by Ben Sherwood
With a swift movement, Joe jumped up from the grave and high-fived Charlie with a muddy hand. “The old lethal-dose-of-caffeine trick,” he said. “Poor Elihu, works every time.”
Joe was in his early thirties and built like a bull. His blunt face was darkened by the sun, and his thinning hair was teased into a few proud, well-gelled spikes. Male-pattern baldness, he liked to say, was caused by an excess of testosterone, and he had the scientific journals to prove it.
Joe was one of the great rascals of the North Shore. By day, he worked with dirt and the dead. By night, he chased women up and down Cape Ann with a shameless repertoire of strategies and tactics. He had been known to hunt for young widows in the obituaries of the Marblehead Reporter, but he wasn’t a total rake. He had a code. He steered clear of the bereaved for a minimum of six months—that was the amount of time he heard Oprah say it took to grieve.
Joe’s only other great devotion was to his own brand of evangelical atheism. It wasn’t enough that he didn’t believe in God. He also felt it was his duty to proselytize. That was just fine as long as he kept his missionary work outside the iron gates, but once or twice Charlie caught him grumbling “There is no heaven!” at a graveside service or griping “What a waste!” when a gilded ten-foot cross was brought in by crane to stand atop a mausoleum. Joe the Atheist was duly reprimanded, but it only increased his ardor.
“What’s your story tonight?” Joe was asking as they finished dressing the job. “How about coming out with me to happy hour? I’m taking the Horny Toad up to Rockport. I know these gals who run a bar there. The things they do, man, you wouldn’t believe.”
“Give me a hand with the lowering device,” Charlie said, walking toward the panel truck on the service road.
“The Dempsey sisters. You ever heard of them?”
“No, never.”
“You’d like Nina and Tina. Trust me.”
“Let’s see how it goes today,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, yeah. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’ But when it’s quitting time, you’ll disappear. Same old story. You know, you should live a little.”
Charlie pulled the lowering device from the truck, and the two men carried it across the grass toward the grave. They carefully positioned it over the hole. It was a stainless-steel contraption invented by a mortician named Abraham Frigid, who retired on his royalties to the south of France. In every cemetery around the world, the gizmo was used to lay the dead to rest. With nylon straps and a simple switch, one man could do the work of many and lower a thousand pounds into the earth.
The brilliance of Mr. Frigid’s machine was surely in the speed control. Too fast—a quick drop into the ground—and the grieving family would be overcome, the shock too great. Too slow, and the prolonged agony would be insufferable. Thus, Mr. Frigid’s eternal contribution: a dignified, emotionally acceptable rate of descent governed by the Galilean principle of inertia and carefully engineered spiral gears, lead weights, and hinges. It was efficient, effective, and relatively painless for all involved.
Charlie heard a horn honk, then saw a procession of cars and one fire engine rolling into the cemetery. He could always tell a lot about a funeral by looking at the vehicles, clothes, casket, and stone. Nice late-model cars, a good coffin, and a big monument meant the deceased had money, but today’s burial seemed pretty average. In a few minutes, the vale would be full of mourners. He and Joe had set out one hundred folding chairs and had raised a green tent to cover them. Fortunately, the rain had stopped.
“Work time,” Charlie said to Joe. “Let’s go.”
The funeral director’s helmet of black hair was as shiny and sleek as the paint job on her brand-new Cadillac hearse. “How you guys doing?” Myrna Doliber said, slamming the front door shut.
“Better than most,” Charlie answered. He had tucked in his shirt and jammed his work gloves in his back pocket. “How ’bout you?”
“Peachy,” she said. “Two kids with chicken pox and a third with a busted arm.” Myrna’s ancestors, the Dolibers, had been the first settlers to arrive on the peninsula back in 1629. Somewhere along the way, they had gotten into the funeral business and ran a monopoly all the way north to Beverly and south to Lynn. On busy days, every Doliber was put to work, even Myrna, who was known as the most superstitious person in Essex County, and who kept a running list of ill omens like a twitch in the left eye or a white moth inside the house.
