“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?”
I wait for Mac to speak up with the “Gracelyn Branson approved” timeline, but he remains fully in observation mode, like a scientist watching his little lab mice run around the maze he’s placed them in and then recording their progress.
“Uh, I can estimate from what I’ve been told,” I respond when Mac fails to. I do the calculations from when my mom was born and the marriage dates and the tale of their romance. “Sometime in early ’43 I think.”
“Okay, that means he was in the Eighty-Third Infantry.” He’s back to his phone. “They trained at Atterbury and fought at the Bulge, which works with this being the ‘real’ date. It’s only more circumstantial evidence, but I can look him up on the AAD if that’d help.”
“The AAD?” I ask, unable to guess the meaning of the acronym.
“The National Archives has an AAD. Uh, Access to Archival Databases—I can look him up. An image of his headstone might even be linked. That would solve the mystery right there.”
Mr. Christianson scrolls through his phone, and I study the headstones.
“Um, Mr. Dorman, I think we have a problem.” Mr. Christianson holds up his device and looks past the cameras to where Mac stands with his hands behind his back. He walks toward the sexton with one raised eyebrow, obviously in his “in front of the camera” persona.
“How so?” he asks, nonchalantly, the frozen ground crunching under his shoes with each step.
“Uh, we should talk about this—you know—in private.” The middle-aged man darts his gaze between the cameras and then me before he returns his eyes to Mac.
“Whatever you have to say can be said in front of Elise, right?” Mac asks me directly. I can sense Mr. Christianson’s nervous energy in his tight grip on his phone and the slight tremble in his thick fingers. I do want to hear it, whatever it is. Especially since I have a sneaking suspicion that Mac already knows exactly what Mr. Christianson has to say.
“Of course,” I say, forcing my frozen knees to unlock so I can join the men looking at the phone.
“Well, if you insist.” He uses his neatly trimmed nail to point at a name on a website he’s pulled up on the phone. “He didn’t die in the Battle of the Bulge. If this is him—if this is in fact your grandfather—Thomas Highward of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Then, yes. There’s no military record of him dying in France or . . . anywhere else during the war for that matter. He was in the Eighty-Third Infantry, but he’s not listed among their casualties.” He tosses up his hands and gives me an apologetic look.