Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,13

and they moved on.

The woman’s knees touched the fresh mound of dirt where he had done his job with the backhoe. Thirty-six inches wide, ninety-six inches long, four feet deep. Eighteen inches of soil on top. All in strict accordance with the laws of the Commonwealth.

The woman tried to stand but wobbled in her heels, then fell back to one knee. This was the moment to offer a hand. Charlie got rid of the Bazooka and moved toward her. He was dressed in the Waterside uniform: a pale blue polo shirt with the cemetery logo, pressed khakis, and work boots.

“Mrs. Phipps?” he said.

She looked up, startled, and seemed to stare right through him.

“It’s me,” he said.

She shook her head, puzzled.

“It’s me, Charlie St. Cloud. Remember? Tenth grade English?”

She wiped her eyes, then nodded. “Of course I remember, but you seem to have forgotten the predicate nominative. The correct syntax is: ‘It is I.’ ”

“I is sorry,” Charlie said, his dimple flashing.

Teetering in pointy shoes with a run in her stocking, Ruth Phipps managed a faint smile. Back then she was known as Ruthless Ruth, the terror of Marblehead High, renowned for ruining grade-point averages with her evil pop quizzes and impossible final exams.

“Charlie St. Cloud,” she was saying. “Let’s see, you got an A on the first test, and then that crash—your brother—”

“That was a long time ago,” he said, jamming his hands in his front pockets. “Anyways, I came by to offer my sympathies. And I wanted you to know that you picked one of the most beautiful spots in the cemetery.”

She shook her head. “It was just so sudden. So unexpected. I never even had time to say good-bye.” Mrs. Phipps wiped the tears from her oval face, and she suddenly seemed human like everyone else. Her arms were as frail as a willow’s, her eyes as brown as bark. Death was the great leveler.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlie said.

“What’s going to happen to me now? What will I do?” Her body was still shaking. “What about my sweet Walter?”

“Trust me,” he said. “It’s going to be all right. It just takes time. You’ll see.”

“Are you sure, Charlie?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

“You were always such a bright boy. I wondered what happened to you.”

“I live over there in that cottage by the forest,” he said. “You’re welcome anytime.”

“That’s good to know,” she said, pushing a loose strand back in her bun. She straightened her dress and took a few tentative steps on the grass.

“I ought to get going,” she said. “Thanks for your help, Charlie.”

“My pleasure. That’s why I’m here.”

Then Mrs. Phipps walked slowly down the hill toward the great iron gates on West Shore Drive.

It was closing time, and Charlie zoomed the utility cart up and down the narrow paths, taking the turns like a grand-prix racer. In his early days on foot, it had taken more than an hour to cover all the acres, looking for mourners lost in thought, picnickers asleep on the lawns, teenagers hiding behind headstones. To speed up this routine over the years, he had modified the little vehicle, secretly adding horsepower and improving the suspension. Now, in the little wagon with WATERSIDE stenciled on both sides, he could secure the grounds in twenty minutes.

He always started at the north end, high on the hill where angels with trumpets alighted on marble, and made his way south across the fields of stone packed in tidy grids. Every pound of granite, every begonia blossom, Charlie thought, was proof of the enduring human need to be remembered. Now he drove along the Vale of Serenity and gazed down at the harbor, where a vintage schooner was sliding into a slip. Then he stopped to greet an elderly gentleman wearing a seersucker suit and wielding a red watering can.

“Evening, Mr. Guidry,” Charlie said.

“Well, hello, Charles!” Palmer Guidry said. His hair was wavy and white, and his face was stubbled with an old man’s uneven shave. He was one of the so-called cemetery familiars, the regulars who came every day to pull weeds from his wife’s grave and wipe dust from her stone. An old cassette recorder playing Brahms was propped against a tree.

“It’s closing time,” Charlie said. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Why, thank you. So good of you.”

Charlie stepped from the cart, shook the old ache out of his knee, and walked toward Mr. Guidry. “Here, let me give you a hand with your things.”

It was a conversation repeated almost