Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,3
field, directly behind a guy who must have been seven feet tall, but it didn’t matter. It could have poured, it could have snowed. Nothing could ruin the spectacle of the Green Monster in left field, the grass, the chalk lines, and the infield dirt. They were right near Pesky’s pole, just 302 feet from home plate, easy distance for catching a home run.
One of their heroes, Wade Boggs, sat out the game with a sore right shoulder, but Jody Reed took his place and delivered, with a run-scoring double and homer off the left-field foul pole. The boys ate two hot dogs each with extra relish. Oscar got some Cracker Jacks from a woman in the next row. A big bearded guy next to her gave them a few sips of Budweiser. Charlie was careful not to drink too much. Still, the police report would mention traces of alcohol in their blood. There was enough to raise questions, but not enough for answers.
Clemens shut out the Yankees, allowing only three hits and striking out seven. The crowd cheered, and Oscar howled. With the final out and a 2–0 victory in the books, the fans scattered but the boys stayed in their seats, replaying the highlights. The team was now miraculously within striking distance of Toronto. Instead of falling apart in September, always the cruelest month, the Sox were surging.
“Someday, we’ll have season tickets,” Charlie said. “Right there behind home plate in the first row.”
“The bleachers are good enough for me,” Sam said, eating the last of the peanuts. “I don’t care about the seats. As long as it’s you and me, that’s what makes baseball great.”
“We’ll always play ball, Sam. No matter what.”
The stadium lights began shutting down. The ground crew had just about spread the tarp over the infield.
“We better go,” Charlie said.
The boys headed for the parking lot, where the white station wagon was all alone. The drive home was much faster. Springsteen was born to run on the radio. There was hardly any traffic. The trip would take half an hour. They would be home by 10:30. Mom wouldn’t be back until midnight. Mrs. Pung in Florida would never know.
Just past the Wonderland Greyhound Park, Sam pulled a cassette from his pocket and stuck it in the radio. It was U2’s The Joshua Tree. Charlie sang along to “With or Without You.”
“Bono rocks,” Sam said.
“The Boss.”
“Bono.”
“The Boss.”
“Draw?”
“Draw.”
They drove silently for a while, then Sam asked out of the blue, “How long will it be until I’m grown up?”
“You already are,” Charlie answered.
“I’m serious. When do I stop being a kid?”
“Officially,” Charlie said, “when you’re twelve, you’re a man and you can do what you want.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“I’m a man and I can do what I want,” Sam said, enjoying the sound of it. A great moon floated on the Saugus River, and he rolled down the window. “Look,” he said. “It’s bigger tonight. Must be closer to us.”
“Nah,” Charlie said. “It’s always the same distance. That’s just an optical illusion.”
“What’s that?”
“When your eye plays tricks on you.”
“What kind of trick?”
“Wherever it is in the sky,” Charlie said, “it’s always 225,745 miles away.” He did the math. Numbers were easy for him. “At our speed right now, it would take about 170 days to get there.”
“Mom wouldn’t be too crazy about that,” Sam said.
“And Mrs. Pung wouldn’t be happy about the mileage.”
The boys laughed. Then Sam said, “It’s no optical delusion. It’s closer tonight. I swear. Look, you can see a halo just like an angel’s.”
“No such thing,” Charlie said. “That’s a refraction of the ice crystals in the upper atmosphere.”
“Gee, I thought it was a refraction of the ice crystals on your butt!” Sam howled with laughter, and Oscar barked in a series of sharp, distinctive woofs.
Charlie checked his mirrors, aimed the car straight ahead, and took one quick glance to the right. The moon was flickering between the iron railings of the drawbridge, keeping pace with them as they sped home. It sure seemed closer than ever tonight. He turned his head for a better look. He thought the bridge was empty so he pushed down on the gas.
Of all his reckless decisions that night, surely this was the worst. Charlie raced the moon, and in the final second before the end, he saw the perfect image of happiness. Sam’s innocent face looking up at him. The curl dangling over his forehead. The Rawlings glove on his hand. And then there was only fracturing glass,