July 8, 2026

Nicholas Hyatt sat in his car a block up the hill from the United Methodist Church watching the stream of somberly dressed people, heads hanging low, climb its stone steps. Paul Simon’s “Diamonds On The Souls Of Her Shoes” played quietly through the car, Nicholas having lowered the volume as he got within a block of the church. He breathed in slowly, attempting to moderate his heart rate, which on the drive had been racing faster than he expected. He considered one more cigarette but changed his mind. He nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the clock to reach 3:58, when he planned to jump out of the car and head into the church himself.

However, that was still ten minutes away and he felt self-conscious sitting in his car on the street, not that a grey Ford Fusion, even with out-of-state plates, was likely to draw much attention, especially now that Bakiti Kumalo’s bass was turned way down. Nicholas grabbed another Breath Mint from his cup holder and popped it in his mouth. So far, he hadn’t recognized any of the swarm of people entering the church, but then again, why would he? Anyone he might recognize would have been from forty years ago. What was the likelihood he’d even recognize them?

Forty years. The thought made his eyes well up again.  ‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘I’m like a bubbling brook.’ He turned his head away from the church’s entrance as if to escape the memories. He didn’t remember this part of Grandville that well. Forty years ago, he would have avoided this part of town, at the time a little too upper-class for his comfort. He wondered why this church ended up being the place where Rachel’s funeral service would be held. She was even less religious than he was at the time. “Yeah, God, sure,” she once joked, “that guy with all of those man-made stories in the Bible.”

Closing his eyes, he thought back to the last night he spent with her. While she slept face down, torso and left leg out from under the covers, U2 t-shirt scrunched up, showing her lovely, freckled back, he fought back tears then too.  The smell of her perfume tickled his nostrils, and he recalled believing that he could die engulfed by that smell. While her breath rose and fell, he stroked her hair, causing her to stir. He was caught in the purgatory of wanting to watch her sleep and seeing her awake and engage with the world fully.

“Diamonds On The Souls Of Her Shoes” had switched to “You Can Call Me Al” as the car’s digital clock switched to 3:55. Rachel had so loved this song, taping the video off of MTV so that whenever she wished she could watch Chevy Chase act goofy through the video. For the last six hours, Nicholas had listened to nothing but records from their four years together in college, starting with Duran Duran, whose concert was the place they met, pressed up against the stage by the mob of screaming fans. Luckily, Rachel’s tastes in music were all over the place, meaning that his road trip playlist ranged from Duran Duran to Kurtis Blow to Alabama to Prince to Paul Simon. “Anything but Jazz,” Rachel would say when anyone asked her what she wanted to hear. She didn’t think she could dance to Jazz and if she couldn’t dance to it, then the music wasn’t worth hearing. But if the song had a beat that made her swing her lovely hips, she was amused. Of course, it didn’t take much to amuse Rachel in those days, which was part of her allure.

Nicholas wondered if her personality had changed in the years preceding her death. Not knowing much about her post-college life was one of the reasons he was hanging back to show up at the funeral only as the official service began. He wouldn’t know how to make small talk with people who represented some part of Rachel’s life well removed from his time with her. He certainly didn’t expect people to want to hear his remembrances of Rachel, of her flirtatious nature at the time, of that peculiar way she dominated the room at a bar or a party, of the way she, as he described to her at the time, served as a lighthouse to so many wandering souls, his most dramatically.

Grabbing one more Breath Mint, he killed the engine, shutting off Simon. He took another deep breath and got out of his car, nervously looking up and down the street to see anyone else heading into the church. The street was mostly deserted, with just an elderly couple several blocks up the hill standing aimlessly at the corner. He started a slow walk to the church steps. The air was still, and the humidity immediately overwhelmed him now that he was away from the air-conditioned car. He pulled irritatingly at his collar. While he had eschewed a tie, he had put on a Bolo, the kind of accessory Rachel teased him about incessantly back when they hung out together. “Who do you think you are, Nicky, Ronald Reagan?” she teased.

Nicholas had to hurry up the steps into the doorway as he saw someone going to close the interior doors. “Don’t forget to sign the book,” a young man indicated, pointing to the right of the closing door, while pushing a service program at him with his other hand.

