Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,22

a canopy of roses and carnations around the hole. Now, where was the dead man in the crowd? Often Charlie would see the departed walking the aisles or weaving among the tombstones while the mourners sniffled into their Kleenexes. With their familiar glow, the deceased might sit under a tree or lean against the casket to take notice of who had managed to come for the burial: old girlfriends, office rivals, long-lost cousins. Insincere eulogies could provoke the dead to scoff vociferously and hoot at phony tears. And, more often than not, they would be touched, even surprised, by what their lives had meant to others.

Charlie could always spot the luminous new arrivals. Those who died violently sometimes had scrapes or limped from broken bones. Those who passed away after a long illness were weak and hobbled at first but soon regained their strength and shape. Charlie remembered how banged up Sam had looked after his own funeral, but within days he was back to his old self.

For some, of course, attending their own funeral was too much. At first, they stayed away. Then after a day or two they’d appear at Waterside and make peace with the end. Finally, they’d fade away to heaven, the next level, or wherever they were headed for eternity.

It all depended on how quickly they wanted to let go.

Charlie listened to Father Shattuck begin the ceremony. His few remaining hairs were as white as his collar and had been meticulously spun around his head like a shellacked halo. Only a gravedigger would know the Father’s true secret. His dramatic performance was identical every time—all the way to the climactic pauses in Psalm 23 as he walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I shall fear no evil . . .

And then, he read from Ecclesiastes. “There is a season for everything,” he intoned. “A time for every occupation under heaven. A time for giving birth, a time for dying; a time for planting, a time for uprooting what has been planted; a time for tears, a time for laughter; a time for mourning, a time for dancing; a time for searching, a time for losing; a time for loving, a time for hating . . .”

And, Charlie thought, a time for new material . . .

Father Shattuck finished, and Don Woodfin, the chief of the Revere Fire Department, stepped forward. He was a gaunt man with a thick mustache that bridged two hollow cheeks. His dress hat rested on his lanky frame like a cap on a coat rack. “In our 119-year history,” he began, “we have suffered six line-of-duty deaths. We gather here today to mark our seventh.” He bowed his head. “We thank you, Lord, for the life of a great man. We are grateful for his devotion to a fireman’s duty, for his dedication to the preservation of life, and for the way he faced danger.”

In the front row, a woman and her baby boy wept. “We ask the comfort of Your blessing upon his family,” the chief said. “May they be sustained by good memories, a living hope, the compassion of friends, and the pride of duty well done. And for those who continue to battle the fiery foe, we pray for Your guidance and strength. Keep them safely in Your hands. Amen.”

Charlie noticed immediately when a man approached him under the tree. He was wearing a firefighter’s dress blues and he seemed lost in thought. There was a faint glow around him that made it clear: He was the dead man, and this was his funeral.

“Can you see me?” the man said after a while.

“Yes,” Charlie whispered.

“Are you dead too?”

“No, not yet.”

The man scratched his neck. “You look so familiar,” he said. His face was grizzled and his voice was as rough as gravel. “Wait,” he said, “you’re the St. Cloud kid, right? Charlie St. Cloud?” He was pulling off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms tattooed with images of the Virgin and Child. “I’m Florio,” he said. “Remember me?”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “My memory’s fuzzy.”

Near the grave, the chief was invoking the fireman’s prayer. Florio folded his arms and bowed his head.

When I am called to duty, God,

Wherever flames may rage,

Give me strength to save some life

Whatever be its age.

Then the chief gave his cue, and Charlie stepped forward. He flipped the jam break on the lowering device. The coffin began its dignified descent.

Charlie looked at the name carved on the stone.

FLORIO FERRENTE

HUSBAND—FATHER—FIREMAN

1954–2004

And then he