The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud

by Ben Sherwood

  Then the thought came back to him again. It was the perfect solution to his problems, and only one question remained to be answered:

  How would he take his own life?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  COME FIND ME . . .

  When Charlie awoke, he saw the words right there in front of him on Tess’s note. His body ached, and he had an awful taste of booze in his mouth. Coruscating shafts of light angled down from the windows. The dismal rain had obviously cleared. He looked around and saw the mess on the floor: destroyed maps, shredded sunset tables, the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  He sat up and rubbed his head. What time was it? He checked the clock over the fireplace. 5:35 P.M. Wow, he had been out for almost an hour. The last thing he remembered was ripping everything from the wall. Then he must have passed out.

  Through the grogginess, a sliver of a dream, tantalizingly incomplete, lingered in his consciousness. He was on the water in a storm. The waves were high and rolling. He was in a Coast Guard cutter. And that was all. The rest was just out of reach. He tried to bring it into focus, but the memory eluded him. The whiskey was blurring everything.

  He scooped up the torn scraps on the floor. Like a simple puzzle, he put together three ripped pieces of the chart covering the North Shore from Deer Island and Nahant around the Cape to Plum Island and Newburyport. Then he reassembled four scraps of paper stretching from Hampton Beach to Cape Elizabeth, including Boon Island and Cape Porpoise.

  Looking around again he saw that surprisingly one chart had survived his attack and lay apart with a ray of sunlight glancing across the Isles of Shoals. A draft of air nudged the page toward him, and Charlie wondered: Was Tess trying to signal him or lead the way? He grabbed the map and turned it around and around. It showed the area from Provincetown to Mt. Desert Island, Maine, and the stretch from Cape Ann all the way across Bigelow Bight. He studied the contours of the coast and ran his finger over the little islands five miles offshore.

  The adrenaline surged, and the hangover instantly was gone. His mind was racing. Did Tess leave the map for him to see? Was this a message? Or was this flat-out drunken craziness?

  He hugged the chart to his chest. As a boy, he had sailed every inch of that rugged coastline. He had explored the nine rocky outcroppings of the Isles of Shoals and had climbed to the very top of the old White Island Light. He knew where the waters were shallow and the ledges were hidden at high tide, and on countless fishing trips there he had caught bushels of mackerel and bluefish.

  Come find me . . .

  These desolate islands off the border of New Hampshire and Maine were nowhere near the Coast Guard’s search area. In fact, the first wreckage had been picked up eighteen nautical miles due south off Halibut Point, and the burned life raft had been floating even farther away.

  It was incredible: They had been searching in the wrong spot.

  How could he have missed it? What a fool! Tess was waiting for him. And he had already wasted a day.

  Charlie jumped up and seized the phone. He would call Hoddy Snow first and then alert the Coast Guard. Dear God, please make them listen. Maybe it wasn’t too late. He dialed the numbers and heard La-Dee-Da pick up.

  “Harbormaster’s office, may I help you?”

  “It’s Charlie St. Cloud. I need to speak with Hoddy. It’s urgent.”

  “Hold, please.”

  “I can’t hold—”

  He heard the Muzak. Damn. There wasn’t any time. They needed to get out there right away. Then he tried to plan out exactly what he would say: He had reason to believe that Tess was still out there on the water. Her spirit had left him a note. She was calling out to him.

  He heard Hoddy’s gruff voice. “Hello? What’s the big deal, St. Cloud?”

  Charlie hung up. It was preposterous, really. Hoddy would think he was out of his mind, and maybe he was. An hour ago, he was thinking about taking his own life.

  He felt a surge of desperation. He went to the window. The sun was starting to drop in the western sky. He couldn’t miss the sunset with Sam. But what about Tess?

  He was hyperventilating now, and his head was feeling dizzy. Take a deep breath, he told himself. Think, Charlie, think. There had to be a way he could have both.

  Then he remembered Florio’s gravelly voice: “God had a reason for saving you. He had a purpose.” And “Don’t worry, son. 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.”

