Free The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud by Ben Sherwood

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.

    F LORIO F ERRENTE
    H USBAND —F ATHER —F IREMAN
    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