Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,64

temperature, but when winter came with snow and rain, the stone held the frost and made it worse.

Charlie now slogged through every step by rote. He dug the hole with precisely twenty-six scoops of the backhoe. He covered the dirt pile with Astroturf. He installed the lowering device.

With every action, memory fragments exploded in his mind: Tess’s eyes, her laugh, her legs. Down the hill was the lake where he had first seen her. Stop! Pay attention to the job, he admonished himself. Set up the tent. Put out the chairs. Arrange the floral tributes.

Deep down, he felt some strange kind of motion sickness, like he had lost his balance or his rhythm. His world of obelisks and mausoleums seemed unstable, and he steadied himself on his shovel. He peered into the muddy ground that he had opened. It wasn’t his most careful work. The earthen walls weren’t even, but only he knew how they should look. He brushed away a few stray clumps of dirt and smoothed the surface around the opening.

Next, he pulled the lopping shears from his cart. It was time to tame some of the wild shrubs that so infuriated Fraffie Chapman and the Historic District Commission. Old Charlie would have ignored their demands for another year or two, but New Charlie didn’t care anymore. There was no point. He would start the clipping job before the Bailey funeral and then would bring the rest of the workers over to finish it off. He reached into the low branches of the bushes, cut out some dead leaves, trimmed a few inches from the top, and shaved some more from the side.

Then he stopped.

His will was broken. His edge was gone. He had lost his drive. The tape-recorded bells in the Chapel of Peace began to ring. He listened. And remembered. Walking under the moon. Making love in the candlelight. The images rolled on, merging with the murk in his head and blurring gray like the cloud cover. For thirteen years, he had been inured to the pain and drudgery of this place, but how could he possibly dig and mow for forty more? Did he really want to spend his whole life here, only to be buried near his brother with a bronze Weedwacker for his memorial? How was he supposed to pretend that life was any good without Tess?

His eye caught sight of a big man lumbering up the hill, moving between the tombstones. The afternoon light filtered right through him. His hair was neatly combed and gelled, but the contours of his fireman blues were gauzy. It was Florio Ferrente, the firefighter, and he was fading.

“Greetings,” he said.

“Hey, haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Been real busy,” Florio said, “trying to look after the wife and son.”

Charlie leaned his shears against a monument. “How’re they holding up?”

“Not so good. It’s been real rough. Francesca isn’t sleeping. The baby won’t stop crying.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So I got a question for you, Charlie.” Florio seemed ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter. He was ready to move on. “I need to know, Charlie. How long does this last? You know, the pain? When Francesca hurts, I hurt too. It’s like we’re connected.”

“You are connected,” Charlie said, “and it lasts until you and your family release each other.” He paused. “Some folks get there sooner than others.”

“What about you?” Florio asked. His eyes were serious. “You think you got everything figured out?”

“I guess so. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Florio looked Charlie up and down, then put his hat on his head and adjusted the brim. The light flowed through him.

“What’s your point?” Charlie asked.

“I’ve just been thinking a lot,” he said. “All my life, I went to church and read Ecclesiastes. You know, where it says there’s a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to weep and laugh, to love and hate, to search and give up.” He paused. “Trust me, Charlie. The Bible got it wrong. There isn’t time in a man’s life for everything. There isn’t a season for every activity.”

There were tears in his eyes, and he wiped them away with a shimmering slab of a hand. “Remember the end of my funeral? Father Shattuck said, ‘May he rest in peace.’ What a crock! I don’t want to rest. I want to live.” He shook his head. “But there isn’t time for that. Know what I mean?”

“I do.”

Florio looked across the vast lawn studded with granite. “I guess I better