The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud

by Ben Sherwood

  It was just past sundown in the Forest of Shadows, and soft streams of violet light filtered through the trees. Charlie climbed out of the pond and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. His dripping cutoffs were loose on his narrow waist and hung low on his hips. The shorts touched his knees, where scars from the accident crisscrossed in fading stripes. He swept his hands over his chest and stomach, skimming off extra water, and shook out his hair, spraying Oscar.

  “You see Tiny Tim down there?” Sam asked.

  “Nope,” Charlie said. “No sign of him.” Tiny Tim was the turtle who lived in the pond. Thirteen years ago, the boys had plucked him from the little tank near the cash register at Animal Krackers in Gloucester. When Charlie had moved to Waterside, Tiny had come along too. With plenty of food and his own pond, he had grown into a giant.

  Sam scratched his head. “You think he met a hot reptile babe and took off?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Wouldn’t blame him, would you?” Sam said. “Pretty small pond for a guy his size.”

  Charlie glanced at his watch. Tess would arrive at the great iron gates in sixty minutes. He knew he had to get back to the cottage, hide all the piles of newspapers, throw the dishes in the washer, and get the coals fired up.

  “Time for one more dive,” Charlie said. “Go for it, little man.”

  With a gangly arm, Sam reached for the rope. He wore jean cutoffs, too, just like his older brother, and was so skinny he seemed to be all knobs and joints—elbows, knees, shoulders, ankles. “Give me a push.”

  Charlie obliged, and Sam swung low across the water, then arced upward. At the perfect moment, he let go. Like a leaf on the wind, he soared up and up, defying gravity. Then he tucked into a front somersault with a 540-degree spin, an extreme maneuver he had seen on ESPN’s Summer X Games.

  Sploosh.

  He disappeared underwater for the longest time, and when he finally surfaced, he had a big smile. “Tiny says ‘hi!’ He’s cool. He’s not going anywhere.” Sam climbed out of the pond and grabbed his towel. “You want to try a misty flip?” he asked.

  “No way. Too hard.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Chicken? You’ve got a few advantages in the flying department.”

  “Don’t be a wimp,” Sam said. “It’s easy. I’ll show you how. It won’t kill you.”

  “Nah,” Charlie said. “I’m done.” He pulled a Salem State Vikings sweatshirt over his head.

  “What’s up with you tonight?” Sam said. “We barely even threw the ball around, and now you’re splitting?”

  “Nothing’s up.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re acting all freaky.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Enough, Sam.”

  Charlie slipped on a running shoe and tied the laces. He hated being impatient with his brother, but he was tired of the same old routine.

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute! It’s a girl, right? You met someone. You’ve got a date tonight!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Liar!” Sam said. His brown eyes were full of glee. “Tell the truth. Resistance is futile. What’s her name?!”

  Charlie pulled on the other shoe and tried an evasive tactic. “I’ve got a new nomination for the all-time greatest Red Sox team,” he began. “Luis Tiant belongs on our list with Boggs, Yastrzemski, Garciaparra, Young . . .”

  “Nice try,” Sam interrupted. “You think I’m falling for that?” He grinned triumphantly. “Spill already! What’s her name?!”

  “Give me a break,” Charlie said.

  But like any twelve-year-old who could be a brat if he chose to, Sam would not stop. “You must really like her if you’re trying to hide her,” he said.

  In that moment, Charlie made a quick calculation. He knew how these conversations had always gone. Above all, he figured he would get home faster if he just surrendered to the cross-examination.

  “Her name is Tess,” he said finally.

  “Tess who?”

  “Tess Carroll.”

  “What else?”

  “She’s a sail-maker. Her dad died a couple of years ago from a heart attack.”

  Sam was sitting right beside him on the log. He stared at his brother, and asked, “Does she like the Sox?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “So what’s the matter? What are you so afraid of?”

  “Not afraid of anything.” Another lie. Of course, he was petrified.

  Sam smiled and put on his T-shirt. “I can do recon, if you want. See if she has a boyfriend.”

