capture them quaintly on canvas. Old ladies showed up to feed the goslings with bags of crumbs. Little did they know, the gaggle was a public menace. They chomped on gra.s.s, devoured flowers, dirtied monuments, and even attacked mourners.

On this fine afternoon, Charlie sat on a bench by the lake with Joe the Atheist, who had invented an ingenious method of scaring off the loathsome birds. It involved deploying an armada of remote-controlled toy motorboats.

"PT-109, ready for attack," Joe said.

Charlie's mind was elsewhere. "You think you'll ever do anything important with your life?" he asked.

"What are you talking about? This is important," Joe said. "We've got a job to do." He looked through a pair of army field gla.s.ses and positioned a metal box with a joystick in his lap.

"I'm serious. You think you'll ever amount to anything? You think G.o.d has a plan for you?"

"G.o.d?" Joe said. "You kidding me? I believe in luck. That's all. You've either got it or you don't. Remember last year? I was one digit away from winning thirty-four mil in the Ma.s.s. lottery. You think G.o.d had anything to do with that? No way." He shook his head. "Someday, I'll hit it big. Till then, I'm stuck with you." He smiled and leaned forward. "Look! One more squadron of geese at two o'clock by the Isle of Solitude," he said. "Requesting permission to attack."

"Permission granted," Charlie said.

Joe jammed the control stick forward. A gray patrol boat zoomed straight for the birds. The engine blared and a horn hooted. "Two hundred feet and closing," he said, peering through the binoculars. ".08 knots. Target acquired."

As always, the boat worked perfectly. With much panic, the last remaining birds scooted along the water, took flight with a few flaps, and soared over the trees. The little boat banked hard, swooping close to the sh.o.r.e, kicking up a wave of spray. And then Charlie saw a young woman standing on the far side under a willow. She was tall, beautiful, and was waving toward him. She seemed to be shouting, but her words were drowned out by the droning engine. He recognized her from town: It was Tess Carroll, the sail-maker.

"I'll catch you later," he said to Joe, who was focused on maneuvering PT-109 back to its little dock.

"Ten-four," he said.

Charlie jumped in his cart and steered around the lake toward Tess. She was a minor celebrity in town, and truth be told, he had long admired her from afar. They had gone to high school around the same time but she was a couple of years younger. Tess had always been a standout, maybe even a little intimidating, winning races in sail week or campaigning against the local power company's NOx and SOx emissions from its Salem smokestacks. Two years ago, Charlie had buried her father, and she had come just about every week since to pay her respects. She was always alone or with her golden retriever. She never wanted to be disturbed. Joe the Atheist had tried a few times but had gone down in flames, and Charlie knew to stay away.

But there she was now, quite stunning in jeans and a b.u.t.ton-down, marching along the path, right toward him, her ponytail sashaying behind. He ran his hands through his hair, wiped his face to make sure there wasn't any lunch still clinging to it, and slowed to a stop. He brushed some crumbs from his chest, tucked in his s.h.i.+rt, stepped out of the cart, and faced her. And as the first words formed on his lips, a pang of self-consciousness punched him deep inside. This uncomfortable, awkward sensation was no stranger: It visited whenever a young woman came to the cemetery, especially one so appealing.

Charlie didn't even have a chance. Before he could say h.e.l.lo, Tess let loose. "G.o.d almighty!" she said. "Do you really need to make such a racket? A person comes here for some quiet and what does she get? The invasion of Normandy!"

"Actually, it's our geese-management program," Charlie said, but as the phrase left his lips it sounded funny.

"Geese-management program?" Tess barely contained a guffaw.

"Yes," he said, reflexively, "the Canada geese population-" He stopped mid-sentence. She was staring at him with the most remarkable smile.

"No, go on," she said. "I'm mesmerized. Tell me more about the Canada geese population." She twiddled her ponytail with one hand and tilted her head. That feeling was rising in Charlie-the fizzy mixture of attraction and awkwardness.

"Let me start over. I'm sorry about the noise. We get a little carried away here sometimes." He grinned. "I'm Charlie-"

"St. Cloud," she said. "I remember. Not a Marblehead name, is it?"

"Nope," he said, stunned that she knew him. "It's from Minnesota. Long story."

"Good, I like stories."

"You're Tess Carroll, the one going around the world," he said, a smidge too enthusiastically. He had read about her just the other day in the Reporter. Reporter. A front-page feature had described her solo race, and a color photo had shown her in the c.o.c.kpit of an Aerodyne 38. "That's some boat you've got," he said. As soon as the phrase left his tongue, he whipped himself for not conjuring something more charming or witty. A front-page feature had described her solo race, and a color photo had shown her in the c.o.c.kpit of an Aerodyne 38. "That's some boat you've got," he said. As soon as the phrase left his tongue, he whipped himself for not conjuring something more charming or witty.