“I’ll do it afterwards,” Nicholas grunted, slipping past the closing door, eying open seats near the back. The church was only about half full, which surprised him. He didn’t feel comfortable sitting in the far back, so he selected a seat about six rows from the back near the far-left aisle that could allow easy and unnoticed entry and exit. The church was poorly lit, aiding his furtive entrance.

Settled in his seat, Nicholas was surprised to see no casket at the front, just a photograph situated among  flowers. He had trouble seeing the photograph in any detail, but Nicholas could see even from his far pew that it was Rachel, the black hair he knew and loved so well so many years ago a frosted white, her aquamarine eyes still vibrant. The pastor, a short, balding man came to the front, standing to the right of Rachel’s picture. “Welcome, everyone, to the funeral service of Rachel Mabry.” He swung his body to his right, sweeping his arms toward the picture as if handing over a bouquet of flowers.

“Friends, first, let us pray,” started the pastor. “Oh, father in Heaven, please bring comfort to the family and friends of Rachel Veronica Cox Mabry.” Hearing Rachel’s full name with the added married “Mabry” at the end seized Nicholas in a way he was not expecting. He kept his head hung low, eyes closed tight and tuned out the pastor.

Instead, he recalled one of the times he and Rachel had hung out at the Grand Saloon. It was about a year after they had become friends, hanging out three or four days a week. They were there with several mutual friends, mostly hers. Rachel had ordered a round of peppermint schnapps, a drink Nicholas couldn’t stand. As she sat with her shot glass just below her mouth, she announced to the table, “drink your Peppermint Schnapps/drink to Rachel Veronica Cox/Remember, don’t dribble a drop/don’t let this moment be lost.” Since Nicholas couldn’t stand the drink, he downed his with a sneer, snort, and glug of water chaser.  “Wuss!” yelled Rachel. All Nicholas could do was smile sheepishly, as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, much to the delight of her adoring, applauding audience.

Nicholas realized the Pastor had ended the prayer and everyone else was sitting down. Luckily the two women at the other side of his pew hadn’t noticed him still standing several seconds after the rest of the room had sat down. As the Pastor asked the audience to join him for a hymn, Nicholas pretended seriously perusing his hymnal. While the Pastor led the viewers in “Be Still, My Soul,” Nicholas maintained the fraud of following along, but he was distracted by a woman dressed in black slipping into the pew behind the women at his far right. ‘I guess I wasn’t the tardiest,’ he chuckled to himself.

While the majority sang, Nick’s eyes darted around the room trying to identify anyone he might recognize. The front rows were too far away, with too many people between the front row and him to make out what family members might be there. Among the crowd that he could see well, no one stood out, making him suspect that most of their mutual college friends of the time had fallen out of her life or perhaps even had died themselves. Knowing it was wrong, he took comfort in the fact that he probably would be able to get in and out of here with little interaction with others.

The pastor had moved onto reading scripture, so Nicholas leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, allowing himself to be awash in memories of Rachel Cox. So many of those memories took place at Livingston Lake where they spent so many days and evenings. He had pondered if he should drive out to Livingston Lake after the service as a final act of remembrance but knew that it would add at least two hours to his already 6-hour drive home. He didn’t dare push his luck.

Livingston Lake had been the place where Nicholas gave Rachel the emerald necklace he had bought for her birthday, June 28^th, a day he always accepted as hers. As the two ladies down the pew gave an “amen” in unison to something the pastor read, Nicholas recollected Rachel’s reaction that hot summer day as they both sat on the remote beach that most of the lake-goers avoided.

They had been admiring a small sailboat, red and blue sail bouncing erratically over the waves several hundred yards from the shore. They had followed a VW Beetle into the parking lot that precariously bore the sailboat on its roof, then chuckled when they saw a pot-bellied middle-aged man spill out of the driver’s side, while presumably his two kids, tow-headed twins, raced from the passenger side to start unloading the sailboat. “There you go,” Rachel had laughed, “the American family spawn.”

Seduced by the moment, Nick decided to give her the necklace there, not later back at her apartment. He hadn’t wrapped it but figured the stunning “Arsdale Jewelry” box, with its fancy serif lettering, served as the best packaging.