  Perhaps this was his moment. Maybe this was the call. In that instant, everything became clear. Charlie knew exactly what he had to do. So he grabbed his coat, flew out the door, and took off across the cemetery.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE BOW OF THE HORNY TOAD SCUDDED ALONG THE waves. Charlie stood on the tower of the twenty-eight-foot Albemarle sportfishing boat and steered into the gloaming. The twin diesel engines were cranked up at full thrust, and in the cockpit, Tink bounced along with his stomach jiggling and his shaggy hair blowing wild in the wind. Below on the back deck, Joe the Atheist shivered and sobered up faster than he would have liked.

  When Charlie had finally found Joe at the Rip Tide, he was wobbling on a stool, well into his fourth shot of Jim Beam, telling a story to no one in particular. It was half past five and the place was clogged with cliques of happy-hour regulars—town workers just off the clock and fishermen fresh from the water.

  “Charlie!” someone had called out. “Come over here, St. Cloud,” said another.

  He had felt an arm on his shoulder pulling him toward a booth where the guys from the Board of Health were sharing a pitcher. With a hard elbow, he managed to shake loose and push his way to the bar. He grabbed Joe’s stool and spun him around.

  “I need a favor,” Charlie had said.

  “Bartender!” Joe shouted. “Another round for my friend—” His eyes were webbed with broken capillaries, and his speech was slurred.

  “I need the Horny Toad,” Charlie said.

  Joe had lurched back and yelled out to the cemetery workers in the back. “Hey, fellas! The boss wants my—”

  Charlie had grabbed him by the collar. “I don’t have time for this. Tell me where your boat is. I’ll have it back tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re going out all night without inviting me?”

  “Just give me the keys. If anything happens, I promise I’ll pay you back.”

  “Where you going? I want to know.”

  “Please, Joe.”

  “Answer’s no,” he had said, crossing his tattooed arms.

  Charlie’s heart had sunk. He didn’t have time or options. Who else was going to lend him a speedboat? And then, he lost control, grabbing Joe by the collar, pulling him in so close he could smell the bourbon and tobacco. The room stood still.

  “Goddammit, I’m taking your boat!”

  “Goddammit?” Joe hissed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I don’t buy that baloney, remember?” Nobody in the bar had moved. Their faces were just inches apart. Then Joe had burst out laughing. “C’mon, St. Cloud, let’s get out of here. Wherever you’re going, I’m coming with you.”

  Joe had slammed his glass on the counter, lunged off the stool, and stumbled toward the door. On the way to the boat, Charlie had grabbed his foul-weather gear from the back of his Rambler, while Joe rummaged around in his Subaru and unearthed a party-size bag of Doritos and a pint of Old Crow.

  On the dock, Tink was dejectedly coiling his lines after a day of futile searching. His only sightings—some melted shards of fiberglass and charred seat cushions—were bad omens that the fire on Querencia had burned all the way through the hull.

  “You were right,” Tink had said. “It’s too late.”

  “No, I was wrong,” Charlie had answered. “It’s not too late. She’s still out there. She’s waiting for us.”

  “Are you frigging kidding me?” His face was filled with anger. “Don’t screw with me, St. Cloud. I’m not in th
e mood.”

  “I’m serious, Tink. I think I know where she is. Come with us. What’ve you got to lose?”

  “My sanity, but it’s probably too late for that. . . .” Tink lifted his duffel and cooler, and hopped onto the Horny Toad.

  Now Charlie aimed the prow on a 55-degree heading toward the Gloucester sea buoy. They were doing 25 knots, and if the wind stayed behind them, they would be able to pick it up to 30 once they got around the tip of Cape Ann. At this speed, Charlie calculated it would take an hour.

  And then what? Charlie knew the moon was waning, and heavy clouds would block out any light. But it didn’t matter. He was counting on his high beam and flares. He would find Tess.

  To starboard, a noisy booze cruise heading out on the sunset run pulsated with the music and laughter of a party on the top deck. As the Horny Toad zoomed past, two revelers leaning against the railing lifted their beer bottles in a silent toast.

