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INTRODUCTION

I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES.

Not just the simple wonders of creation, like my new son at home
nursing in my wife's arms, or the majesties of nature, like the sun
setting in the sky. I'm talking about real miracles, like turning
water into wine or bringing the living back from the dead.

My name is Florio Ferrente. My father, a fireman, christened me
after St. Florian, the patron saint of our profession. Like my pop,
I worked my whole life for Engine Company 5 on Freeman Street in
Revere, Massachusetts. I served as God's humble servant, go-ing
where the Lord dispatched me, saving the lives that He wanted
rescued. You could say I was a man on a mission, and I'm proud of
what I did every day.

Sometimes we arrived at a fire too late to make a difference. We
threw water on the roof but the house still burned down. Other
times we got the job done, protecting lives, whole neighborhoods,
and plenty of pets. Those cats and dogs sure chewed me up, but I'm
glad I hauled every single one down the ladder.

Most folks have a picture of us loaded with gear rushing into
flaming buildings. That's right. This is serious business. But in
the quieter moments we also have our share of laughs. We can send a
pal flying up into the air with a blast from the pressure hose, and
we make our wives crazy planting rusty old hydrants next to the
geraniums in our backyards. We have more toy fire trucks than our
kids and we get into shouting matches over the best color for
emergency vehicles. For the record, I prefer old-fashioned red to
that ugly neon yellow.

Above all, we tell stories, the kind where we turn down the TV,
kick back in the La-Z-Boy, and relax for a while.

What follows is my favorite. It's about what happened thir-teen
years ago on the General Edwards drawbridge not far from the
redbrick station I call home. It wasn't the first time we had raced
there to pry people out of wrecks or scoop up folks who had been
hit in the crosswalk.

My first trip to the bridge was back in the Blizzard of '78, when
an old man missed the warning light that the ramp was going up. He
crashed through the barrier, flew right off the edge, and was
submerged in his Pontiac for twenty-nine minutes. We knew be-cause
that was how long his Timex had stopped when the divers cut him out
from under the ice. He was frozen blue with no pulse, and I went to
work breathing life back into him. In a few ticks, his skin turned
pink and his eyes blinked open. I was about twenty-four years old,
and it was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen.

The Revere Independent called it a miracle. I like to
think it was God's will. In this line of work, the truth is you try
to forget most of your runs, especially the sad ones where people
die. If you're lucky they dissolve into a great big blur in your
brain. But there are some cases you can never get out of your mind.
They stay with you for your whole life. Counting the old man in the
ice, I've had three.

When I was just a rookie, I carried a lifeless five-year-old girl
from a hellish three-alarm on Squire Road. Her name was Eugenia
Louise Cushing, and she was covered in soot. Her pupils were
pinpoint, she wasn't breathing and her blood pressure was
undetectable, but I kept trying to revive her. Even when the
med-ical examiner pronounced her dead on the scene and began to
fill out the paperwork, I kept going. Then all of a sudden, little
Eugenia sat up on the stretcher, coughed, rubbed her eyes, and
asked for a glass of milk. That was my first miracle.

I picked up Eugenia's crumpled death certificate and put it away in
my wallet. It's all tattered now, but I keep it as reminder that
anything is possible in this world.

That brings me to the case of Charlie St. Cloud. Like I said, it
starts with a calamity on the drawbridge over the Saugus River, but
there's a lot more to it than that. It's about devotion and the
unbreakable bond between brothers. It's about finding your soul
mate where you least expect. It's about life cut short and love
lost. Some folks would call it a tragedy, and I see their point.
But I've always tried to find the good in the most desperate
situations, and that's why the story of these boys stays with
me.

You may think some of this seems far-fetched, even impossi-ble.
Believe me, I know we all cling to life and its certainties. It's
not easy in these cynical times to cast off the hardness and edge
that get us through our days. But try just a little. Open your eyes
and you will see what I can see. And if you've ever wondered what
happens when a person close to you is taken too soon—and it's
always too soon—you may find other truths here, truths that
may break the grip of sadness in your life, that may set you free
from guilt, that may even bring you back to this world from
wherever you are hiding. And then you will never feel alone.