“Hey, Myrna, I counted thirteen cars in your funeral procession,” Joe said with a mischievous grin. “That mean someone’s going to die today or something?”
“Knock it off if you want your tip,” she said, walking to the tail end of the hearse. She opened the door and stood back. Charlie reached in, released the latch, grabbed a handle of the casket, and rolled it onto the cart.
“Here you go,” Myrna said, handing Charlie an envelope. “Don’t spend it all in one place.” Most funeral directors padded the customer’s bill with $100 or more for so-called cemetery gratuities, but then passed only two dollars each to the workers. Myrna was more generous and usually tipped ten dollars.
The two men pushed the coffin across the lawn and stopped beside the grave. Charlie lifted the foot of the box, which was always lighter, and Joe took the heavier head. It was a point of pride: Joe was the strongest worker in Waterside and he liked to show it. They carried the casket and positioned it on the lowering device. Everything was now ready for the funeral.
“Okay,” Charlie said. “Break time. I’ll catch you later down by the water.”
“Ten-four, boss.” Joe reached behind his ear for a Camel and strolled down the hill. Charlie walked up the rise and stood under a weeping mulberry for the best view of the proceedings.
Car doors were slamming, and men and women were coming up the hill. Dozens of firefighters in dress uniform stepped from their vehicles. Bagpipes played a wailing song. Charlie watched the tears wash down so many faces. Long ago when he thought he could weep no more over his brother’s death, he had investigated the biology of crying. It turned out the muscles above the eyes were responsible, squeezing the lachrymal glands, producing the runoff. Since every adult was made up of about forty-five quarts of water, there was essentially no end to the amount of tears in the world.
He looked over the job one last time. He and Joe had done good work dressing the site, camouflaging the mud pile beneath the carpet of Astroturf and spreading a canopy of roses and carnations around the hole. Now, where was the dead man in the crowd? Often Charlie would see the departed walking the aisles or weaving among the tombstones while the mourners sniffled into their Kleenexes. With their familiar glow, the deceased might sit under a tree or lean against the casket to take notice of who had managed to come for the burial: old girlfriends, office rivals, long-lost cousins. Insincere eulogies could provoke the dead to scoff vociferously and hoot at phony tears. And, more often than not, they would be touched, even surprised, by what their lives had meant to others.
Charlie could always spot the luminous new arrivals. Those who died violently sometimes had scrapes or limped from broken bones. Those who passed away after a long illness were weak and hobbled at first but soon regained their strength and shape. Charlie remembered how banged up Sam had looked after his own funeral, but within days he was back to his old self.
For some, of course, attending their own funeral was too much. At first, they stayed away. Then after a day or two they’d appear at Waterside and make peace with the end. Finally, they’d fade away to heaven, the next level, or wherever they were headed for eternity.
It all depended on how quickly they wanted to let go.
Charlie listened to Father Shattuck begin the ceremony. His few remaining hairs were as white as his collar and had been meticulously spun around his head like a shellacked halo. Only a gravedigger would know the Father’s true secret. His dramatic performance was identical every time—all the way to the climactic pauses in Psalm 23 as he walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
I shall fear no evil . . .
And then, he read from Ecclesiastes. “There is a season for everything,” he intoned. “A time for every occupation under heaven. A time for giving birth, a time for dying; a time for planting, a time for uprooting what has been planted; a time for tears, a time for laughter; a time for mourning, a time for dancing; a time for searching, a time for losing; a time for loving, a time for hating . . .”
And, Charlie thought, a time for new material . . .
Father Shattuck finished, and Don Woodfin, the chief of the Revere Fire Department, stepped forward. He was a gaunt man with a thick mustache that bridged two hollow cheeks. His dress hat rested on his lanky frame like a cap on a coat rack. “In our 119-year history,” he began, “we have suffered six line-of-duty deaths. We gather here today to mark our seventh.” He bowed his head. “We thank you, Lord, for the life of a great man. We are grateful for his devotion to a fireman’s duty, for his dedication to the preservation of life, and for the way he faced danger.”
