“Almost there,” the sexton, Mr. Christianson, says as we enter a part of the cemetery where the headstones have a worn look, their carved markings dulled from years of standing as sentinels above the long departed six feet under the ground.
We approach a simple pair of headstones: one with my grandfather’s name and the dates of his birth and death and one that’s a brighter gray granite, clearly more modern, with my grandmother’s married name and the dates of her birth and death.
“Here they are. Our town’s little secret—Mr. and Mrs. Vivian Snow. Well, a secret till now at least.” He gestures to Mac and the camera crew following our trek through the graveyard.
“Yeah, Nonna wanted to be buried here with Grandpa and her parents, but she knew it’d be a hassle, so she had half her ashes buried in Hollywood and the other half here. We had the big funeral as a family, but my mom was the only one present for this one.”
Actually, it was my mom and her boyfriend, but I don’t add that. I’d like to think it’s to spare Mac’s feelings, but really it’s to protect my mother from looking like the mess she is.
“We worked under total confidentiality. I didn’t even tell my wife,” the sexton says, like the covert operation had the importance of a state secret.
“I can’t tell you how much that was appreciated,” I answer, playing the PR game perfectly, though at the time, I was so wrapped up in my grief over losing Dean that I had little room for the intricacies of the double burial. I still hold some guilt for that to this day.
“Of course.” He turns to the cameras and speaks to them directly, breaking the fourth wall, which must make Mac cringe. “I’ve never shown anyone this grave. Though Miss Snow’s husband’s headstone has been here since before my time and has received a visitor or two.”
He points at the stone with the name TOM HIGHWARD carved in it. Born June 9, 1921, and died December 23, 1944. I take a second glance at the dates.
“Are you sure this is the right spot?” I look at the map again and spin around, checking the surrounding headstones.
“Yes, no doubt at all. I maintain Miss Snow’s plot myself.”
Mac steps forward, concern obvious in his furrowed brow. “Is there a problem?”
I look back at the headstones and consider saying nothing, but it’s hard not to wonder if someone messed up royally after my grandmother passed away. I step closer to Mr. Christianson.
“You’re sure this is my grandfather’s headstone?” I ask in a whisper. “Because these dates—they aren’t right.”
“This is the only Tom Highward in the cemetery. Maybe it’s a mistake on the headstone? But if so, I’m not aware of it,” Mr. Christianson says, huffing like I’ve offended him. “His sister used to visit once a year till her passing in 1996, lovely lady. You’d think she’d have said something.”
“His sister?” I ask. I’ve never met a great-aunt on my grandpa’s side. All I’ve ever heard was that Nonna and Grandpa got married. Nonna got pregnant. Grandpa was transferred. Nonna hid her pregnancy while she sang with the USO Camp Shows. She took a few months off for an unexplained illness (to have my mom) and then moved to Hollywood after Grandpa was killed overseas.
“Yes, his sister. But never his parents. Rumor is they disowned him when he married your grandma. This is Vivian Snow’s husband—Tom Highward—no doubt in my mind.”
“I’d like to hear more of what Elise has to say,” Mac says, his rich voice calming Mr. Christianson. “Elise, continue.” I want to roll my eyes at his over-the-top officiousness but stay camera ready instead.
“So, I didn’t know any of what he just said—about Grandpa’s family disowning him. I’d be shocked if he was a wealthy man. But besides that, this says Tom Highward died in December 1944. But Nonna said he died in battle months before my mom was born. And she was born in March 1944. Maybe this is supposed to read 1943?”
“In battle? He was in the military?”
“Yeah, they met at Camp Atterbury. He died in the Battle of the Bulge, I think. I’m sure Mac has the timeline. Right, Mac?” I ask, but Mac doesn’t respond. Instead, he crosses his arms and leans back into his heels, observing the conversation, like he’s waiting for something to happen.
“The Battle of the Bulge started in December 1944 and ended in January 1945. The headstone date seems right if he died at that battle. I’m a bit of a history buff so I know these things,” Christianson says to Mac, seeming proud of himself. “I know for a fact the dates are correct on the battle,” he reiterates. “If you don’t believe me, it’s easy to look up.”
I’d never fully researched my grandmother’s story; it never seemed to matter. It all made sense the way she told it. But these headstones shift my perspective until it’s like I’m looking at the picture from a new angle.
“No, I believe you. I hate to doubt Nonna’s recollection, but she must’ve gotten the name of the battle wrong, I guess. So, he died when my mom was six months old?”
“Well, not so fast. There definitely is something fishy here,” Mr. Christianson says, stopping my rationalization.
“Yes?” Mac asks eagerly, urging pensive Mr. Christianson on.
He points to Tom Highward’s headstone.
“Well, normally if someone dies in action, he gets a headstone provided by the VA. You can see one there.” He points at a tall white headstone with a cross at the top and small black lettering. “And over there.” He points to a flat metal plate on the ground a few steps to the left with a Star of David, the rank of sergeant in the US Army, WWII, and the dates of the person’s birth and death. He then points back at my grandfather’s headstone. “This is a civilian headstone. It’s possible that your grandmother didn’t know how to apply for a VA headstone, but if your grandfather’s body was repatriated after the war, it’s unlikely.”
“See; I think someone made a mistake. Either the dates are wrong or . . . this can’t be his headstone,” I say to both Mac and Mr. Christianson.
“There’s not another Tom Highward here,” Mr. Christianson says, looking up from something on his phone. “I have access to the cemetery plot map, and there’s not another Highward other than your grandma buried here.”
“Well, shit.” My head is swimming. My grandmother is buried here, well, at least half of her remains are. I know that for sure. There’s relief in that knowledge. But I never knew my grandpa. His headstone, right or wrong, and the story of his heroic death have been enough for all of us till now. “Does it really matter after all these years? We can cut this bit and move on.”
I stare at Mac, my arms crossed at the mess we’ve stumbled into, but he’s still distant, watching. I make eye contact with Conrad off camera and Marty, but no one budges. Someone should say cut. We can’t keep sorting through this confusion on camera.
Mr. Christianson pipes up again, still scrolling through his phone.
“I still may be able to help. You said they met at Camp Atterbury? Do you know when?”