  Soon they were clear of coastal traffic, and Charlie pushed the throttle all the way forward.

  “What’s the big hurry?” Joe said, hauling himself woozily up the ladder. “It’s not like you’re really going to find that Carroll girl.” He hiccuped. “In fact, I’ll bet you fifty big ones that we’ll dig that girl’s grave this week.”

  Charlie felt his temper flare. “Shut your drunk mouth,” he said. He never should have taken Joe along for the ride, but it was the price of using the boat, one of the fastest in the harbor.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Joe said after a while. “You had some secret thing going with that girl, didn’t you?”

  “Drop it, Joe. Please?”

  He glanced at Tink, checked the compass, and aimed the boat on a 44-degree heading for the Cape Ann sea buoy. Joe burped, waved his hand dismissively, and grumbled to himself. Charlie looked back over his shoulder and saw the PG&E smokestacks in Salem receding in the hazy distance. A flock of herring gulls was following in their wake. Then he checked his watch.

  Incredible. It was already 6:20 P.M. He turned to Tink. “Take the wheel for a minute?”

  “You bet.” He stepped forward and put both hands on the wood. Then Charlie climbed down the ladder and went to the stern. He stood there for a long time staring toward the west. Water and land merged in the twilight, a wedge of gray against the sky. The sun had slumped below the horizon.

  Charlie felt the tears well up.

  It was the first time in thirteen years that he would miss the game of catch with Sam. He thought about dusk in the hidden playground, where the plate and mound would be as empty as he felt. He imagined his little brother showing up and waiting all by himself on the wood swing. God, he hoped Sam would understand. . . .

  The view before him was changing colors, like slides on a screen. There were great strokes of purple on the horizon mixed with slashes of blue and white. He tried to savor the magnificence of the moment. For all those years, he had only seen the sun disappear between the trees in the forest. He remembered the aspen and poplars silhouetted against the light, like slats on a window or bars in a jail. That was his frame of reference, his one perspective on the passage of day into night.

  Now the whole world was before him, and he gasped at the vast beauty of it all. He breathed the damp and salty air. He heard the seagulls cry. Storm petrels and common terns drifted low on the water. And the sky dissolved once more into bands of blue and gray until everything was black.

  It was night.

  “Good-bye, Sam,” he whispered.

  The wind was cold, and the dark swallowed up his farewell. Then he turned and climbed the ladder back to the bridge. There were stars in the sky ahead, and he knew one thing for sure. Tess was out there waiting for him, and he would not let her down.

  THIRTY

  THEY WERE SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ISLES OF SHOALS, between Smuttynose and Star Islands. Charlie reached for the searchlight and hit the switch. The beam sliced the darkness, and its white point glanced off the water. He swung it around in a big circle. A flying fish skittered across the surface.

  A night of desperate searching stretched ahead.

  He and Tink took turns at the wheel, trolling the ocean, sweeping the emptiness with the light, calling out until their voices were hoarse. Joe woke up around 3:00 A.M. and pitched in for an hour, steering while Charlie and Tink stood watch. With each brush of the searchlight, with every advancing second, his heart sank even further. Was he wrong about the clues? Was this all a creation of his grief? “Give me a sign, Tess,” he prayed. “Show me the way.”

  There was only silence.

  As dawn came at 6:43 A.M., the east began to glow with stripes of orange and yellow. But the arrival of this new day meant only the worst for Charlie. He had risked everything and he had lost. Sam would be gone. All that was left was a job in the cemetery mowing the lawn and burying the dead. He had turned something into nothing, and he had only himself to blame.

  His back ached from standing watch. His stomach growled from lack of food. His head hurt from a night of crying out into the gloom. What should he do next? He searched for a sign from Sam and wondered if his little brother was okay.

  Then he heard Joe down below, grumbling and grunting as he climbed the ladder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must’ve nodded off.” His voice was raspy from sleep. “Any luck?”

