The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud

by Ben Sherwood

  “Catching the moon?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I read somewhere that 75 billion human beings have lived and died since the beginning of history, and I believe their souls are out there somewhere.” He looked straight up into the sky. “It makes me think of that John Lennon song. You know, ‘We all shine on in the moon and the stars and the sun.’ ”

  Tess was quiet for a long time. She stared into the opening between the clouds. The Milky Way spread out in a great swath. “I like that, Charlie,” she said. “More than anything, I need to know he’s out there somewhere. You know? That he’s okay.”

  “He is,” Charlie said. “Trust me. It’s hard to explain, but I’m sure.”

  “You’ve got a feeling?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, a feeling.”

  Then she turned to Charlie and said, “I’m glad you took me here tonight. It really means a lot.”

  “Me too.”

  They were so close together now that Charlie thought he could actually feel an electrical charge. He had heard touchy-feely types talk about energy fields before, and it seemed like hooey, but Tess definitely had one. He leaned forward the tiniest amount, watching for her reaction, hoping she would give him an opening. They stayed there in each other’s glow for what felt like forever, until she looked down at her watch and said, “I better go.”

  For a moment, Charlie felt defeated, but then he decided to be daring. She was leaving in a few days, and who knew if he would see her again. So without saying a word, he reached for her waist and pulled her close. To his surprise, she came to him without resistance. She tilted her head back and her lips parted. He kissed her softly and tumbled into the most incredible feeling. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was bliss. The warmth reached all the way inside and filled him with the most exhilarating sensation he had ever known.

  “Tad Baylor, eat your heart out,” she said when they pulled apart. Then she grabbed his flashlight, twirled around, and marched off toward the great iron gates.

  The streets were almost entirely deserted as Tess hurried past Five Corners and the Rip Tide Lounge, a fancy name for the rough dive where she had waitressed on breaks from college. Across the street, she saw a burly man staggering down the sidewalk. He was carrying a mug of beer and was trying unsuccessfully to keep it from sloshing. Tess slowed down. It was Minty Weeks, a retired fisherman and one of the better drinkers around. He had earned his nickname back in the great freeze of ’79 when he was spotted ice-skating half-naked on the frozen harbor with a bottle of peppermint schnapps in each hand. An editorial in The Marblehead Messenger had called it the most scandalous display of public nudity since the actress Tallulah Bankhead had run through town with no clothes on and was locked up in the BB-gun closet at the police station because there was no jail for women.

  “Hey, Minty,” she called out. “Need any help getting home?”

  He grunted, turned away from her, and faced a brick wall. He leaned his forehead against the building, fumbled with his zipper, and began to relieve himself.

  She shook her head at this fine Marblehead specimen. “Have a good one,” she said. She walked up Washington and Middle Streets, past Abbot Hall, where the clock on the tower gonged one, then turned on Lookout Court. She jumped the three steps up to her green colonial in a single bound and let herself in the unlocked front door. It was the kind of community where neighbors looked out for each other and no one ever used a dead bolt or key.

  “Hey, Bobo!” she said. “Where are you, boy?” She had forgotten to leave a light on and was surprised her retriever wasn’t waiting at the door for her to return. “Bobo?!”

  She flipped on the lamp in the living room and saw her dog on the big couch. He was lying with his head on a pillow and was staring right at her, but he didn’t move an inch.

  “What? No love for your girl?” she said. “I bet you’re hungry.”

  She went into the kitchen, switched on another light, and found a note from Tink by the toaster.

  Hey, Girl,

  Took Bobo out & ate your leftovers. I was tempted to try on your clothes, but not my size. Too bad. See you mañana at your mom’s dinner.

  Love,

  Me

  ps—I’m doing yoga tonight with La Channing! Check in when you’re back . . . make sure I’m still alive.