The bulk of this tale takes place here in the snug little village
of Marblehead, Massachusetts, a wedge of rock jutting into the
Atlantic. It is almost twilight now. I stand in the ancient town
cemetery on a sloping hill where two weeping willows and a small
mausoleum overlook the harbor. Sailboats tug at moorings, seagulls
fly in force, and little boys cast their lines from the dock.
Someday they will grow up to hit home runs and kiss girls. Life
goes on, infinite, irrepressible.

Nearby, I see a fuzzy old man put a fistful of hollyhocks on his
wife's grave. A history buff makes a rubbing from a weathered
stone. The tidy rows of monuments drop down to a cove on the water.
When I was a schoolkid, I learned that once upon a time America's
first patriots spied from this hilltop on British warships
below.

We'll start by going back thirteen years to September 1991. In the
rec room at the firehouse, we were polishing off bowls of my wife's
famous spumoni, arguing about Clarence Thomas, and
screaming about the Red Sox, who were chasing the Blue Jays for the
pennant. Then we heard the tones on the box, rushed to the rig, and
took off.

Now turn the page, come along on the ride, and let me tell you
about the death and life of Charlie St. Cloud.

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLIE ST. CLOUD WASN'T THE BEST OR BRIGHTEST BOY in Essex County,
but he was surely the most promis-ing. He was junior-class vice
president, shortstop of the Marblehead Magicians, and co-captain of
the de-bate club. With a mischievous dimple on one cheek, nose and
forehead freckled from the sun, and caramel eyes hidden beneath a
flop of sandy-blond hair, he was already handsome at fifteen. He
was a friend to jocks and geeks and even had a girlfriend one year
older at school. Yes, Charlie St. Cloud was a blessed boy, quick of
mind and body, destined for good things, perhaps even a scholarship
at Dartmouth, Princeton, or one of those Ivied places.

His mother, Louise, cheered his every achieve-ment. Indeed, Charlie
was both cause and cure for her own life's disappointments. Those
troubles had begun the very moment he was conceived, an unwanted
pregnancy that pushed the man she loved—a carpenter with good
hands—right out the door. Next came Charlie's obstructed
journey into the world, catching somewhere deep inside and
requiring bloody sur-gery to be born. Soon a second son arrived
from another van-ished father, and the years blurred into one
endless struggle. But for all her woes, Charlie erased her pain
with those twinkling eyes and optimism. She had grown to depend on
him as her an-gel, her messenger of hope, and he could do no
wrong.

He grew up fast, worked hard at his books, watched out for his mom,
and loved his kid brother more than anyone in the world. His name
was Sam, and his father—a bail bondsman— was gone, too,
barely leaving a trace except for his son's curly brown hair and
some bluish bruises on Louise's face. Charlie be-lieved he was the
only true protector of his little brother, and someday, together,
he knew they would make something of themselves in the world. The
boys were three years apart, oppo-sites in coloring and throwing
arms, but best friends, united in their love of catching fish,
climbing trees, a beagle named Oscar, and the Red Sox.

Then one day, Charlie made a disastrous decision, a mistake the
police could not explain and the juvenile court did its best to
overlook.

To be precise, Charlie ruined everything on Friday, September 20,
1991.

Mom was working the late shift at Penni's market on Washington
Street. The boys had come home from school with mischief on their
minds. They had no homework to do until Sunday night. They had
already gone spying on the Flynn twins down the block. They had
jumped a fence and snuck onto the property of the Czech refugee who
claimed to have invented the bazooka. At sunset, they had played
catch under the pine trees in their yard on Cloutman's Lane, just
as they had done every night since Charlie had given Sam his first
Rawlings glove for his sev-enth birthday. But now it was dark, and
they had run out of ad-ventures.