  “None.”

  “Well, you did your best,” he said, reaching for the wheel and elbowing Charlie aside. “I’m the captain of this boat and I say we go home.”

  “It’s just getting light,” Charlie protested. “Maybe we missed her last night.” He turned to Tink. “What do you say? Where should we look now?”

  Joe interrupted: “Face it, Charlie. I know you had to get this out of your system, but she’s gone.”

  “No! She’s alive.” He felt crazed inside. His frantic brain searched for examples. “There was that sailor who was unconscious for nine days in the Bering Sea. Remember him? He was on the news. A Japanese whaler picked him up and he survived.”

  “Right.” Joe had turned the boat around.

  “Cold water slows your metabolism.” Charlie barely recognized his own voice. “It’s the mammalian dive reflex. Your body knows how to shut down everything except for essential functions and organs.” It was the only thing left to hold on to. “Remember those climbers on Everest a few years ago? They were above twenty-seven thousand feet in the death zone. They were lost, frostbitten, and slipped into comas. But they managed to survive.”

  “You crazy or something?” Joe said. “Those climbers were lucky, that’s all.”

  “It wasn’t luck. It was a miracle.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no such thing.”

  Joe pushed forward on the throttle, and the boat leaped for home. Charlie knew it was over. Numbly, he made his way down the ladder to the stern, where he plunked down on one of the benches and drowned his thoughts in the drone of the engine.

  As he stared at the wake spreading out behind him, the sun climbed the sky, bathing the ocean in a soft glow. But Charlie felt an aching cold inside. His fingers trembled, his body shivered, and he wondered if he would ever be warm again.

  THIRTY-ONE

  SAM WAS WIND.

  He whooshed across the Atlantic, skimming the wave tops, reveling in the most amazing feeling. He was liberated from the in between, and the parameters of his new playground were dazzlingly infinite—the universe with its forty billion galaxies and all the other dimensions beyond consciousness or imagination. His quietus had finally brought freedom. No longer constricted by his promise, he had moved on to the next level, where he could morph into any shape.

  Sam was now a free spirit.

  But there was one more thing he had to do on earth. He swept over the bow of the Horny Toad and swirled around his brother, trying to get his attention, but to no avail. Another loop around the boat and another breezy pass, with a good gust whipping the American flag on its pole, flipping Charlie’s hair, and filling his j
acket, but again he had no luck. Then he twanged the guy wires of the boat, making an eerie, wailing song, but Charlie didn’t hear a single note.

  Last night, Sam had felt annoyed and betrayed by Charlie’s abrupt departure from the cemetery. At sundown, he had hung around the Forest of Shadows, waiting and waiting. Loneliness had overwhelmed him as the purple light vanished from the sky, and the hidden playground had grown dark. Soon anger began to creep in as he realized his big brother had ditched him for a girl and had broken their promise.

  Then Sam was struck with an amazing notion. He had never really thought about moving on before. Life in between—making mischief in Marblehead and playing catch at sundown—had always suited him and Oscar just fine. But Charlie knew best—“Trust me,” he liked to say—and if his big brother was willing to risk everything to venture out into the world, then maybe Sam should do the same.

  And so, without trumpets or fanfare—without a blinding flash of light or chorus of angels—he had simply crossed over to the next level. The transition was as smooth and effortless as his fastball.

  His granddad Pop-Pop was there to greet him, along with Barnaby Sweetland, the old caretaker of Waterside, and Florio Ferrente, who delivered a powerful hug and profound apologies for not having saved him in the first place. “Whom the gods love die young,” he had said. “Muor giovane coluiche al cielo è caro.”

  From that moment forward, everything had changed for Sam. Gone were a twelve-year-old’s preoccupations with kissing girls and playing video games. Vanished were the hurts and pains of a stolen adolescence. Instead, he was filled with the wisdom of the ages and all the knowledge and experience that had eluded him when his life was cut short. With this new perspective, more than ever, Sam wanted to comfort his brother and make sure that everything would be okay.