  She chuckled. Tink hadn’t seen his toes in years. It was too late to call, so she got out some Eukanuba, scooped the food into Bobo’s bowl, and set it on the floor. “C’mon, boy. Chow time.” Bobo was twelve years old and a little hard of hearing, but he still had some bark in him. A special present from Dad, he was waiting in a wicker basket on the front porch when she got home from her very first day of high school. Guys would come and go and maybe even break her heart, but Bobo was always true.

  She went back into the living room. “Hey, what’s the matter, boy?” The dog shook his head, let out a sleepy woof, and buried his nose in his paws. “Okay, I’ll take you on a big run tomorrow, all the way to the lighthouse. And I’ll make you scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. How’s that?” He snorted.

  Tess saw the light flashing on her answering machine. One message. She walked over and hit play. She heard her mother’s voice: “Tessie, it’s me. Just a reminder. Dinner at six tomorrow. If you’re back earlier and feel like brunch with the old ladies, swing by church in the morning. It would be nice for everyone to see you before you go.” There was a pause. Then she said, “Love you.”

  Tess climbed the slanting stairs to the second floor. “C’mon, boy,” Tess said. “Bedtime for Bobo.” She turned on the television and switched to the Weather Channel. A reporter was finishing a story about the damage from that nasty storm. It had slammed a bunch of tuna boats returning to Gloucester, sunk a tug somewhere near Providence, and was moving down to Delaware and Maryland. “Yeah, and it almost killed me,” she said, shaking her head.

  She slipped off her shirt and jeans, took off her bra, and changed into her tattered #11 Drew Bledsoe football jersey and some thick wool socks.

  She hopped onto the four-poster bed, threw her head back on the pillows, and knew she was never going to get to sleep. She felt wired, like she could fly. It was Charlie St. Cloud and that incredible kiss. Damn, it was too short. She should have stayed a little longer and given him a little more of a test drive, but she knew that was dangerous. She didn’t entirely trust herself in those situations. She easily could have followed him back to that cottage and spent the night. Of course, she wouldn’t have necessarily slept with him. She wasn’t that kind of girl. But she might have done just about everything else.

  So why had she run? It was an old habit born of experience and disappointment. She couldn’t remember exactly when, but somewhere along the way, she had given up even imagining that a guy could sweep her away. She had turned off those emotional faucets, and they were rusty from disuse. It was better that way. She once calculated that there had to be someone out there in a world of 6.3 billion people who would love her well and long. She even planned to sail out to find him. It was a romantic idea, but deep down, she knew the truth. She would spend four months all alone on the water, never docking long enough to get attached.

  She got out of bed, pulled on her big red bathrobe, and stepped into the hall. Then she climbed the steep ladder up to the widow’s walk on top of the house. It was a small square room enclosed in glass that looked on the harbor below and the twinkling lights of Boston to the southwest. For hundreds of years, women had climbed these rungs to watch their men return from the sea. Tess laughed: She loved turning tradition on its head. Soon, her family and friends would climb this ladder to look for her mast when she was on her way back from the other side of the world.

  She lit the candles on the window ledge. Then she curled up on a banquette and pulled a blanket around her. She leaned her head against the cold glass and watched her breath on the pane. There was Waterside in the distance. For the first time, she noticed a little light in the black patch
of woods. It was surely Charlie’s cottage. What a strange and magical place, surrounded by sad reminders of his loss, and yet so warm and safe with all those books, maps, music, and food.

  She fought the feeling as long as she could, but then she pictured his hands on her waist, pulling her toward him, and the exhilaration of pushing up against his body. She wanted to kiss him again, and she was half tempted to go back downstairs, get on her bike, dash across town, ring that buzzer, and jump him right there at the gates. Then she had an even better idea and closed her eyes to imagine the possibilities. First light was just hours away, and she could hardly wait. Tomorrow would be an unforgettable day.

  SEVENTEEN

  CHARLIE SAT ON THE DOCK IN THE WATERSIDE COVE, leaned against one of the old wood posts, and sipped his morning coffee. He was still sleepy from staying up so late replaying every detail of the evening and hoping Tess was doing the same. Well past midnight, he had escorted her to the great iron gates and reluctantly let her go.