Sam might have settled for crashing and watching Chris Isaak's
"Wicked Game" video on MTV, but Charlie had a sur-prise. He wanted
action and had just the plan.

"How 'bout night fishing on Devereux Beach?" he asked Sam, setting
his brother up perfectly.

"Boring," Sam said. "We always do that. How 'bout a movie?
Terminator 2's playing at the Warwick. Nick Burridge will sneak us
in the back."

"I've got a better idea."

"It's R-rated. What's better than that?"

Charlie pulled out two tickets from the pocket of his jeans jacket.
Red Sox tickets. They were playing the Yankees. Boston was on a
roll, and the evil Bronx Bombers had lost eleven of their last
thirteen.

"No way! Where'd those come from?" Sam asked.

"I have my ways."

"How we gonna get there? Fly?"

"Don't you worry about that. Mrs. Pung is on vacation. We can
borrow her wagon."

"Borrow? You don't even have a license!"

"You want to go or not?"

"What about Mom?"

"Don't worry. She'll never know."

"We can't leave Oscar. He'll freak out and mess up the
house."

"He can come too."

Sure enough, Charlie, Sam, and their beagle were soon driv-ing to
Boston in Mrs. Pung's Country Squire. Without their neighbor Mrs.
Pung, that is. The police report would make con-siderable mention
of two unlicensed minors, a dog, and a white stolen vehicle with
red interior. But Mrs. Pung dropped the auto-theft charges when she
got back from Naples, Florida. They were good kids, she said. They
only borrowed the car. They made a terrible mistake. They more than
paid the price.

The drive took thirty minutes, and Charlie was especially care-ful
on Route 1A where the Swampscott and Lynn cops patrolled. The boys
listened to the pregame show on WRKO, talked about the last time
they'd been to the ballpark, and counted their money, calculating
they had enough for two Fenway Franks each, a Coke, and
peanuts.

"This is our year," Sam said. "The Sox'll win the Series."

"They just have to break the Curse of the Bambino," Charlie said.
It was the superstition of every red-blooded Boston fan: Trading
Babe Ruth to the Yankees had put a hex on the Sox.

"You don't believe in that stuff, do you?"

"Think about it. The Sox haven't won the Series since 1918. The
Yanks have done it twenty-two times. You do the math."

"C'mon, the Babe didn't make Bill Buckner boot that ground ball in
'86." Buckner was the reviled first baseman who let an easy
dribbler through his legs in the World Series, costing the Sox game
six and, many swore, the championship.

"How do you know?"

"He just didn't."

"Well, I think he did."

"Did not."

"Did too."

A standoff.

"Draw?" Sam said reluctantly.

"Okay, draw."

And with that, the argument was done but not over. A draw was their
way of stopping a dispute that would have gone on all night. It
would be dutifully recorded in Charlie & Sam's Book of Big
& Small Arguments. And after the proper procedural
motions, it could be started up again at any point. Ignoring their
age differ-ence, Sam threw himself into these arguments with
passion, and the two brothers often spent hours in the Abbot public
library on Pleasant Street gathering ammunition for their
battles.

Now, with its red bricks and shimmering glass, Boston was waiting
across the Charles River. They turned down Brookline Avenue and
could see the hazy lights of the stadium. Biting at the chilly air,
Oscar leaned out the window. With his red and white coat, he was
the perfect mascot for the adventure.

In the parking lot, the boys stuffed their beagle into a back-pack
and took off for the bleachers. As they reached their seats a
thundering cheer rose for Roger Clemens, #21, throwing his first
rocket. The boys laughingly bowed left and right to acknowledge the
crowd. A stadium guard would later testify he saw the two
unaccompanied youths, wearing caps and carrying mitts, but did not
stop or question them.

Their seats were in right field, directly behind a guy who must
have been seven feet tall, but it didn't matter. It could have
poured, it could have snowed. Nothing could ruin the spectacle of
the Green Monster in left field, the grass, the chalk lines, and
the infield dirt. They were right near Pesky's pole, just 302 feet
from home plate, easy distance for catching a home run.

