The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud (7 page)

“My God,” 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. God bless them. No better woman on this earth, and Junior is my pride and joy.” His voice began to break. “God 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, passed 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 God, son. God had a reason for saving you. He had a purpose. You ever think about that?”

A long minute passed 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 God’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

T
HE 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.

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 relishing the sensation of just being there in one piece. Her toes wiggled in the grass, 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
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
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 hell out of her. Now she had to make good on her promise to her father.

She scooted across the grass 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.

G
EORGE
C
ARROLL

1941
–
2002

“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 cocktails, 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 bump on the back of her head.
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 damn 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-fashioned sailor who didn’t like expensive fiberglass 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. God, 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 chores 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 grass, 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 glasses and positioned a metal box with a joystick in his lap.

“I’m serious. You think you’ll ever amount to anything? You think God has a plan for you?”

“God?” 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 Mass. lottery. You think God 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 shore, 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 button-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 shirt, 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 hello, Tess let loose. “God 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.
A front-page feature had described her solo race, and a color photo had shown her in the cockpit 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.

“Thanks,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair from her eyes. Charlie saw that her thumbnail was black and blue, a hazard of her line of work.

“You sail?” she asked. “Don’t think I’ve seen you on the water.”

“Used to. You know, Optimists, 110s. Nothing fancy.” Charlie felt that nervous sensation. “Look, I’m sorry we disturbed you. Won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She scrunched her face. “I’m just being a pain in the ass today. I’ve got a killer headache.” She rubbed her forehead, and the sun glinted in her eyes.

Charlie lived in a verdant world surrounded by every imaginable shade of green, but for all the moss and bluegrass, he knew this: Her eyes were perfection. Light as lime on the outer edges, rich as emerald toward the center. Transfixed, he found himself saying the opposite of what he intended: “I better go now. Leave you be.”