Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,30
a walk without prior approval of Fraffie’s board. Her arched nose was strong, her white hair poofy, and she looked remarkably like one of her direct ancestors: George Washington himself, who had twice visited Marblehead.
“Look at that color,” she said rapturously, pointing with her walking stick to the door of an old house. “Gorgeous! Authentic blue. Exactly matches the colonial original!” She took a few more steps. “This way, please. Now, you see those shutters up there! I can’t even bear to look.” She covered her eyes in mock horror. “They do offend me greatly. Shutters weren’t used in the eighteenth century! They came into fashion in the early nineteenth. So, the Historic District Commission is demanding that the owners take down these monstrosities.” Charlie laughed to himself. To many townsfolk, the Hysterical Commission was more like it.
“Any questions?!” Fraffie shouted, but the visitors cowered. She turned and stomped toward him. “Marblehead is a clapboard town, not a shingle town,” she declared to no one in particular. “We won’t let the off islanders turn this into Disneyland. No, we won’t!”
Charlie crossed the street to take cover behind a Ford Explorer. Maybe he could avoid her. But then he heard her piercing voice: “I see you, St. Cloud! You can’t hide from me!” She frowned, cocked her head, and marched over to him. “You better cut those bushes on West Shore. I’m serious this time. Get them in shape or face my wrath!”
Charlie preferred letting the boxwood and yew in front of the cemetery grow wild. They made the entrance feel more natural. But he didn’t have time to argue. He could tell from the low light reflecting on the water that the sun had already dipped below the tree line.
“Those bushes aren’t historical,” Fraffie intoned. “They’re a blight. I’m giving you one more chance. Remove them or we’ll go to war.”
Charlie imagined her shooting him with her very own musket or slashing him with a cutlass. Then he mustered his most polite tone. “I’ll see what I can do; now, excuse me please. I’m in a hurry.”
Fraffie turned back to her group and pointed her cane toward the waterfront. “That’s Gerry Island out in the harbor. Elbridge Gerry was our most famous native son. He was Vice President of the United States in 1813, and we named a school, a street, and a veteran fireman’s association after him. . . .”
Off Fraffie went, declaiming about pitched roofs and paired chimneys. Charlie rushed down the street and opened the door to the Lobster Company, with its sign in the window: UNATTENDED CHILDREN WILL BE SOLD AS SLAVES. He stepped inside and was accosted by the musty smell of brine and fish. Big tanks filled with lobsters gurgled in the middle of the room. The concrete floor was wet from water splashing over the edges. As a boy, he had loved pushing his face up against the moist glass and watching the crustaceans do battle.
At the register, a pale man in pinstripes was collecting his purchase. Pete Kiley had played second base on the high-school team and was now an associate in a fancy Boston law firm. He and Charlie had turned more double plays than any infield in Marblehead history. Now Pete and his family lived out on the Neck in an expensive home and took vacations in France and Italy.
“Hey,” Pete said, turning around. “I’ll be damned. If it isn’t number twenty-four . . . shortstop . . . Charlie St.—”
His routine was always the same no matter where they ran into each other, and Charlie knew it was intended to cut through the awkwardness. Pete had done something with his life, and Charlie hadn’t. But the truth was that Pete’s attempt to recall their glory days only made things feel worse.
“Sorry I can’t stay and chat,” Pete said, twirling his BMW keys, “but the wife is waiting for me in the car.” He punched Charlie in the shoulder. “Give me a ring one of these days, and we’ll have you over for dinner. It’s been too long.”
“You bet,” Charlie said, watching him go. Of course, he would never make the call.
“That kid’s making too much money,” an old voice said behind the counter. “Just shows you, taxes should be higher on the rich.” Bowdy Cartwright had owned the Lobster Company forever. He was a jowly fellow with at least three chins who had amused generations of kids with his uncanny imitation of a puffer fish. “What are you looking