“Nick, this is really beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel shrugged her deeply tanned shoulders. “It seems so expensive and more intimate than our usual presents. After all, I only got you that latest XTC album for yours.”

“Shush, Rach,” Nicholas whispered as he cuddled closer to her on the sand, “it’s not a competition.”

Rachel sighed, placed the necklace around her neck, and lay back down on the sand. She murmured quietly.

Nicholas shifted slightly so that he could look more directly at her. “So, what are you thinking?”

“Nothing specific, Nick. Just enjoying the sun.”

“Nothing? Really?”

Nicholas fought back a slight twinge of frustration. He laid back so that his head was next to her feet, while his feet extended slightly past her head. “It can’t be nothing, Rach. Talk to me.”

“Honestly, Nick. Let’s just revel here in the quiet. I don’t want to think about anything.”

“Stuff’s going to be happening to both of us soon. We really should talk about it.” Nick dug a small hole in the sand with his left heel. Rachel turned her head away from his feet.

“Nick, don’t. You’ve got New York, exciting work with the Jets. I’ve got Columbus, graduate school. For now, can’t we just enjoy this beautiful day?”

Up front, a man in a black pinstripe suit had taken the spot where the pastor had stood. According to the program shoved at Nick at the door, he assumed this was Michael J. Spinnaker, whomever that was, to deliver the eulogy. Nick wondered how Spinnaker was associated with Rachel. Although he appeared to be about Nick’s age, the name did not spark a memory from their college days. Spinnaker was several inches taller than the pastor, in excellent shape, carrying a healthy head of black hair with a little grey sprouting around the sideburns.

Spinnaker took several minutes to set up pieces of paper, presumably his notes, on the makeshift lectern. He smiled nervously at the front pew, making Nick assume he was well acquainted with Rachel’s immediate family. Finally, he took a deep breath and began.

“Welcome, everyone. My name is Michael Spinnaker and I was, well, still am, Rachel’s first cousin. Rachel’s family asked me to deliver the eulogy today because in some ways, after her mother and father, I knew Rachel the longest.” ‘Ah, the cousin, Mike,’ Nicholas recalled. He had never met Mike, who was off at college in South Carolina when he and Rachel were together, but she had talked about him a lot. “Saint Michael,” she called him.

Spinnaker continued, “I was 8 months older than her when she was born, and our families hung out together a lot when Rach and I were young.”

Nick bristled at the “Rach,” a term of endearment he wanted to guard from the general populus. Sure, family members can use it, even cousins, but it seemed to cheapen her memory, as if she was the flighty blonde from Friends.  Nick scoffed at his thought of the 90s sitcom, airing a couple of years after he had married Victoria who teased him repeatedly during its first season about his “Rach.”

While Spinnaker droned on from the front, Nick thought back to that moment a few days after her birthday that became the second-to-last time he would see her.

It had been July 1^st. They were hanging at her apartment and discussing how they would spend the 4^th of July.

“I’m just saying, Rachel, that my family would love it if we drove out to the farm and spent the day with them.”

“Nick, I’d really like to see Ben and his band play the festival over in Chaddock. Live music followed by fireworks is a little more appealing than a cookout, sparklers, and cow manure.”

“You’re just smitten with Ben. This would be the fourth time you’d have seen them, right?

“So?” Rachel’s tone had turned acerbic. “He’s a friend and I like supporting him and the guys. Besides, they play good music.”

“But, I had already told Mom we’d come home.”

“Without asking me?”

“I mentioned it several weeks ago and you had no objections.”

“I don’t remember that. Besides, what’s the big deal? You go home and I’ll go to Chaddock. Everyone is happy.”

“Ben especially.” Nick regretted the comment as soon as it came out of his mouth.

Rachel glared at Nick for a few minutes, then slowly got up, went to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her, a scenario that had played out a few times before. This time Nick, however, didn’t race to the door begging for forgiveness, or at least a chance to keep talking. He decided to storm out himself, even if it was a pathetic act in an empty room.

Nicholas’ thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of laughter and clapping from the crowd. He looked to the front to see Spinnaker turning beet red. “Oops, sorry, Rach,” he said, turning to face her picture, “maybe I shouldn’t have shared that one.” He wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. “Anyway, as most of us in this room know, that is the kind of wide-eyed romantic Rachel was, and I think all of us desperately wanted to protect that to her last day.”

