The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud (20 page)

THIRTY-THREE

“
I
QUIT.”

They were two words that Charlie never imagined uttering, but he was stunned by how easily they came out. He was standing on the shoulder of Avenue A, the asphalt lane that bisected Waterside. Elihu Swett, the cemetery commissioner, had been making rounds in his Lincoln Continental and had pulled over to the side of the road. From his capacious front seat, he peered up through the open window. “You sure I can’t make you reconsider?” Elihu asked.

“I’m sure.”

“How about a four percent raise? I think I can get the town to approve that.”

“It’s not about the money,” Charlie said.

“How about another week of vacation? I’m sure I could work that out too.”

“No, thanks. It’s time to go.”

Elihu scowled. “Maybe you’ll change your mind,” he said, carefully removing the latex glove from his tiny hand and reaching out the window. “You’ll always have a place here if you want to come back.”

After a good, unprotected shake, Charlie smiled. “I hope it’s a long time before they bring me here.” Then he jumped into his cart and scooted off along the paths, stopping to adjust a sprinkler head or to clip back branches in a pyramid hedge. The flowers seemed more radiant, the inscriptions on even the most ancient memorials seemed more distinct, as if someone had turned on the lights.

It was Friday, the day of the week to work on monuments. The gang was in the field scrubbing and fixing the gravestones. There were 52,434 of them in Waterside, and they came in every shape and size. Marble from Italy. Granite from Vermont. Literally, millions and millions of dollars spent on rock and remembering. Someday, Charlie hoped to be remembered too. For being a good brother. For finding Tess. For doing something with his life.

He had decided to treat his last day like every other, so he did his chores, made his rounds, and stopped to say good-bye to his pals. Joe the Atheist hugged him hard and confided that he was rethinking his relationship to God. The
Horny Toad
, he added, was available at any hour for a damsel in distress. Near the fountain, Charlie ran into Bella Hooper, The Woman Who Listens. “Everyone’s talking about what you did,” she said. “You know, going out there and finding Tess. Never giving up. It’s amazing. You’re the new hero in town.”

“Thanks, Bella, but it was no big deal.”

“We should talk about that sometime,” she said. “I’m available whenever you want. Special friends-and-family rate.”

He zoomed around the grounds for the last time, satisfied with how serene and groomed the cemetery looked. Then, back in the cottage, he threw his few good things into a duffel bag, packed his favorite books and tapes in another, folded his blue Waterside shirts and left them on the dresser, wiped some dishes dry, and took out the trash. He would leave the inherited furniture from Barnaby Sweetland for the next caretaker. He looped the keys on the hook, set his bags out on the step, and closed the door behind him. Then he loaded the cart and headed north.

He took the turns by heart, right, left, half circle around the lake, and from there he drove toward the small mausoleum on the hill shaded by two willow trees. The specks in the marble sparkled, and the pair of carved baseball bats made it seem grand. Lichen had grown around the name chiseled on the lintel:

S
T.
C
LOUD

He got out of the cart, took an old-fashioned skeleton key from the glove compartment, and opened the door. In the semidarkness, he sat on the little sarcophagus and swung his legs. He chucked the ball into the mitt. Then, with a smile at the blue angel in the stained-glass window, he put them down on the smooth Carrara marble. Right where they belonged.

The sun was going down, and Charlie knew it was time to go. He locked the vault and stood looking down on the harbor below. God, he would miss Sam and their mischief. Then the wind picked up, the trees in the forest began to shudder, and a flurry of crimson oak leaves floated down, twirled in front of him, and blew away.

Sam was there, Charlie knew right away. His brother was all around him in the air, the sky, the sunset, and the leaves. Those games of boyhood catch were best left in his memory. But he couldn’t resist. On his last day at Waterside, there was one more place to go.

THIRTY-FOUR

T
HE HIDDEN PLAYGROUND WAS SILENT.
N
O FUSSING BIRDS,
no frantic squirrels, no spirits drifting. It was 6:51
P
.
M
.

Charlie paced from the dirt mound to home plate and then back again. He wanted to remember every inch—the cedar grove, the swing, the bench. Where was Sam now, he wondered. What he wouldn’t give to have his kid brother stop by for one final farewell.

Charlie drank in the sylvan setting, memorizing the color of the leaves and the angles of the light. He knew he would never return again to this crepuscular realm, and soon the clearing itself would be gone. The forest would overrun the ball field, and no one would even know it had ever existed.

The thought brought tears to his eyes. This had been the most important space in the world to him, but he had made his choice and now there was somewhere else he needed to be. He took a deep breath, inhaling the musty fragrance of autumn, and was about to go when he was startled to see a young man walking across the grass. At first, he wondered who else had discovered the hidden playground. In thirteen years, no one had ever penetrated this sanctuary.

The intruder was tall, at least 6¢3≤, and his shoulders were square and broad. His face was narrow and long, his hair was curly, and his shining eyes were unmistakable.

Charlie gasped in astonishment.

It was Sam.

“Hey, big bro,” he said with a smile.

Charlie couldn’t speak. Gone were his brother’s Sox cap, baggy shorts, and high-tops. He was wearing a bomber jacket, jeans, and boots.