In the front row, a woman and her baby boy wept. “We ask the comfort of Your blessing upon his family,” the chief said. “May they be sustained by good memories, a living hope, the compassion of friends, and the pride of duty well done. And for those who continue to battle the fiery foe, we pray for Your guidance and strength. Keep them safely in Your hands. Amen.”
Charlie noticed immediately when a man approached him under the tree. He was wearing a firefighter’s dress blues and he seemed lost in thought. There was a faint glow around him that made it clear: He was the dead man, and this was his funeral.
“Can you see me?” the man said after a while.
“Yes,” Charlie whispered.
“Are you dead too?”
“No, not yet.”
The man scratched his neck. “You look so familiar,” he said. His face was grizzled and his voice was as rough as gravel. “Wait,” he said, “you’re the St. Cloud kid, right? Charlie St. Cloud?” He was pulling off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms tattooed with images of the Virgin and Child. “I’m Florio,” he said. “Remember me?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “My memory’s fuzzy.”
Near the grave, the chief was invoking the fireman’s prayer. Florio folded his arms and bowed his head.
When I am called to duty, God,
Wherever flames may rage,
Give me strength to save some life
Whatever be its age.
Then the chief gave his cue, and Charlie stepped forward. He flipped the jam break on the lowering device. The coffin began its dignified descent.
Charlie looked at the name carved on the stone.
FLORIO FERRENTE
HUSBAND—FATHER—FIREMAN
1954–2004
And then he realized: Florio was the fireman who’d saved his life.
The coffin bumped gently to the bottom of the grave. Charlie pulled the straps and tucked them beneath the Astroturf. Then he stepped back to the mulberry tree as mourners began to throw roses onto the casket.
“My God,” he said to Florio. “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
“Don’t worry,” Florio said. “It was a long time ago, and you weren’t in very good shape.”
“What happened to you? I had no idea—”
“It was an easy two-alarm in a residential unit,” he began. “We breached the front door with the battering ram. Rescued a little girl and her mom. Kid was screaming her head off about her cat and dog. So I went back in to get them, and the roof fell in.” He gave an uneven smile. “That’s it, lights out.” He scratched his square chin. “All for a cat and a dog. And you know what? I wouldn’t do it any different.”
Florio looked across the lawn. “You seen them? A cat and dog? Could’ve sworn they were here earlier. Running all over the place with a crazy little beagle.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Charlie said. “They may follow you around for a while.”
Firemen wiped their eyes with their sleeves. Some crouched in silent prayer. Then the woman came forward, cradling her baby boy.
“My wife, Francesca, and our new son,” Florio said. “We tried for years to get pregnant, and it finally happened. God bless them. No better woman on this earth, and Junior is my pride and joy.” His voice began to break. “God knows what I’ll do without them.”
“It’s too soon to think about that,” Charlie said. “Give it some time.”
They watched as his wife and baby left the grave, passed the other mourners, and got into a limousine. Then Charlie began filling the hole, and Florio watched. Shovel after shovel. Dust to dust.
“You know,” Florio said after a while, “I’ve thought about you a lot over the years. I felt so bad I couldn’t save your brother. Beat myself up pretty good about that one. I always wondered what happened to you. You married? Any kids? What have you done with your precious life?”
Charlie kept his eyes to the ground. “No wife, no family. I work here and volunteer at the fire station.”
“Oh yeah? You a fireman?”
“I got certified as a paramedic. I put in a few nights a month. I’d do more, but I can’t go too far from here.”
“You know, I was a medic for more than twenty-five years. Seen a lot, but only two or three people ever came back from the dead like you did.” He paused. “That was a gift from God, son. God had a reason for saving you. He had a purpose. You ever think about that?”
