More rows of graves with names other than that for which he searched.
Then, a few minutes later, Juliette called out again. ‘Here.’
‘Is it his headstone or another funny one?’ Morton shouted before he bothered to traipse over to her.
‘It’s his—Roscoe Jacklin.’
Morton didn’t run this time, but, even before he got close to her, he could see the name etched into a low gravestone: Jacklin.
‘It’s him,’ Juliette repeated, as he reached her. ‘Your grandfather.’
Morton drew a quick breath and crouched down in front of the light grey granite stone. Below the word Jacklin was carved his grandfather’s name. 1928 Roscoe J. 1976.
‘There’s space for another name to be added,’ Juliette noted.
Morton nodded his agreement. Did that mean that his grandmother was still alive?
Then he spotted something at the foot of the grave. He picked it up and examined it. A shrivelled up white rose. Someone still visited the grave, he reasoned. Just not very often, by the looks of it. ‘What do you think? Two weeks old? Three?’
‘Somewhere around there, yes. It could have been put there by your Aunt Alice,’ Juliette suggested, intuiting his thoughts.
‘Could be, but it’s a bit of a trek down from Provincetown,’ Morton pondered. He wanted to allow at least for the slim possibility that the rose might have been placed here by his father.
‘Let me take a photo of you beside the grave,’ Juliette suggested.
Morton manoeuvred himself behind the grave and crouched down. Never really certain of the etiquette for cemetery photo shoots, Morton offered a vague half-smile, then took the camera from Juliette and took some of his own photos to add to his growing file on his paternal family tree.
‘Bye, Grandad or Grandpa or whatever I might have called you,’ he said, touching the top of the warm granite before taking Juliette’s hand and heading back to the car.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Morton asked, as they stepped from the Green Lotus Café on Hyannis Main Street.
Seemingly from thin air, Juliette produced her credit card. ‘All the while I have this and all of these—’ then she gestured to the long line of shops on either side of the wide road ‘—then I’m happy. You take as long as you need.’ She pecked him on the lips, twirled around and began down the street.
‘I’ll phone you when I’m done,’ Morton called after her.
She waved her credit card and continued to walk.
Morton grinned as he tracked her for half a block, then turned in beside the bustling JFK Museum. At the end of a long path that bisected a perfect lawn was an official-looking brick building. The sign beside the entrance read Barnstable Town Hall, 367 Main Street. He climbed the steps and, once inside, paused, searching for an indication of where to go. A piece of paper stuck to the wall had a big red arrow under the words Town Clerk’s Office. Dog licenses. Marriage licenses. Birth certificates. Death certificates. Business certificates. Voter registration. And numerous other things.
Just the place.
He strode down the corridor, in through a grey door and found himself in an open-plan office.
‘What can I get you?’ a lady yapped from her desk nearby. She had the jet-black hair and olive skin of someone freshly delivered from the Mediterranean.
‘Hi, I’m looking for information on a death in Hyannis Port in 1976.’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ll be right back.’ The woman ambled off through a door at the rear of the room.
Morton took his pen and notepad from his bag and waited patiently. Moments later, she shuffled back towards him and dropped a black leather-bound book on the counter between them. ‘Here you go,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Morton delved eagerly into the ledger. He swiftly flicked through several pages until he reached December, then he began carefully running his finger down the surnames until he found his grandfather.
Name: Roscoe Joseph Jacklin
Sex: Male
Colour: White
Condition: Married
Age: 48 years, 8 months, 21 days
Disease or cause of death: Accidental death resulting from extensive burns
Residence: Hyannis Port
Place of burial: Old Neck
Occupation: Businessman
Place of birth: Boston
Name and birthplace of father: George P. Jacklin, Boston
Name and birthplace of mother: Lucy Bradford, Boston
He quickly scribbled the new information onto his notepad. He now knew the names of his great-grandparents. ‘Excuse me,’ he called over to the clerk.
‘Yes.’
‘I found who I was looking for—is there any further information—like a death certificate that I can get from this?’
‘Sure.’ She stood up, took a piece of paper from under the desk and passed it across the counter. ‘Fill this in, and the certificate’s all yours for ten dollars,’ she said with a wink.
Morton hurriedly completed the form and handed it back with a ten-dollar bill.
‘I’ll be right back.’
And in the time that it took for Morton to begin to attach imagined lives to the names of his great-grandparents, she was back. She handed him an A4 sheet of paper with the embossed seal of Barnstable Town on the bottom. He thanked her and stepped to the side of the room to read its contents. The certificate confirmed everything that the index had just told him, including his grandfather’s parents’ names, but with some additional information: the name of the funeral home and funeral director was stated, as was the fact that he had been a veteran of the Korean conflict. The informant of the death had been his wife, Velda Jacklin, and she had confirmed that his place of birth had been Boston.
Morton carefully folded the certificate into his bag and made his way out of the Town Hall. He found an empty bench in the welcome shade of a large maple tree. Pulling open his laptop, he ran a Google search for Grant Funeral Home. Thankfully, they
