Innocent by Eric Walters Page B

until his death on June 6, 1891, at age seventy-six.”
    I knew that everything he said must be correct because he was always right with his facts.
    “His headstone is the second biggest in the entire cemetery,” Richie said.
    “Who has one that’s bigger?”
    “My father. In his will he asked that it be one inch higher and one inch wider than the prime minister’s monument,” Richie said.
    I chuckled and then suppressed my laughter. “And nobody has built a bigger one since then?” I asked.
    “Nobody is allowed to. My mother made sure that will never happen. It’s like a law because she’s on the cemetery board.”
    That was strange, that old Mr. Remington wanted his headstone to be the biggest, even bigger than the first prime minister’s. Even stranger that it would always be the biggest. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. Mrs. Remington was kind, and she was also dedicated to the memory of her husband, and I knew there was real substance and power beneath that kindness.
    “Should we go to your father’s first or my…” I let the sentence trail off. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word mother . It felt foreign to me.
    “Your mother,” he said. “To visit Vicki.”
    He led and I followed. The cemetery was well maintained. The grass was green and mowed. Many of the graves had tended flower beds or, at least, flowers that had been placed there. There had been nobody to put flowers on my mother’s grave all these years. That made me sad. I pulled the flowers close to my chest. I was glad I had brought them.
    There were so many stones, so many graves. Some were large and magnificent. Others were just small stones lying flat on the ground. That’s what my mother’s would look like, I was sure. Some of the stones were so old that they were worn and weathered, and I couldn’t make out what was written on them. On others the writing was clear, and I could see dates of birth and death, inscriptions, a few words to sum up a life and a death. Loved, Missed, Mother, Father, Gone on to Heaven , along with a Bible passage and maybe a little saying. What would be written on my mother’s stone? Would the letters even stand out?
    Richie stopped in front of a large pink headstone. I wondered why he was stopping here, and then I saw. It was my mother’s grave.
    Victoria Audrey Roberts
Born July 12, 1925
Tragically Taken September 10, 1950
Daughter of Samuel and Doris Roberts
Mother of Elizabeth Anne
    I felt my legs go weak. I hadn’t even thought about the inscription or known what I’d expected to see, but I hadn’t expected to see my name. There was one more line below my name, and I read it out loud.
    “ An angel returned to Heaven ,” I said. “That’s so…so beautiful.”
    “My brother wrote that,” Richie said.
    “That was sweet of him.” I would have to thank him the next time he came for dinner. “I hadn’t expected the stone to be so big.”
    “It’s not as big as my father’s.”
    “Nobody’s is. I just meant, well, who paid for it?”
    “My mother. She said Vicki deserved to have the best.”
    I should have known. That act of kindness was so much like Mrs. Remington. I had to thank her as well.
    The stone wasn’t just big but also beautiful. There were flowers carved in a delicate pattern and, in each corner, a small angel. It must have cost a lot of money.
    “I wish I could have been here,” I said.
    “You were.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “I held you. We stood over there,” he said. He pointed off to the side.
    I tried to remember but couldn’t. I wanted to remember. “Can you tell me more?”
    “I can tell you almost everything. My mother and brother and James and Nigel and Ralph and Mrs. Meyers and some other people you don’t know were here. Reverend Simpson gave the eulogy. He was a nice man. He died the next year on August 23.”
    “Is there anything more you can tell me?”
    “It was cold and the wind was strong, so I took you where it was sheltered and I