Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,75

blink of an eye. And then we’ll have forever.”

“Promise you won’t leave me,” Charlie said.

“Promise.”

“Swear?” he said, amazed to find himself repeating the very same conversation from all those years ago. This time, however, it was Sam who comforted Charlie.

“I swear,” his kid brother said.

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Hope to die,” Sam said. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The brothers stood up.

Sam went to the larch tree at the foot of the pond. There was a thick, knotted rope hanging from a lower branch. “One last push?” he said.

With a whoop, Charlie pushed, and Sam began to swing out over the water. “Bye, big bro,” he shouted, letting go and reaching for the sky. He tucked into a tight forward somersault with a twist. Gone were the gangly arms and legs, and Charlie felt blessed that just once he had seen him in all his glory.

Then Sam was gone, vanished, and the clearing was absolutely silent except for the swinging rope and a flurry of crimson oak leaves on the wind.

THIRTY-FIVE

THE LAST CLOSING TIME, THE LAST ZOOM AROUND TO collect an elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit on the Vale of Serenity.

“Evening,” Charlie said.

Palmer Guidry’s hair was wavy and white, and as he poured the last drop from his red watering can, his old cassette recorder played Brahms.

“Well, hello, Charles!”

“We’re shutting down for the night. Can I give you a lift?”

“Why, thank you. So good of you.”

Mr. Guidry folded his dust rag, switched off the tape player, and made a final inspection of the crimson bloom of a tall plant.

“Hollyhocks were Betty’s favorite,” he said.

“I think you told me once.”

“You know, Betty planted the whole backyard with pink hollyhocks one time. They grew seven feet high!”

“Oh really?”

He climbed into the cart and tucked the watering can under his legs.

“Night, Betty,” he said. “Sweet dreams, my love. Be back soon.”

“Want to come over for dinner tonight?” Mr. Guidry said as they approached the iron gates. “I’ll whip up one of Betty’s favorites. Finest meat loaf on God’s green earth.”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “I’d like that. In fact, I’d like that a lot.”

Mr. Guidry hesitated for a moment. Even with Alzheimer’s he knew something was different. Something had changed. Something wonderful. His eyes twinkled, and his face displayed a hint of recognition. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you always say?” It was another little miracle, one of those mysterious moments of clarity in a confusing world.

“Not anymore,” Charlie said. “I’ll follow you home. Just don’t drive too fast.”

“I’m at Cow Corners on Guernsey and Jersey,” Mr. Guidry said. “It’s the old gray house with green shutters.”

“Gotcha.”

As Charlie pushed the great iron gates shut for the last time, he smiled at the ancient, creaking sound. Someone else would get to squirt oil on those giant hinges. Now he stood on the outside and peered through the metal grille across the cemetery where the willows bowed toward the lake, the fountain was quiet, and not a soul stirred.

He let go of the iron bars, turned and hefted his two duffels into the back of his Rambler. Mr. Guidry pulled out onto West Shore Drive in his Buick, and Charlie followed him down the street that skirted the edge of the cemetery. He looked out the window and waved good-bye to the rows of monuments, the acres of lawns, and his world within a world. And Charlie St. Cloud, dearly departed caretaker of Waterside Cemetery, never looked back.

THIRTY-SIX

MARBLEHEAD HUMMED WITH THANKSGIVING WEEK contentment. The chilly air carried the comforting scent of burning logs. Hibernating boats huddled on winter dry docks and dreamed of warm weather. Twinkling Christmas decorations made their merry debut. Around Engine Company 2 on Franklin Street, life was especially good. There hadn’t been a big blaze since the School Street Fire.

Charlie was wearing the uniform of a full-time paramedic at the station, now also his home until he found a place of his own. On this utterly uneventful Friday, as the clock in the rec room chimed six—time for a shift change—Charlie grabbed a coat from his locker and headed out to the Rambler. With a few extra turns of the key, he brought the old car to life. Sure, it was almost ready for the scrap yard, but it was a good ride, and sometimes he could drive all day and late into the night just to feel the road rushing beneath him.

Tonight Charlie had only one place to go. He headed down