“Look at you!” Charlie said.

“What?”

“You’re a man.”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m finally a man and I can do what I want.”

They were face-to-face now, and Charlie realized that his brother was glimmering like a hologram with luminous surfaces. Sam was now a reflection of the past and the present and a projection of the future—all he had been and all he wanted to be.

Charlie threw his arms around his brother’s evanescing shape and was stunned that they couldn’t touch. His grasp held nothing. Sam was no longer in between. He was ether now, but Charlie could still feel his warmth and the strength of the connection.

“You crossed over,” he said.

“I did.”

“And how is it?”

“Beyond anything we ever imagined, Charlie. It’s mind-blowing. You’ll see.”

“So how did you get back here? I didn’t realize you could return.”

“There are lots of things you don’t understand,” Sam said. “But don’t worry. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

Then they wandered into the forest, sat on the log by the pond where the catfish and sunnies hid from the great blue heron, and told each other about the last few days.

“You mad I broke the promise?” Charlie asked.

“No,” Sam said. “It was time. We were holding each other back.”

In that moment, Charlie realized what he had truly lost in those thirteen years. They had never shared an adult conversation. Sam had not grown up, and their relationship had been frozen in time.

Charlie wished he could wrap his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “That was you out there on the water the other morning, wasn’t it?” he asked. “You know, with the spray and the wind?”

“Sure took you long enough to notice!”

“What can I say? Negligence in the first degree. Guilty as charged.”

“Negligence, noun,” Sam said, starting to smile. “The sexy nightgown a girl forgets she’s wearing when she goes to work in the morning.” He laughed and slapped his knee, and Charlie roared. He studied the translucent outlines of his brother who had grown so much and yet was still the same.

“I guess I have only one regret,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry I held on to you for so long.” He wiped tears from his face.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I held on just as much as you.”

There was a long silence, then Charlie asked, “You think we’ll ever play catch again?”

“Of course,” Sam said. “We’ll be back together in the blink of an eye. And then we’ll have forever.”

“Promise you won’t leave me,” Charlie said.

“Promise.”

“Swear?” he said, amazed to find himself repeating the very same conversation from all those years ago. This time, however, it was Sam who comforted Charlie.

“I swear,” his kid brother said.

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Hope to die,” Sam said. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The brothers stood up.

Sam went to the larch tree at the foot of the pond. There was a thick, knotted rope hanging from a lower branch. “One last push?” he said.

With a whoop, Charlie pushed, and Sam began to swing out over the water. “Bye, big bro,” he shouted, letting go and reaching for the sky. He tucked into a tight forward somersault with a twist. Gone were the gangly arms and legs, and Charlie felt blessed that just once he had seen him in all his glory.

Then Sam was gone, vanished, and the clearing was absolutely silent except for the swinging rope and a flurry of crimson oak leaves on the wind.

THIRTY-FIVE

T
HE LAST CLOSING TIME, THE LAST ZOOM AROUND TO
collect an elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit on the Vale of Serenity.

“Evening,” Charlie said.

Palmer Guidry’s hair was wavy and white, and as he poured the last drop from his red watering can, his old cassette recorder played Brahms.

“Well, hello, Charles!”

“We’re shutting down for the night. Can I give you a lift?”

“Why, thank you. So good of you.”

Mr. Guidry folded his dust rag, switched off the tape player, and made a final inspection of the crimson bloom of a tall plant.

“Hollyhocks were Betty’s favorite,” he said.

“I think you told me once.”

“You know, Betty planted the whole backyard with pink hollyhocks one time. They grew seven feet high!”

“Oh really?”

He climbed into the cart and tucked the watering can under his legs.

“Night, Betty,” he said. “Sweet dreams, my love. Be back soon.”

“Want to come over for dinner tonight?” Mr. Guidry said as they approached the iron gates. “I’ll whip up one of Betty’s favorites. Finest meat loaf on God’s green earth.”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “I’d like that. In fact, I’d like that a lot.”

Mr. Guidry hesitated for a moment. Even with Alzheimer’s he knew something was different. Something had changed. Something wonderful. His eyes twinkled, and his face displayed a hint of recognition. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you always say?” It was another little miracle, one of those mysterious moments of clarity in a confusing world.

“Not anymore,” Charlie said. “I’ll follow you home. Just don’t drive too fast.”

“I’m at Cow Corners on Guernsey and Jersey,” Mr. Guidry said. “It’s the old gray house with green shutters.”

“Gotcha.”

As Charlie pushed the great iron gates shut for the last time, he smiled at the ancient, creaking sound. Someone else would get to squirt oil on those giant hinges. Now he stood on the outside and peered through the metal grille across the cemetery where the willows bowed toward the lake, the fountain was quiet, and not a soul stirred.

He let go of the iron bars, turned and hefted his two duffels into the back of his Rambler. Mr. Guidry pulled out onto West Shore Drive in his Buick, and Charlie followed him down the street that skirted the edge of the cemetery. He looked out the window and waved good-bye to the rows of monuments, the acres of lawns, and his world within a world. And Charlie St. Cloud, dearly departed caretaker of Waterside Cemetery, never looked back.