Colin had no trouble finding the tombstone; it was like a beacon. It was bigger and shinier and fancier than any other rock in the graveyard. Mr. and Mrs. Borden had spared no expense in the matter. It was a very elaborate stone, done in sections, constructed both of granite and marble, joined together almost seamlessly. Every aspect of it was artfully shaped and highly polished. Wide, beveled letters were cut deep into the richly veined, mirror surface of the marble.
BELINDA JANE BORDEN
According to the date on the marker, she had died more than six years ago, on the last day of April. The monument at the head of the grave was surely several times the size of the body that it memorialized, for Belinda Jane was only five years old when they put her in the ground.
Colin returned to the library and asked Mrs. Larkin for the spool of microfilm that contained the six-year-old, April 30 edition of the News Register.
The story was on page one.
Roy had killed his baby sister.
Not murder.
Just an accident. A horrible accident.
Nothing anyone could have done to prevent it.
An eight-year-old boy finds his father’s car keys on the kitchen counter. He gets it in his head to take a ride around the block. That’ll prove he’s bigger and better than anyone gives him credit for. It’ll prove he’s even big enough to play with Dad’s trains, or at least big enough to sit at Dad’s side and just watch the trains, which is something he’s not permitted to do but which he wants to do very badly. The car is parked in the driveway. The boy puts a pillow on the seat so that he can see over the steering wheel. But then he discovers that he can’t quite reach the brake or the accelerator. He searches for a tool, and beside the garage he finds a piece of lumber, a three-foot length of two-by-two white pine that is just about exactly what he needs. He figures he can use the lumber to push the pedals that his feet won’t reach. One hand to hold the two-by-two, and one hand for steering. In the car he starts the engine and fumbles with the gearshift. His mother hears. Comes out of the house. She’s in time to see her little girl walk behind the car. She shouts at both the boy and the girl, and each of them waves at her. The boy finally throws the car into reverse as the mother rushes toward him, and at the same instant he thumps the accelerator with the wooden prod. The automobile goes backward. Fast. Just shoots backward. Strikes the child. She goes down hard. Goes down with one short scream. A tire thumps across her fragile skull. Her head bursts like a blood-filled balloon. And when the men in the ambulance arrive, they find the mother sitting on the lawn, legs akimbo, face blank, saying the same thing over and over again. “It just popped. Just popped open. Just like that. Her little head. It just popped.”
Popped.
Popper.
Colin switched off the machine.
He wished he could switch off his mind.