A long minute passed as Charlie shoved more dirt into the hole. Of course he had thought about that. Every single day of his life, he wondered why he hadn’t been taken instead of Sam. What on earth was God’s reason? What purpose did He have in mind? Then Florio broke the silence again.
“Don’t worry, son,” he said. “Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out. But you’ll hear the call. You’ll know when it’s time. And then, you’ll be set free.”
TEN
THE CORNERS OF HER EYES AND MOUTH WERE FLAKY WITH dried-up salt from the ocean. Tess brushed away the deposits and remembered the last time she had looked like this. No storm had made such markings. Instead, the white residue had been left by the flood of tears after her father’s funeral. Back then, her mother had wiped the grains from her face, saying they were a reminder that tears and seawater had mixed together for thousands of years.
Tess also had a whopper of a headache, and her body was black and blue from the battering she had taken. Actually, black and orange would be more accurate, with great blotches of Halloween color everywhere on her arms, hips, and thighs. But the welts and bruises didn’t seem to matter just now. What was foremost in her throbbing brain was that she was back on solid ground exactly where she wanted to be: Waterside Cemetery near her father.
She sat in the mottled shade under the maple next to his grave. The lawn was damp, but she didn’t mind getting a little wet. She had thrown off her sneakers, rolled up her pants, and was relishing the sensation of just being there in one piece. Her toes wiggled in the grass, and she stretched her legs. She looked down at the granite marker that bore her father’s name. She knew she owed her life to him. After that miserable storm, he had guided her home to safe harbor. “You know, I never stopped talking to you out there all night,” she said. “You must’ve heard me.”
Of course, she didn’t actually believe he was right there with her under the tree. That was plain silly, just like the witches in Salem. Dad wasn’t lolling around the cemetery, waiting for her to show up. No, he was out there somewhere, a force of energy, or something like that. And if there was a heaven, he was surely sipping beer on some celestial tuna boat, waiting for a strike.
Tess lazed on the lawn, put her hands behind her head, and stared up at the rust-colored leaves. This was the one safe place in the world. The wind was gusting from the north now, and big cauliflower clouds filled the sky, making it one of those rare afternoons in New England, impossibly crisp and fresh, like a Rome apple from Brooksby Farm.
/> Then an image from last night grabbed hold of her mind: Querencia flipping over, the world inverting. “Jesus!” she said out loud, sitting up. She rubbed a bruise on her forearm. She had definitely learned her lesson. Three hours capsized without electricity or radio had scared the hell out of her. Now she had to make good on her promise to her father.
She scooted across the grass and leaned against his stone. It was cool against her sore back and felt good. She turned her head and pressed a cheek against the rock. She ran her fingers along the engraving, where moss was beginning to grow.
GEORGE CARROLL
1941–2002
“I knew you’d come through for me,” Tess said with tears welling up. She wiped her eyes and sneezed. She had a simple rule about crying. It went back to childhood. She never let Mom or anyone else see her upset. Weeping was for wimps. But in front of Dad it was different. When she was sad, he never flinched. When she felt weak, he never wavered. In fact, he made her stronger. He had comforted her a zillion times through heartbreak and disappointment. Of course, he didn’t always approve of her choices—especially those guys in college who spoke foreign languages and rode motorcycles—but he never judged. He definitely had a temper, especially after a few cocktails, and he wasn’t the most introspective or politically enlightened man in the world, but he was the only person who really understood her. No one else came close.
“I promise that I’ll change,” she said to the stone. “No more crazy stuff on the water. No more daring the Fates. I’ll be a good girl.” She paused. “I finally scared myself to death.”
She rubbed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair. She felt another bump on the back of her head. Ouch. It was sensitive to her touch. When did that happen? Must have been when she capsized. The exact details of the night were a blur in her brain, and she still felt rotten from the pummeling waves and noxious fumes of diesel combined with that damn salad dressing. She needed a shower and some sleep. She looked at her hands. Her thumb was banged up, and one nail was broken. An oblong bruise ran the length of her arm. Mom would love that. It was so ladylike.