  “You sure you don’t want me to walk you home,” he had said, hoping for another kiss or two.

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  “What about all the ghosts and goblins in the streets?”

  “I’m a big girl, and no one’s dumb enough to mess with me.”

  Then she had taken off into the night.

  When he had gotten back to the cottage, his head was still spinning, his lips still tingling, so instead of cleaning up, he had kicked back with another beer and the blue-eyed soul of Dusty Springfield and surrendered to the incredible feeling inside, like frozen ground beginning to thaw. The surface looked the same, but everything underneath was changing.

  Now, as wriggles of steam rose from his mug to vanish in the bluish gray of the morning, he listened to the boom of the cannons at the yacht clubs across the water signaling the official arrival of the sun. This was how most days began in Marblehead. Coffee on the dock. A few captains motoring by with the latest on where the water was sharky and where the stripers were hitting. A chat with a WWII old-timer about the achy, arthritic northeast wind.

  Then work.

  But Sundays were different. There was no official business in the cemetery, so Charlie could take his time. The gates opened to the community at 8:00 A.M., but there were no burials. Joe would come by soon in the Horny Toad, and they would shoot across the harbor to the Driftwood for breakfast. Then they would hang out with the wharf rats who were burning off the hours till the NFL began.

  “Heads up!” a voice cried out. Charlie turned just in time to see a tennis ball fly by his head with Oscar chasing at full speed.

  “Morning, big bro,” Sam said, stepping from the mist onto the dock. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt with its hood pulled up over his head. Messy curls drooped over his eyes. Even though playing catch at sunset was the key to renewing their promise, sometimes Sam dropped by at daybreak before taking off on his adventures.

  “Morning,” Charlie said.

  “Soooooo?” Sam said, plopping down beside his brother.

  “So what?”

  “Don’t play dumb! How was the action last night?” Oscar had captured the ball and was back, wagging his tail, ready for more.

  “None of your business,” Charlie said, hurling the ball onto the rocky shore. “If you weren’t dead, I’d beat your brains in for spying.”

  “Gimme a break. I followed the rules. I kept my distance.”

  “You were pushing it. You were right up against the line, and you know the code.” When folks had begun whispering that Charlie was losing his mind and talking to the ghost of his brother, Sam had agreed he wouldn’t interfere when others were around. Still there were times when he couldn’t resist making trouble.

  “I like her,” Sam said. “She’s okay, even though she roots for the Pats.”

  Charlie didn’t answer.

  “Look at you, playing Mr. Cool. So what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why’d she take off so fast last night? You kissed her, then she split. Bite her tongue or something?”

  “It was getting late, I guess. It was only our first date.”

  “You think she got spooked by the cemetery?”

  “No, she doesn’t scare easily.”

  “Maybe you bored her to death with all your usual stuff about clouds.”

  “Very funny.”

  Sam poked at one of the nails in a post. Oscar brought the ball back and sat down for a rest, his tail thumping the boards. “What’s a real kiss feel like?” Sam asked. He plopped down on the dock next to his beagle. “You know, a kiss with all the works.”

  “All the works?” Charlie smiled at his kid brother. Even though all those years had gone by since the accident, Sam remained twelve years old, forever asking innocent questions about the things in life that he would never know. He could have moved on to the next level and opened himself up to all the wisdom and enlightenment in the universe, but he chose to stay.

  “There’s nothing like it,” Charlie said, “and there are a zillion different kinds. Some are exciting and sexy and—”

  “Slippery?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “C’mon. I wanna know!”

  Charlie had to think. A kiss? How do you explain a kiss? “Remember that Little League game when you played the Giants?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tell me the story.”

  Sam grinned. “We were down four to one in the last inning. I came to the plate with two outs, the bases loaded, and Gizzy Graves was on the mound. I missed the first two pitches by about a mile. The shortstop started laughing at me, but I smashed the next pitch over the left-field fence for a home run.”

