Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,73
it’s quite extraordinary she survived this long. But the cranial trauma was severe, and her exposure to the elements was prolonged.” The doctor paused and glanced at her colleague. “There is a theoretical chance her injuries will heal themselves. There are coma cases in the literature that defy explanation. But we believe it’s important to be realistic.” Her voice lowered. “The likelihood of a reversal is remote.”
There was a long silence as the words registered. Charlie felt solid ground collapse beneath him. Then the doctor said, “If you want to have a moment with her, now would be a good time.”
THIRTY-THREE
“I QUIT.”
They were two words that Charlie never imagined uttering, but he was stunned by how easily they came out. He was standing on the shoulder of Avenue A, the asphalt lane that bisected Waterside. Elihu Swett, the cemetery commissioner, had been making rounds in his Lincoln Continental and had pulled over to the side of the road. From his capacious front seat, he peered up through the open window. “You sure I can’t make you reconsider?” Elihu asked.
“I’m sure.”
“How about a four percent raise? I think I can get the town to approve that.”
“It’s not about the money,” Charlie said.
“How about another week of vacation? I’m sure I could work that out too.”
“No, thanks. It’s time to go.”
Elihu scowled. “Maybe you’ll change your mind,” he said, carefully removing the latex glove from his tiny hand and reaching out the window. “You’ll always have a place here if you want to come back.”
After a good, unprotected shake, Charlie smiled. “I hope it’s a long time before they bring me here.” Then he jumped into his cart and scooted off along the paths, stopping to adjust a sprinkler head or to clip back branches in a pyramid hedge. The flowers seemed more radiant, the inscriptions on even the most ancient memorials seemed more distinct, as if someone had turned on the lights.
It was Friday, the day of the week to work on monuments. The gang was in the field scrubbing and fixing the gravestones. There were 52,434 of them in Waterside, and they came in every shape and size. Marble from Italy. Granite from Vermont. Literally, millions and millions of dollars spent on rock and remembering. Someday, Charlie hoped to be remembered too. For being a good brother. For finding Tess. For doing something with his life.
He had decided to treat his last day like every other, so he did his chores, made his rounds, and stopped to say good-bye to his pals. Joe the Atheist hugged him hard and confided that he was rethinking his relationship to God. The Horny Toad, he added, was available at any hour for a damsel in distress. Near the fountain, Charlie ran into Bella Hooper, The Woman Who Listens. “Everyone’s talking about what you did,” she said. “You know, going out there and finding Tess. Never giving up. It’s amazing. You’re the new hero in town.”
“Thanks, Bella, but it was no big deal.”
“We should talk about that sometime,” she said. “I’m available whenever you want. Special friends-and-family rate.”
He zoomed around the grounds for the last time, satisfied with how serene and groomed the cemetery looked. Then, back in the cottage, he threw his few good things into a duffel bag, packed his favorite books and tapes in another, folded his blue Waterside shirts and left them on the dresser, wiped some dishes dry, and took out the trash. He would leave the inherited furniture from Barnaby Sweetland for the next caretaker. He looped the keys on the hook, set his bags out on the step, and closed the door behind him. Then he loaded the cart and headed north.
He took the turns by heart, right, left, half circle around the lake, and from there he drove toward the small mausoleum on the hill shaded by two willow trees. The specks in the marble sparkled, and the pair of carved baseball bats made it seem grand. Lichen had grown around the name chiseled on the lintel:
ST. CLOUD
He got out of the cart, took an old-fashioned skeleton key from the glove compartment, and opened the door. In the semidarkness, he sat on the little sarcophagus and swung his legs. He chucked the ball into the mitt. Then, with a smile at the blue angel in the stained-glass window, he put them down on the smooth Carrara marble. Right where they belonged.
The sun was going down, and Charlie knew it was time to go. He locked the