  “Margie Cartwright says she’s single.”

  “So how can I help?”

  “Stay out of it.” Charlie’s tone was firm.

  “C’mon, can’t I have any fun? You know, like go through her underwear.”

  “No, Sam. No panty raids.” He checked his watch. “Whoa, it’s late. I better get going.” He stood up from the log. “Remember,” he said, “no monkey business. Stay away from Tess and keep clear of the cottage tonight.”

  “Relax, you’re too uptight,” Sam said, reaching for the rope and stepping onto the knot. “I promise I won’t stink up the place.”

  “But flatulence is one of your specialties.”

  “Flatulence, noun,” Sam said with a grin. “The ambulance that scoops you up when you’re squashed by a steamroller.” He let out a great laugh. “Give me a push, big bro.”

  Once more, Charlie obliged, and Sam swung out over the pond. He glided back and forth a few times, picking up speed, and then, at the perfect moment, he let go. “See you later.”

  Charlie blinked, Sam vanished, and all that was left in the Forest of Shadows was the fading light and the whoosh of the wind.

  FOURTEEN

  TINK HAD ALREADY PLOWED THROUGH A PINT OF BEN & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby and was halfway through a triple-decker baloney, Swiss, and slaw sandwich. A giant bottle of Diet Dr Pepper, his only nod to weight-watching, sat with the remains of his trencherman’s snack on the bench in Crocker Park. Tess’s dog, Bobo, lazed in the grass nearby, chomping through a bag of sourdough pretzels.

  He had come to hang out here on the bluff above the harbor as day turned to night. An hour earlier, he had swung by Lookout Court to check on Tess’s place while she was away and to make sure everything was all right. So he had let himself in the front door that was always unlocked and had seen the usual mayhem of her whirlwind. Running shoes caked with mud strewn in the living room, a jogging bra hanging from the kitchen doorknob, dishes and pans piled in the sink clamoring for cleaning, and Bobo whimpering to go outside.

  So as he often did, he took the golden retriever to the park. That was the extent of his romantic life these days. High school ball games with the guys. Movies at the Liberty Tree Mall in Danvers. Long nights on the stool at Maddie’s. And, always, good old Bobo.

  Now Saturday night was already upon him, and once more he had nothing much to do. Some weekends, he managed to score a meal off Tess by dropping by and pleading hunger. If she was home, she always took him in and they wound up cooking together, renting a Steve McQueen movie, and lazing on her shaggy sofa. Sure, she managed to burn everything she ever touched in the kitchen, but he didn’t mind. He just liked being near her.

  On one hand, Tess was like his kid sister. She was the type of girl who needed a big brother to keep her on the straight and narrow. She was smarter than everyone else and as strong a sailor as anyone he had ever met. But she also needed an anchor after her dad had died, and he was trying his hardest to fill that job.

  To be totally honest, since the moment they had met at the Topsfield Fair, he’d wrestled with a wicked crush on her. At the time, he was a small-time celebrity, doing the weather on TV, and had volunteered to sit in the dunking booth to raise money for the Jimmy Fund. A stunning woman with long dark hair had fired three footballs at the target. Each spiral found its mark, plunging him into the murky tank. When he dried off, he was determin
ed to meet the girl with the killer arm.

  That was four years ago, before he was run off the air for his wiseacre remarks about Skeletor the Anchorwoman. Tess had written the station on his behalf; they had become fast friends; and he had gone to work for her in the sail loft. Every minute of every day, he tried to conceal his ardor, all the while hoping she would fall for him. He had even tried dropping some pounds to make her take notice, giving up his beloved Chubby Hubby. In the end, though, it wasn’t his potbelly that was getting in the way. When it came to men, she was a mystery. There was no holding on to her. She was a free spirit, and he lived uncomfortably with his longing.

  Bobo was eyeing his triple-decker now, and Tink pulled out a slice of baloney and tossed it to him. “So what’s the girl up to?” he asked. “She got a hot date tonight?” The dog woofed. “Figures.”

