Diorama

The cars meet in a crumpled mess in the middle of the intersection. The passenger side of the white Audi has caved in completely, and broken glass litters the pavement like scattered diamonds on velvet. A burly firefighter, call him Travis, drags the driver out, negotiating his limp body through jagged metal and the tiny explosion of the airbag. There’s very little blood.

Things are very different on the other side of the car. Blood polka-dots what’s left of the windshield and dashboard, smears the leather seats, and soaks the clothes of the little girl, her name’s Megan, who lies smashed and broken against the concave door. A second firefighter approaches her while another heads toward the other vehicle, a peanut-colored Porsche that has been scrunched nearly in half. It was clear that the driver had careened into the victims at a velocity no one should be able to reach on 94^th Street. The car is empty now, and minute flecks of blood on the road indicate the direction of his flight. They will soon learn that the vehicle was stolen and that the perp (as he will be called) wore gloves to conceal his identity. 

The detail of the diorama is exquisite: the Duane Reade on one corner adjacent to the blue awning of a Crystal Dry Cleaners, the scaffolding along the sidewalk across the street, the signpost for Columbus Avenue just a block away from Columbia Prep. A bike messenger zipping past, craning his neck to see the carnage. A lone pigeon, ash-grey with a handsome splotch of green and purple on its breast, perched on a lamppost above the fray.

Charles sat back and reviewed his work with a critical eye, then placed another fireman in front of a woman who was gawking at the accident, her mouth an exquisitely painted O. The model was almost finished, and it was his best one yet. He had just one more piece to add. Knees scuffling on the carpet, he scrabbled around to pick up a house he had positioned at the very edge of the diorama. He opened the tiny shutters of the second-story window and squeezed a little boy through and into the bedroom. He pressed down until the figure was firmly in place, then bent him forward at the hips so he was looking out the window at the commotion. Satisfied, Charles draped a sheet over the project and slipped into his bed.

He awoke the next morning to his mother’s urgent call to breakfast.

“Honestly, one of these days I’m going to put your little models away during weeknights,” she said when he appeared ten minutes later, dressed but disheveled. “You never go to sleep when you’re supposed to.”

“Sorry, Mum,” he mumbled, accepting a fried egg and reaching for the baked beans.

“Well that’s just it, isn’t it, Charles? You’re not sorry at all.”

The sound of the morning news interrupted her. It was a segment on last night’s accident, which had taken place just a few blocks away. She watched a somber fire chief recap the events, his face occasionally glowing red in the reflection of the sirens.

Charles was watching, too. His mother jumped when out of nowhere he yelled, “I forgot the ambulance!”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, just a game I was playing,” he said quickly, turning his attention to his egg. On-screen, the story continued to unfold, with a family photo appearing behind the news anchor.

“My God,” his mother exclaimed, “it’s the Tildens! Gus and little Megan, your friend from school!”

“She’s not my friend,” Charles said.

His mother stiffened. “This is a terrible tragedy, Charles, how could you say such a thing? I have to call Ivanya later, the poor thing must be going to pieces. And then, young man, I'm going to have a talk with your father about you,” she said in her most stern voice. “This hobby of yours has become an obsession. It’s been nothing but Styrofoam and wood glue and heaven knows what else. You’re ten years old now. Time to grow up and try something else, don’t you think? Maybe a sport, for a change.”

“Mum, no!” Charles’s eyes stretched wide in alarm.

“It’s for your own good. Cooped up in the house all day, making those ridiculous dioramas. It’s unhealthy.”

Fear prickled Charles’s skin. He needed to return to his room. “Mum, I don’t feel—”

“Stop right there. You’re fine, and you jolly well know it. Now clean yourself up, you look like you got attacked by an egg. Chop-chop.”

In the car, Charles fidgeted and chewed his nails. He stared out the window as they drove past 94^th Street. Broken glass glinted in the sunlight, as if the asphalt was sweating.

They pulled up at the school, and Charles glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to spare. “You be good, okay?” his mother said. He nodded, grabbed his lunchbox and schoolbag, and clambered out.

“Gosh, the poor Tildens. I must call William,” he heard her mutter to herself in a shaky voice before the car pulled away.  

Assembly was a tedious affair. Principal Heim, a withered man who was younger than he looked, led the school in lamenting the death of yet another child. As he spoke, Charles tapped a thumb against four fingers as he counted them off.

“So many have left us this year,” Mr. Heim whispered as the room dripped with sobs and sniffles. “Megan was a bright, precocious, and beloved child. She would have changed the world, I just know it. But the Lord must have needed her in heaven.”

As Charles headed to recess, he was shocked to spot his father standing in front of the school, talking to the headmaster. Seeing his son, William Tapper gave a quick, decisive wave. Charles shuffled over.

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

“Car. Now.”

“But school—”

“I said go to the car, Charles. Don’t make me tell you again.”

He settled into the front seat, and his father leaned across to lock his door. The drive home was tense and silent, the knot of fear in his belly tightening at every intersection. Since that morning’s conversation with his mother, Charles had felt a growing sense of inevitability and dread. His father stared straight ahead, as if looking at his son would mark a point of no return. Charles watched the grit-covered city rush by and prayed for a miracle.

As soon as they reached home, his father pushed him into the house with a single word. “Upstairs.”

Trembling all over, Charles stumbled up, his father close on his heels, a firm hand fastened to his shoulder.

“It hurts,” Charles said, but his father only squeezed harder.

When he walked into his room and saw his mother, Charles’s blood froze.

She was sitting in his usual spot, surrounded by his dioramas. The bedsheets he had placed over each of them had been removed, and Charles felt a surge of rage. She had agreed not to disturb them.

“They’re really fragile, Mum,” he had told her. “And they take ages to make. Please promise you won’t touch anything.”

And his mother, smiling, had replied, “You’re quite the artist, aren’t you dear? All right, I promise.”

But there she was, holding the mangled Porsche he had made last night. To her left was a model of a bedroom, assembled with meticulous care. A boy was lying on the bed, bare-chested, his torso painted a vivid red and a silver sliver of cardboard protruding from his chest.

To her right was a burning building, outside which a boy lay melted on the ground while a terrified woman was hauled past him, slung over a fireman’s shoulder. Witnesses, frozen in midstride, watched spears of autumn-colored tissue paper in awe.

There was one more, still covered, a total of four perfect replicas of recent tragedies from around the neighborhood. In each one, a child had died.

His mother sat stricken, her eyes hollow with horror. It was his father who looked directly at him and asked, “Son, could you possibly be responsible for all this?”

Charles hung his head and clenched his tiny fists as hot, angry tears spilled from his eyes.