The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud Page 5

  Querencia seemed to be going sideways faster than forwards. The rigging was screaming in the wind. The ocean was almost entirely white. After another mouthful of spray, she knew it was time to go below.

  Hand over hand, she climbed uphill to the cockpit. She flipped on the autopilot and adjusted the course to run before the storm. Then she waited for a break in the attacking ocean. She would have only ten seconds to make it inside.

  Three . . . two . . . one.

  She raced forward to the companionway hatch, slid open the cover, and pulled up the washboard. She put both feet on the first ladder step, then fumbled to unhook the tether from the jack line. Her neoprene gloves were thick, her fingers were deadened by the cold, and she couldn’t even feel the carabiner. She needed total concentration. The stern began to rise, and there were only seconds before impact.

  As a marauding wave overtook the boat, she unfastened the harness and slid inside the cabin, accompanied by a torrent of seawater. With a swift and practiced motion, she jammed the washboard back in its slot and slammed the cover closed.

  She waited for a moment in the darkness, listening to the roar outside, the dripping and creaking inside, and the pounding of her heart. Querencia was groaning from the relentless attack. She shimmied to port, sat down at the navigation station, and flicked on a light. She unzipped her hood and pulled off her gloves. Her hair was soaked, her face was burning, but there was no point trying to get dry.

  She checked the map on her laptop monitor and guesstimated she was a good three hours from landfall in New Hampshire. She reached for the single-sideband radio. It was probably time to give Tink an update. He was at the Marblehead High football game against Beverly, but she would try his cell. She called the marine operator, gave him Tink’s number, and waited for the connection. Damn, she would have to admit she had ignored his advice. She had sailed straight into the low. The pressure had dropped so fast her ears had actually popped, and she was stunned to see a reading below 29.4 inches on the barometer. Tink would probably rip her a new one.

  Unless she lied.

  Tink’s voice crackled on the speaker. “How’s my girl?” he asked. The roar of the crowd echoed behind him.

  The boat lurched violently, but Tess stayed cool. “Everything’s great,” she said. “Smooth sailing.” There was no point telling the truth—it would only make him worry and ruin the game. “Just checking in,” she went on, trying to sound unfazed. “Who’s winning?”

  “The Magicians by one touchdown, and I’m up to hot dog number three.” He burped. “How’s the weather?”

  “Plenty of wind,” she said, listening to the hammering waves.

  “What about the mainsail?”

  “It fits perfectly, with a beautiful flying shape. Tell everyone they did a great job.”

  “Will do.”

  “I better run,” she said, as the boat pitched forward and plummeted down a steep wave. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “Adios, girl. Take care.”

  Her white lie wouldn’t hurt him, she thought. She’d be back in time for supper on Sunday, and he’d never have to know the truth. She shoved the mike back in its cradle, hopped across to the galley, and strapped herself in with the safety belt. She was tired, thirsty, and a bit queasy from the thrashing, but she knew she needed energy. She reached into the icebox and found some fresh lettuce and a bottle of Newman’s Own light Italian dressing, but the boat lurched hard, and she decided it was nuts to try cooking. Instead, she pulled a PowerBar from one of the lockers. Her fingers could barely get a grip on the wrapper. She tore it with her teeth and ate it in four bites.

  There was nothing to do now but wait. She unhooked herself, made her way forward to the main cabin, and unzipped the top of the survival suit. She climbed into her bunk, cocooned by mesh that held her snugly in place, and began to make a list of all the things she would do when she got back home. Food was uppermost on her list. On the expedition around the world, she would have to subsist on freeze-dried rations and would likely lose the fifteen to twenty pounds that most sailors dropped. During her last week on land, she wanted to splurge. Caramel popcorn and peppermint candy kisses at E. W. Hobbs in Salem Willows. Burgers at Flynnie’s on Devereux Beach. Calamari and lobster at the Porthole Pub in Lynn. She grinned at the gluttony. To work off the guilt, she would go on long runs around the lighthouse and take walks with Mom along the Causeway.