  Tink hated that this would be his life for so many months while Tess was sailing around the world. He got up from the bench, wiped the mustard from his beard, and tucked in his flannel shirt.

  “Time to go, boy,” he said, snapping the leash on Bobo. He tossed the trash in the can, and they lumbered down Darling Street. Ahead, he saw the steady stream of Saturday night traffic on Washington. He trudged up the hill toward Abbot Hall, cut into the square, and saw a pretty woman in front of a pale blue saltbox.

  La-Dee-Da Channing was sitting on her stoop, filing her nails, lost in InStyle magazine. A fancy green scarf was tied around her head, and she was wearing Jackie O shades even at dusk. La was an aspiring actress who didn’t let her administrative post in the harbormaster’s office keep her from dressing for Tinseltown.

  “Evening,” he said.

  La didn’t even look up. “Brad and Jennifer practice Bikram yoga together,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. All the stars do yoga in a heated room.”

  “Whatever happened to jogging?”

  La looked up and focused on his belly. “You tell me.”

  “Ouch,” he said, patting his prodigious tummy.

  “You look great tonight,” she said. “You even took a bath.”

  “Thanks,” Tink said, feeling his chest puff out. “Everybody washes on Saturday.”

  “Not you,” she laughed. “Bobo!” She leaned forward toward the retriever. “Here, boy.”

  Tink shrank, watching her rub the dog’s ears. “You going to Maddie’s later?” he asked.

  “You buying?”

  “Anything for you, La.”

  “Awww, what a sweetheart.” She lowered her glasses, and her brown eyes gave him a long look. Just when all seemed lost for the night, Tink felt a glimmer of hope. “See you at Maddie’s,” he said, tugging on Bobo’s leash. “Maybe afterward we can try some of that yogurt stuff.”

  “Yoga, you goof!”

  “I’ll be Bob and you can be Jennifer.”

  “Brad,” she laughed. “Better watch out or you might get hurt.”

  “No chance. You have no idea what this hunk of burning love can do,” he said. “Just wait, it’ll blow your mind.”

  FIFTEEN

  TESS WAS FEELING STUFFED AND EVEN A LITTLE TIPSY, BUT she agreed to another Sam Adams. Her appetite was back, and the brew had numbed her killer headache. She still had those sea legs from the storm, but Charlie had pulled out all the stops for dinner, and she was enjoying every moment. His grilled swordfish with tomato and capers had been sublime, and the salad of beets and oranges was heavenly. She definitely had no room left for dessert. But she would find a way.

  They were seated at a little round table on the edge of his living room. The lights were low, a log crackled in the fireplace, and two candles framed his face. He was telling her a story about his surname, which came from St. Cloud, Minnesota, the Mississippi River town where his mother was born and from which she escaped as soon as she could. The original St. Cloud, he explained, was a sixth-century French prince who renounced the world to serve God after his brothers were murdered by an evil uncle. Tess watched his mouth move and listened to his beautiful, deep voice. Then, seamlessly, he was delving into something called nephology, the scientific study of clouds, based on the Greek nephos. There were nine types, he said, each defined by appearance and altitude. He was full of strange and wonderful facts, and his mind worked fast, making the most unusual leaps. She sipped on her beer, stared into his eyes, listened some more, and felt her edges begin to soften.

  She always hated guys who fussed over her with fancy dates to Boston including five-star restaurants and valet parking. They ordered vintage wine, waxed on about white truffles, and blabbed endlessly about themselves with the preposterous hope of luring her into bed. They were predictable, insincere, and boring.

  Charlie was different. He was like some rare and exotic animal—a gentler, more sophisticated breed than the critters she had grown up around. There was also something effortless about the evening. For starters, there wasn’t a cookbook in sight. He did it all himself—sautéing, flambéing, and all those other unfathomable activities in the kitchen that she had no idea about. But what struck her the most wasn’t what Charlie had to say about cirrostratus clouds. It was how he listened. He seemed to absorb every single word that came from her, and tonight, feeling as comfortable as she did, there were many of them.

