deserted field that had been by-passed by a superhighway and the broken tombstones were more like rocks scattered about, tilting backwards or sideways or crumbled in heaps on the strawlike grass.
No one came to pay respects to these people anymore. And even if some long lost relative had shown up, odds are the burial site would never have been found. Mel had no records of the people here. Mel himself never even knew about the existence of the Division until he had been Manager of the cemetery for two years, and he didn’t find out until Vaughn had fallen and broken his hip and, while recuperating at Dankworth General Hospital, asked to see Mel. When Mel came to Vaughn’s bedside not only did he tell him about the forgotten burial ground, but he informed him of the fact that he owned a plot there in which he wanted to be buried.
Vaughn also confided to Mel that only two others knew about this secret burial ground: Alton Held and me. I knew because I would be handling the burial. Alton was told because, as Vaughn’s replacement as Head Groundskeeper, he needed to know. Vaughn would be the last person to be buried in the secret area, primarily because there was no more room.
Space had also become a problem in the Original Division. No new gravesites were available. The only burials taking place in it were in family plots that had been purchased generations ago. Early in the twentieth century, when people tended to remain in the general vicinity of where they were raised, families of means bought plots, starting with four graves and expanding as necessary. Not only was it a practical decision, but also more economically sound than buying individual graves upon need.
The Modern Division is where the vast majority of burials take place. Unlike the oppressive mausoleums and crypts of the Original Division, it has the look and ambiance of the modern cemetery — ”modern” going back to the 1950s when many newly created cemeteries forbade ostentatious monuments and apogees. In modern cemeteries headstones must be flat and in the ground. Gone were the imposing granite testimonials to the dead, usually chosen by the living as some final recognition to the deceased’s wealth or status in life.
Vaughn felt that the larger and more elaborate and more expensive the headstone, the more guilt the survivors had for not adequately loving or honoring the deceased when he or she was alive. I believed that too.
*****
Quilla was still staring morosely out the window as we came to a stop in front of the Administration building. I explained to her that I would go inside and find out where her Grandparents were buried, then she and I would go to the graves to see if there was a site that met with her approval.
In the event that she would be uncomfortable being alone in the hearse, I asked her if she wanted to come with me. She yawned, said no and immediately began texting. I went inside. Mel had the information within a minute: New Division, Section 19, Plots 15 and 16. The information was a tad unsettling. My father’s grave was less than thirty yards away. The area was actually very pleasant, near one of the man-made ponds and under a cheery- looking pine tree that provided nice shade in the summer.
Mel punched a couple of buttons on the computer to show the Plot availability in the area. No problem. There were plenty of openings only a few feet away. Brandy Parker could be laid to rest near her parents. Had I come out to the cemetery alone I wouldn’t have bothered to check out the site. Mel and I could have taken care of business at his desk. But I knew Quilla would want to inspect the area and select the gravesite herself. I returned to the hearse and told her there was space available. In the brief time it took to get there she was silent. So was I. We didn’t stay long.
I pointed out the plot nearest to Quilla’s grandparents’ graves. She stared at it for several seconds, then glanced at the headstone on her grandparents’ graves. I thought she might take a moment to say a prayer, but she didn’t. She just turned to me and said, “Aunt Brandy didn’t like her mother and father. I don’t think she’d want to be buried so close to them. Does it have to be right
“It can be anywhere you want,” I said. “But didn’t your mother say she wanted her buried with your grandparents?”
Quilla shrugged. “After the funeral, she’ll never come to the grave again. I will, so I’ll decide where she’ll be buried. Can I walk around and find a spot that feels right?”
I nodded yes. “Take your time.” She wandered off.
To give her privacy, I ambled over to my dad’s grave and stared at the marble stone, then at his name Dillard Coltrane, Jr. under which were the words Beloved Husband And Father along with his year of birth and death.
I didn’t so much pray as reflect on the loss: he of his life, me of my father, my mother of her husband, us of our family. Despite the fact that he’d been gone nearly twenty years, it still seemed like I’d only seen him yesterday. He was young, 36, and even though he would now be 56 I couldn’t picture him at that age. He would be eternally 36 in my mind.
“Why is your name on that gravestone?” said Quilla much too loudly for a cemetery. I turned. She was standing next to me, looking down at my father’s grave.
“It’s my father,” I said.
“If you have a kid are you gonna name him Dillard Coltrane the fourth?”
“I don’t plan on having kids.”
“Why not? You’d be a good father.”
“How do you know?” I said, a little surprised and touched at her observation.
“I have good instincts. And I’ve had two so-called fathers. One’s a world-class loser, the other’s a world class bastard. I have friends who mostly have idiots for fathers. But you’re like the dads of the two or three kids I know with fathers who behave like fathers should.” She bent down and touched my father’s headstone. “This is nice here. Would you mind if my Aunt was buried near your father?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” She pointed to an empty swatch of grass three plots over. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s buried there.” I glanced at where she was gesturing. There was an expanse of land allotted for ten plots. “Then this is the place.” She smiled. She seemed happy and pleased with herself.
“All I have to do is check back in the office to see if the specific plot is unclaimed and it’s yours.”
As we headed back to the hearse, I said, “You’re the youngest person I’ve known to pick out a grave site. Most kids your age couldn’t handle it.”
“I’m not like most kids my age,” she said, defiantly.
“Quite frankly, most adults can’t handle it. You’re a pretty special kid.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “I’m glad somebody thinks so.” There was an almost frightening sarcasm in her tone.
When we got back to the hearse I started to open the door for her, but she stopped me saying, “I hate gentlemen.” She opened the door and jumped in.
I walked around to my side and slid in.
“I want to see where my Aunt’s body was found.”
I looked at her hesitantly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said emphatically.
It took about two minutes to drive to the mausoleum. We didn’t talk. I glanced over at her once. She was shaking. I think I heard her teeth chattering. I brought the hearse to a stop directly in front of the sign indicating that we had come to Section 12. We got out and walked side by side, but as we got closer to the mausoleum where Brandy Parker’s body was found, Quilla slowed her pace and walked behind me.
The mausoleum had been re-sealed, but the yellow police crime scene ribbons still cordoned off the area. Within seconds we were standing three feet in front of the entrance. Quilla looked at the gloomy, marble structure that stood roughly eight feet high and ten feet deep.
“Looks like a cement beach cabana,” she smirked, then ducked under the police ribbon and stepped slowly to the door. It was as if she were approaching her Aunt’s body in a coffin. She walked around the mausoleum, studying it closely, as if she were looking for something.
She placed her right hand, palm up, onto the door and lowered her head as if in some silent prayer or reverie and remained in that pose for about thirty seconds. I heard the sniffle again, but this time she didn’t try to hide it. She pulled back her hand and looked at me.
“How did the guy who killed my Aunt get