  And of course, she would visit Dad’s grave at Waterside. She had gone there almost every week since he had died two years ago. Sometimes, she stopped by on a morning jog with Bobo. Occasionally, she brought a box lunch from the Driftwood or a cooler of Sam Adams in the late afternoon.

  Tess didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. All that psychic stuff on TV was a bunch of hooey for desperate people. It was the feeling of stability that kept her going back, and the serenity. It was a quiet place and beautiful too. Somehow, she felt centered there, and so she went every week to pluck dandelions from the grass or to clip the rosebush that Mom had moved from the backyard.

  This time when she got back, she would sit on the bench under the Japanese maple and tell him about her stupid decision to sail right into the storm. She knew wherever he was, he would scold her. Hell, he might yell. But he would never judge her. Despite all her flaws and foolishness, his love had always been unconditional.

  Her eyes began to feel heavy, and she was tempted to take a catnap, but suddenly her bunk dropped out from beneath her as the boat plunged into a hole. She floated for a second, then slammed back into the berth. Then Querencia broached, lurching violently to one side. Tess was thrown hard against a porthole. She feared the boat had been knocked down flat with its mast in the water, but the weight of the keel rolled the craft back upright. She stepped from the berth and started moving toward the companionway. She needed to see if there was damage to the mast. She zipped up her suit and hood, put the mask in place, and began to climb the steps.

  Then the world turned upside down.

  EIGHT

  IT HAD BEEN THEIR RITUAL FOR THIRTEEN YEARS. AND THEIR secret too. Every evening they came together to play.

  Thwack.

  Sam caught the ball in his mitt and threw it right back—a two-fingered fastball. It had started long ago on the evening of Sam’s funeral after Mom and the other mourners had gone home. As the sun set, Charlie had stayed alone by the grave.

  And then, incredibly, impossibly, Sam had appeared from the woods, his body banged up from the crash, still holding his mitt and ball. Oscar was there too.

  “What now, big bro?” he had said. “C’mon, let’s play catch.” The moment had rendered Charlie so distraught—so inconsolable—that doctors gave him powerful drugs to ward off the visions. At first the experts called them dreams, then delusions. The diagnosis: post-traumatic stress disorder. They sent him to a shrink. They gave him Xanax for anxiety, Prozac for depression, and Halcion for sleep. They never believed what he could see.

  But see he could, and they were not illusions or hallucinations. He had been dead and was shocked back to life. He had crossed over and come back. He had made a promise to Sam and was given the power to keep it.

  A few months later when yet another grown-up refused to believe what he could see, Charlie pretended it was over. He professed the apparitions were gone. So the doctors pronounced him healthy and took him off the medicine. Charlie swore he would never tell another soul about Sam. They’d only call him crazy. They’d never understand. It would be his secret forever. A secret that would govern his days and nights. A secret he would conceal beneath a carefully constructed carapace of charm.

  From that day forward, Charlie and Sam played ball each and every evening. Their game at dusk, Charlie believed, was the key to his gift, and he feared that if he missed a single night it would be gone. So he kept careful watch on the angles of the sun. He printed out charts from the Weather Service and tracked the differences between civil, nautical, and astronomical twilight.

  As long
as they threw the ball every night, he could see Sam, and Sam could see him. Their time together was confined to the Waterside grounds, for Charlie swiftly realized his gift did not extend beyond its walls or gates. So in the mornings, they goofed around on the dock before anyone else was there, and in the evenings, they hung out in the cottage and watched ESPN or James Bond movies. It had worked this way for thirteen years—more than 4,700 nights—and Charlie knew there was no point taking risks.

  Over time, he realized his gift had grown, as he began to notice other spirits passing through the cemetery on their way to the next level.

  They came in all shapes and for every reason—a crotchety lobsterman who drowned in a squall, a college football linebacker felled by sunstroke, a frazzled hairdresser who slipped on some hair clippings and snapped her neck—but they each shared one telltale trait: they shimmered with an aura of warmth and light. Helping these glowing souls with their transition, he came to think, was his purpose and his punishment.