  “I really love the name of your boat,” he was saying. “Querencia, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You speak Spanish?”

  “No, but I read a book about bullfighting once. Isn’t that the spot in the ring where the bull feels protected and secure?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Sometimes it’s a place in the sun. Other times it’s in the shade. It’s where the bull goes between charges. It’s like an invisible fortress, the only safe place.”

  “Just like your boat.”

  “Yeah, and just like Marblehead.”

  Soon, Tess found herself wanting Charlie to know everything about her. She wanted him to know how she had broken her arm riding a bike on the Causeway when she was eleven. She wanted him to know how Willy Grace, her first boyfriend, had tricked her into a camp-out on Brown’s Island when he had a lot more than stargazing on his mind. She wanted him to know how she had always slow-danced to the fast part of “Stairway to Heaven.” And she wanted him to know more about her dad, who for some reason tonight felt closer than ever.

  Yes, Tess felt a rare connection to Charlie, and it was at once exciting and frightening. With every passing moment, she knew that she was losing a little bit of control and that wasn’t good. Everything about him was like a gentle undertow pulling her deeper and deeper. But she was leaving in less than a week, and no good-looking, great-cooking, careful-listening guy was going to sink her.

  “Want dessert?” he said all of a sudden.

  “Do I look like a girl who ever says no to dessert?”

  “Coming right up,” he said, gathering the dishes.

  “Better be good.” She sat back in her chair and admired the way he walked into the kitchen. He was wearing 501 jeans, and she could just make out the impressive cuts of his deltoids and triceps under his sweater. “You sure I can’t help with anything? I feel like a lump just sitting here.”

  “Make yourself useful and change the CD.”

  “Any requests?”

  “Nope, it’s a test.”

  Tess looked around for the stereo. The room was wonderfully dark and warm. Rough-hewn beams ran the length of the ceiling. Antique maps and framed black-and-white photographs punctuated the walls. Piles of books were everywhere—crammed into shelves, stacked on the floor, or heaped atop rugged old furniture made of wood and leather. The place felt like a secret hideaway, so safe and cozy that you’d never want to leave.

  On a stand in the corner, the stereo was playing the blues, something vaguely familiar on the guitar, maybe Muddy Waters, but that seemed too predictable for him. She was sure he had picked something special and different for the evening, even if she wasn’t sophisticated enoug
h to recognize it.

  Looking over his stacks of CDs, she felt a twinge of pressure. What if he didn’t like what she chose? She thumbed through a few, all the latest stuff: Cornershop, Wilco, the Magnetic Fields. She saw the Jayhawks and slipped Hollywood Town Hall into the machine. The Minnesota band felt just right: not too predictable or noisy, with a few jangly ballads.

  “Not bad. You can stay,” Charlie said, emerging from the kitchen with a chocolate cake and candle.

  “Wow! What’s the occasion?” she said.

  “Your birthday.”

  “But it’s not till February.”

  “September, February, whatever. I thought we should celebrate early because you’re going to be away.” He held the cake forward so she could blow out the candle.

  In that moment, Tess almost melted, but something inside told her to be on guard. She carefully took his measure. He was standing there all tall and handsome, with the candle flickering in his eyes. His dimple danced on one cheek, and the cake itself seemed miniature in his large hands.

  “Go on,” he said, “what’re you waiting for? Make a wish!”

  Was he pulling her leg? No one on planet Earth was that sweet. She took a breath, wished for him to be as perfect as he seemed, and was about to puff out the candle when he busted up laughing. “You totally fell for it, didn’t you?” he said.

  Tess couldn’t help giggling too. “Yes, I did,” she said. She poked one finger into the icing. “Tell the truth. Why the cake?”

  “It’s the anniversary of Ted Williams hitting .406.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” Charlie said, setting down the cake. “This week in 1941, Teddy Ballgame played a doubleheader and went six for eight. The guy was only twenty-three years old.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “A Red Sox fan.”