I glare at Mac as Mr. Christianson’s information sinks in, suspicion rising inside me.
“Did you know this?” I ask Mac, who doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest. In some effort to sensationalize this story, did he hold back important information? Some family secret that should’ve stayed in the family?
“Who, me?” he asks, his graying hair blowing across his face. “I’m as surprised as you are.” Then, without letting me rebut his only half-convincing denial, he turns to Mr. Christianson. “Is he even buried here, then?”
“That’s what I want to know,” I add, heat building up under my coat. I’ll have to tell my mom—something. As I wonder what I can possibly say to her, Mr. Christianson and Mac continue their conversation.
“I . . . I can look at the plot maps. But”—he holds up his antiquated phone—“you can request a copy of his military records. Might take a few weeks, but it would shed some light. Not all service records are available to the public. But for family, that’s a different story.”
“Yes. That’s perfect. Let’s do it.” Mac runs his manicured fingers through his hair and holds the unruly strands away from his face. “And what about the cemetery records? Can we take a look at the ones from 1944?”
“I have them in the office.” Mr. Christianson turns and weaves his way through the headstones without even a moment of hesitation.
I follow with more caution. Mac signals to the camera crew, and they hustle with all their equipment behind us. I’m not sure if they’re still rolling or not, but I don’t hold back when Mac catches up with me.
“What do you know that I don’t know?” I ask in a low voice, hoping that if Marty is recording our conversation, it won’t get picked up.
“Nothing. I swear. You can trust me, Elise,” he says, matching my pitch.
I don’t believe his denial. There’s no way Mac Dorman waltzed into this town without doing his research. He wanted this to happen. He set us up. I don’t know what the truth is, but I do know that Mac has found something salacious, and he wants the cameras focused on my face when I figure it out. I hope I’m wrong, that I’ve grown too skeptical in my years of PR and in the shadows of my family’s fame. But I doubt it.
We make our way to a small white building with a green roof and shutters. Mr. Christianson stops outside the door and rubs his feet on a black mat. The door jangles when he opens it, and the inner darkness swallows him up.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” I say as I clean off my own shoes and follow Mr. Christianson inside.
It’s warm in here, and the wood-paneled walls are as comforting as they are tacky. Mac follows close behind, holding the door for a cameraman and a boom mic operator who settle into strategic positions in the room. Mr. Christianson closes a file drawer and plops down a green book with red binding on his desk.
“Here it is.” He flips to a yellowed page and reads it under his breath before landing on one spot that he taps his finger on repeatedly. “That’s odd.”
“Is it a mix-up with the plots?” I ask, skirting around the edge of the desk and planting myself by his side. It’s a half-typed and half-handwritten form with scrawling, elegant handwriting filling in the gaps.
“No. It’s your grandparents’ plot. That’s for sure.”
“Then, what is it?” Mac asks, sliding up on the other side, sandwiching Mr. Christianson between us.
“Your grandmother purchased her plot in 1949 and paid for the perpetual maintenance plan.”
“And Tom Highward?” I ask. “What about his plot?”
“That’s the thing. It was purchased in 1947.” He hands me the ledger and points out the handwritten record.
“Nineteen forty-seven?” The date screams at me, and I pass the book to Mac.
“That’s three years after the date on Tom Highward’s headstone,” Mac states the obvious.
“Nineteen forty-nine makes sense for Nonna’s payment. That’s the year Summer in Salerno came out. Her breakout hit with MGM. She’d have had the money for it at least.” I know the date like it’s a national holiday. My mom pushed my grandma to tell the story over again every time she wanted to impress someone.
Though it was Nonna’s talent that carried her career and her beauty that launched it, it was her story of being a war widow that truly captured the hearts of her fans. I check the cameras again—still running. My stomach clenches, and tension grips my shoulders.
This could be really bad.
“Nineteen forty-seven is late but accurate enough for Tom Highward with repatriation; uh, that’s when the bodies of our soldiers were brought back from Europe and the Pacific. If he’d been in the Battle of the Bulge, but—”
“As far as we can tell, he didn’t die in that battle,” I say, the series of terrible realizations pouring in so fast, I feel like I’m drowning.
“Exactly,” Mr. Christianson says like Sherlock Holmes.
“So, who paid for the headstone?” I ask, noting that he’d mentioned my grandmother paid for her plot in 1949.
“Antonio Trombello?” Mr. Christianson reads off the ledger. The name rings no bells. Likely a distant Italian relative stepping in to help his bereaved niece or cousin.
“Is there any way for us to know for sure who, if anyone, is in that grave?” Mac asks theatrically.
“‘Who if anyone’？ Seriously?” I scowl at Mac. “Don’t you think there’s an easier explanation. The dates are wrong, or the headstone is in the wrong place. You’re jumping to some majorly outrageous conclusions. Right, Mr. Christianson?”
The sexton is quiet. He shrugs and looks back and forth between me and Mac and once or twice at the camera.
“There’s no way to know for certain without an exhumation.”
The word “exhumation” hangs in the air. I feel nauseated, and I start shaking my head, but Mac looks right at the sexton without taking note of my reaction.
“What would that take?” Mac asks, grasping his chin contemplatively.
“Cut. Okay? That’s too much,” I say, running my hand across my throat in a slicing motion. I can’t play along anymore. Mac continues to ignore me completely and readdresses Mr. Christianson, who’s situated both literally and figuratively between us.
“Well, uh”—he swallows loudly, sweat beading on his brow—“it starts with the family giving the go-ahead. There are some forms and such.”
The family. He’s not referring to me and my brothers. No. My mother is the closest next of kin, and if Mac is the one asking—I can’t predict what her response might be. I’m done with this ambush. I start to remove my mic.
“Where are you going?” Mac asks as I yank wires out from under my clothing.
“I told you—I’m done for today. I’m not signing any papers, and I really don’t want my mom dragged into this mess. I’m here to film a documentary about my grandmother’s early life. I’m giving up time at work and letting you film my goddamn wedding. But digging up my grandfather? That’s just gross, Mac.”