  “So?” Sam said. “How was work today?”

  “Pretty good,” Charlie said. “Remember Mrs. Phipps? Ruthless Ruth?”

  “Yeah, your English teacher?”

  “Exactly,” Charlie said, floating a knuckleball. “Saw her today.”

  “Where?”

  “Hanging around her grave.”

  “No way!” Sam said, firing a fastball. Strike one. “What happened to her?”

  “Heart attack. I think she died while she was getting her teeth cleaned.”

  “Figures,” Sam said. “It was only a matter of time before Dr. Honig killed someone with his stinky breath.” His throw sailed high and Charlie leaped to catch it. Ball one. For his next pitch, Sam kicked his leg up and zinged a fastball. Strike two.

  “So how’s Mrs. Phipps doing?” he said.

  “She’s taking it hard. She’s flabbergasted by what happened.”

  “Flabbergast, verb,” Sam said, cracking a smile. “Freaking out over how much weight you’ve gained.” Charlie couldn’t help laughing. His kid brother was always playing with words.

  “So was Mrs. Phipps’s makeup all over the place?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yuck, the new mortician uses too much face junk. He makes everyone look like a clown.” Curveball, low and outside. Ball two. “When is Mrs. Phipps crossing over?”

  “Not sure. Her husband, Walter, is on the other side. Remember him? The man with no big toe?”

  “Oh my God,” Sam said. “Yeah, a bluefish bit it off in the bottom of his boat. Remember that stub sticking out of his sandals? It was freaky.”

  Fastball in the dirt, ball three. Full count. Two blue jays shot across the field in little loops. The wind from the ocean rushed up the hill, zigzagged through the tombstones, and swept across the playground.

  “C’mon, Sam,” Charlie said, smacking his mitt. “It’s three and two, a full count. Give me your out pitch.”

  “Here goes!” He reared up, kicked, and threw a screwball that danced through the air and, in a signature move, actually froze in mid-flight, hovering motionless as if time stopped. Sam snapped his fingers, and the ball blasted off again, making a perfect loop-de-loop before sailing home.

  “Steeeeee-rike three,” Charlie yelled.

  They played ball until it was almost too dark to see, telling each other stories about their day. As a spirit, Sam could have roamed anywhere he wanted, traveling to Alpha Centauri in the Milky Way, shimmering with a rainbow over the Lakes of Killarney, catching the sun over the Barrier Reef, and riding the moon over Machu Picchu. The possibilities were truly infinite. The known universe with its 40 billion galaxies could have been his playground. And there was heaven waiting for him too.

  But Sam had sacrificed all that. He spent his days and nights on Marblehead adventures, sitting behind home plate at Seaside Park for Little League games, sneaking a peek at Maxim magazine at Howard’s newsstand, and skateboarding down the steepest run on Gingerbread Hill.

  “C’mon,” Sam said. “Let’s go swimming before it’s too late. Tag, you’re it!”

  Then Sam sprinted into the woods with Oscar and Charlie giving chase. Night was almost upon them, the shadows were getting longer, and the forest filled with shouts and yelps. It was the most comforting feeling in the world—the three of them flying through the trees without a care—just as it had been all those years ago on Cloutman’s Lane, and just as it would always be.

  It happened too fast to brace. Tess suddenly found herself pinned to the ceiling of her boat with bilgewater surging around her head. Radio equipment slammed about, and pots and pans clanked. Chaos resounded inside the cabin. Outside, the ocean and wind roared. Then the lights flickered out.

  She heard the sea rushing into the boat, but fear was not foremost in her mind. Querencia was built to capsize and right herself. There were pumps onboard to expel the water. In the midst of all the mayhem, she was overwhelmed by something deliciously annoying: the aroma of Newman’s Own dressing. The bottle in the galley had obviously shattered, and now the whole cabin smelled like tossed salad.

