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My grandfather, Arthur C. Dale, had always been an elusive figure in our shared legacy. Whispered beneath closed doors and veiled in shadows of the past, his memory was restrained by a date that bore his assumed parting of this earth in 1931. However, an inscription, written in stone professed a different tale, Arthur’s departure was indeed in 1957, some twenty-six years beyond the veil of our perceived history.

I was merely nine years old, when my grandmother Jenny Maestri Dale passed away. Her funeral marked my first encounter with the concept of death. Gathered around the family tomb in Metairie Cemetery were my grandmother Jenny’s, five adult children, along with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

As the priest prayed over the casket, a solemn atmosphere enveloped us standing before the Maestri-Dale tomb. It remains etched in my memory as the only time I witnessed my father shed tears.

The records showed that he was being admitted by his wife Jenny Maestri Dale, I found myself pondering: who could be the antagonist here?

I have a clear picture of the victims—Arthur, Ferdinand, Corine, Lenny, and poor Maestri. But what led to this unfortunate event? Was it Arthur’s struggles with drinking, Jenny possibly having an affair, or perhaps something entirely different?