One of their heroes, Wade Boggs, sat out the game with a sore right
shoulder, but Jody Reed took his place and delivered, with a
run-scoring double and homer off the left-field foul pole. The boys
ate two hot dogs each with extra relish. Oscar got some Cracker
Jacks from a woman in the next row. A big bearded guy next to her
gave them a few sips of Budweiser. Charlie was care-ful not to
drink too much. Still, the police report would mention traces of
alcohol in their blood. There was enough to raise ques-tions, but
not enough for answers.

Clemens shut out the Yankees, allowing only three hits and striking
out seven. The crowd cheered, and Oscar howled. With the final out
and a 2–0 victory in the books, the fans scattered but the
boys stayed in their seats, replaying the highlights. The team was
now miraculously within striking distance of Toronto. Instead of
falling apart in September, always the cruelest month, the Sox were
surging.

"Someday, we'll have season tickets," Charlie said. "Right there
behind home plate in the first row."

"The bleachers are good enough for me," Sam said, eating the last
of the peanuts. "I don't care about the seats. As long as it's you
and me, that's what makes baseball great."

"We'll always play ball, Sam. No matter what."

The stadium lights began shutting down. The ground crew had just
about spread the tarp over the infield.

"We better go," Charlie said.

The boys headed for the parking lot, where the white station wagon
was all alone. The drive home was much faster. Springsteen was born
to run on the radio. There was hardly any traffic. The trip would
take half an hour. They would be home by 10:30. Mom wouldn't be
back until midnight. Mrs. Pung in Florida would never know.

Just past the Wonderland Greyhound Park, Sam pulled a cas-sette
from his pocket and stuck it in the radio. It was U2's The Joshua
Tree. Charlie sang along to "With or Without You."

"Bono rocks," Sam said.

"The Boss."

"Bono."

"The Boss."

"Draw?"

"Draw."

They drove silently for a while, then Sam asked out of the blue,
"How long will it be until I'm grown up?"

"You already are," Charlie answered.

"I'm serious. When do I stop being a kid?"

"Officially," Charlie said, "when you're twelve, you're a man and
you can do what you want."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"I'm a man and I can do what I want," Sam said, enjoying the sound
of it. A great moon floated on the Saugus River, and he rolled down
the window. "Look," he said. "It's bigger tonight. Must be closer
to us."

"Nah," Charlie said. "It's always the same distance. That's just an
optical illusion."

"What's that?"

"When your eye plays tricks on you."

"What kind of trick?"

"Wherever it is in the sky," Charlie said, "it's always 225,745
miles away." He did the math. Numbers were easy for him. "At our
speed right now, it would take about 170 days to get there."

"Mom wouldn't be too crazy about that," Sam said.

"And Mrs. Pung wouldn't be happy about the mileage."

The boys laughed. Then Sam said, "It's no optical delusion. It's
closer tonight. I swear. Look, you can see a halo just like an
angel's."

"No such thing," Charlie said. "That's a refraction of the ice
crystals in the upper atmosphere."

"Gee, I thought it was a refraction of the ice crystals on your
butt!" Sam howled with laughter, and Oscar barked in a series of
sharp, distinctive woofs.

Charlie checked his mirrors, aimed the car straight ahead, and took
one quick glance to the right. The moon was flickering be-tween the
iron railings of the drawbridge, keeping pace with them as they
sped home. It sure seemed closer than ever tonight. He turned his
head for a better look. He thought the bridge was empty so he
pushed down on the gas.

Of all his reckless decisions that night, surely this was the
worst. Charlie raced the moon, and in the final second before the
end, he saw the perfect image of happiness. Sam's innocent face
looking up at him. The curl dangling over his forehead. The
Rawlings glove on his hand. And then there was only fracturing
glass, metal, and blackness.

The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud
by by Ben Sherwood [5]

Genres: Fiction [12]
hardcover: 288 pages
Publisher: Bantam
ISBN-10: 0553802208
ISBN-13: 9780553802207