  She huddled on the ceiling, up to her knees and elbows in water, and muttered to the boat, “Please turn back. Come on, come on. Get upright, please?” But nothing happened, so she crawled toward the nav station and found the EPIRB emergency beacon in its bracket. She hated needing help—it was so damn embarrassing—but she pushed down on the yellow power switch, breaking the safety seal, and saw the LED flash. The device was now sending a distress signal via satellite that would ping on every Coast Guard screen in New England. Suddenly she did not feel so alone. But wait, she reminded herself, Querencia wasn’t sinking, and there was no real need yet for an SOS. Tink and the gang would really bust her chops for crying wolf when she got back to the dock. If the boat started to go down, there would be plenty of time to call the Coast Guard. So Tess flicked the toggle off, and the Mayday light stopped blinking.

  A minute went by, then another. The fragrance of Italian dressing was mixing with the sulfuric stench of battery acid leaking from the power units. What was taking the boat so long to roll back over and right herself? The weight of the keel was supposed to pull Querencia upright. Her mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. She remembered Tony Bullimore, whose keel was sheared off in sixty-foot seas. He was stranded upside down for five days at the bottom of the world below Australia as his boat slowly sank in freezing waters. “Below forty degrees south, there is no law,” he said when he was rescued. “Below fifty degrees south, there is no God.”

  Tess was not an especially religious woman. She went to the Old North Church on Sundays largely because it was important to her mother. She was friendly with Reverend Polkinghorne and had built him a sail or two. But she didn’t like the conventions of organized faith and she preferred doing it her own way. She considered herself a spiritual person with her own relationship to God.

  Now, upside down in the Atlantic, she found herself praying in the darkness. She began by apologizing for her arrogance. She knew she had taken too big a risk. She had been careless, and now she felt ashamed. This wasn’t how she wanted it to end, all alone on a weekend sail in a storm that could have been avoided. She prayed to God to be merciful. And then she summoned her father. “Dad, please help me. Tell me what to do.” He had always bailed her out of desperate situations. She closed her eyes and promised that if she got back to the harbor she would never do anything so rash again. She would play it safe in the race around the world. She would sail with the rest of the group, even if it meant going slower. She would be a good girl.

  Yes, when she got out of this mess, she would go straight to Waterside and take an oath: She would change. Dad had raised her to be bold and to make every moment count, but he would have frowned on her recent recklessness. Flaunting fate was no way to cope with his death.

  “Show me the way home,” she whispered into the roiling darkness. “Dad, please help me.”

  NINE

  THE DAY WAS GRAY AS GRANITE, AN
D THE GROUND WAS soggy from a night of hard rain. The storm had blown a riot of leaves and branches all over the lawns. Charlie hid under his yellow hood and looked into the hole where one of his gravediggers was shoveling. It was backbreaking work on a normal day, but when the ground was drenched and the backhoe couldn’t maneuver in the muck, it was especially miserable. Now, compounding the gloom, Elihu Swett, the cemetery commissioner, had stopped by for a spot inspection.

  “The Ferrente funeral party will be here any minute,” Elihu was saying beneath his great umbrella. He was an elfin man in a tan trench coat, royal-blue corduroy suit, and rubber galoshes, and his entire wardrobe appeared to come from the boy’s department at Filene’s. “How much longer till you’re done?” he asked, taking a sip from a Mountain Dew bottle that seemed half his size.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be ready,” Charlie said, kneeling down and looking into the opening. “How you doing, Joe?”

  “Just fine,” Joe Carabino said from the bottom of the grave. “But it’s Elihu that I’m worried about.” He winked.

  “What’s the matter?” Elihu asked, stepping gingerly toward the hole.

  “A lethal dose of caffeine is ten grams,” Joe said, leaning on his shovel. “A few more of those Mountain Dews and you’ll be pushing up daisies.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You feel all right? You seem a little pale.” Before Joe could even razz him about his bloodshot eyes, Elihu stuffed the bottle in his coat pocket and took off for his Lincoln Continental. A bona fide hypochondriac, he had been treated by the best doctors in Boston, and every one had urged him to find a new line of work. He refused and insisted on slathering himself with disinfectant and even wearing latex gloves to staff meetings. After all, a good town job was hard to find.