  “And how’d it feel?”

  “Best thing in the world.”

  “That’s a kiss, minus the bat.”

  Sam laughed. “And minus Gizzy Graves.”

  “Exactly.”

  Charlie watched his little brother and felt the hurt. In the abstract, Sam understood the concept of the perfect kiss, but actually experiencing one was entirely different. Charlie was suddenly swept up in all the amazing things Sam was going to miss. He had been cheated of so much.

  And then Charlie noticed an older woman coming down the hill from the cemetery, picking her way between the tombstones. It was Mrs. Phipps, and Charlie could see that she was already beginning to fade away. Sometimes it happened quickly; other times it took a few days or weeks. Folks seemed to move on when they were ready. The soft morning light was glinting right through her. Gone were the black dress, stockings, and pointy shoes. Now she was wearing a pink frock with a matching pillbox hat and silver boots. The lines in her face had softened. Her skin was smooth, and her hair was darker. She seemed neither young nor old but a perfect balance of the two. Charlie recognized the transformation. This was the way Mrs. Phipps wanted to see herself. It was a shimmering reflection of the past and present as well as a projection of the future. It was the combination of who she had once been and who she always hoped to be. It was always this way when folks crossed over.

  “Good morning,” she said, stepping onto the dock.

  “You’re looking lovely, Mrs. Phipps,” Charlie said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better. I guess the shock has worn off, just like you said it would.”

  Charlie motioned to his brother to stand up out of respect. “Mrs. Phipps, this is my brother, Sam.”

  “How do you do?”

  “Hi,” Sam said. “Nice hat.”

  She tilted her head. “I wore this on the day my sweet Walter asked me to marry him.” She was smiling. “You know, I just hated that old black dress they stuck me in at the funeral home. Don’t know why my daughter picked it out of the closet. It’s hardly how I want to look when I see my husband again.”

  Charlie knew she was ready, and sure enough she said, “I just wanted to stop by and say farewell. It’s time for me to go. He’s waiting for me.” She reached out with her shimmering hand. “Good-
bye and thank you.”

  “Good luck,” Charlie said.

  “Bye,” Sam added.

  Mrs. Phipps walked away and was almost transparent by the time she reached the end of the dock. Then a horn hooted on the water. Joe was steering his boat into the cove.

  “Ahoy,” he said. He was wearing a Bruins cap turned backward, a red checked shirt, and jeans. “Top of the morning to you.”

  Charlie waved, then mumbled to his little brother, “Gotta go.”

  “See you at sundown,” Sam said, scooping up Oscar.

  Charlie jumped onto the boat, and Joe pushed forward on the throttle. He aimed for the wharf across the harbor. “Look at you!” Joe said. “You’re all happy today.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You’ve got a bounce in your step. A grin on your face. Tell the truth. You get laid last night?”

  “No comment.”

  “You snake! What’s her name?” He spun the steering wheel hard, narrowly avoiding a moored catamaran.

  Charlie leaned into the wind and shook his head. He zipped the front of his navy fleece. Tess was his secret, and he was going to hold on to it as long as he could. The last thing he needed was Joe meddling or making a play for her himself. “Nice day, huh?”

  “Nice day, schmice day. Come on, Chucky Love! Tell me everything. Who is she? Where did you meet her?”

  “You over or under on the Pats today?” Charlie said.

  “The truth will come out,” Joe said, idling the engine and letting the boat drift toward the wharf. The dock was already crowded with other vessels, and he deftly steered into an open slot. Charlie climbed out, tied up, and headed for the Driftwood, a small wood-frame shack with peeling red paint. Joe caught up with him, and the two stepped through the screen door.

  Most of the little tables were already crowded with townies. Fish netting and harpoons dangled from the ceiling. A lacquered sand shark grimaced from one wall at a barracuda over the kitchen door, and Charlie still smiled at the urn above the cash register with a gold plaque that said: ASHES OF PROBLEM CUSTOMERS.