Nicholas tensed up at the idea of “desperately wanting to protect her,” a feeling he knew all too well. Early in their friendship, Rachel showed incredibly poor choice in boyfriends, almost always fawning over local musicians or poets, leaving sensible, down-to-earth guys like him in her wake. Even before he fully accepted his feelings for her, he still believed himself as her protector. And as his feelings grew, he acknowledged how he seemed fated to be the clean-up man, the guy with the mop and the bucket following behind the elephant parade. The emotions had come forth when he finally admitted to Rachel how much that hurt him.

They had been walking to the Met Theater for a late afternoon showing of some movie.

“Rachel, can I admit to something?” They were waiting at a stoplight.

“Of course, Nicky.” Rachel was dressed in black leggings and a black backless tank top that showed off the freckles that dominated Nick’s dreams. She carried a light grey sweater that he knew she would have to put on as soon as they got into the theater.

He turned away from her and looked down the street they were waiting to cross, watching a line of cars navigating the two lanes at the light. “I was upset that you left last night with that yuppie poet.”

“I didn’t leave with him, Nick,” Rachel snapped back. “I told you that he was going to give me a ride in his MG. When we got back to the bar, you were the one who’d left.” Rachel crumpled the sweater in her hands.

“I waited for 45 minutes, and you never came back. I felt pretty conspicuous sitting there at the end of the bar. After a while I think even the bartender felt sorry for me. He offered me a free beer.” Nick didn’t admit to her that he turned it down saying he didn’t need the guy’s pity.

“Well, what if I did go home with Nigel? You’re not my keeper.” The pedestrian light had turned green and Rachel headed quickly across the street. Nick raced to keep up, grabbing her elbow.

“Rachel, wait. Don’t you understand? I want to be that guy. I want to be the guy you go home with. Hasn’t it been obvious?”

Rachel pulled them to the other side of the road.  “C’mon, Nick, don’t be so melodramatic. We’re friends, really good friends. And that’s in part because we don’t want to mess it up with obligations and expectations.”

“We don’t?” Nick had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, causing Rachel to have to turn around and walk back to him. “Maybe you don’t, but do you have any idea how difficult it is for me, knowing you so deeply, but knowing that I can only go so deep before having to kick back to the surface for air? That sucks in and of itself, but add in that I still have to bear witness to your flirtations with guys like Nigel or the bassist in whatever band plays Moe’s next.”

Rachel laughed. “Oh, Nick, never the bassist. You’re so funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Rachel.”

Rachel stood in front of him, looking closely at his face. She reached out and grabbed his arm. “No, you’re not, dear Nicky.” She sighed deeply. “What am I going to do?” she asked looking to the sky.

“What are we going to do, Rachel? I didn’t intend to dump this entirely on you. I just wanted to make sure you understand where I am coming from.”

Rachel’s hand moved from his arm down to his hand. She grabbed it and gave it a squeeze. “Look, let’s skip the movie. What about we just go to the Grand Saloon and have a couple of beers? We’ll figure this out, that’s what friends do.”

Nick felt the coolness of Rachel’s hand in his, despite that it was 80 degrees. It was one of the traits that he always associated with Rachel: cold hands or cold feet even when it was 100 degrees out. He decided to drop the subject and follow her cold feet, hand in hand, to the Grand Saloon.

Nicholas was jolted out of his reverie by the pastor asking if anyone wanted to come to the front and pay tribute to Rachel. He straightened up, banishing the burning memory of the last time his and Rachel’s happiness had been tested.  At the front, a young man had worked his way to the dais.

“Good afternoon, all. I am Marlon Mabry, Rachel’s son. My sister, Maureen, and I really appreciate everyone coming out today. As you probably know, Mom’s last few months were very difficult, and Mo and I have cried a thousand tears through that time. However, through all of it Mom never stopped being the loving and kind Rachel Mabry that we all knew. Her spirit could never be crushed, even as her body was wasting away. I like to believe that kind of spirit will hover around each of us, over us, within us, for eternity. Mom, you were loved and blessed all of us here with your love. Thank you. We miss you!”

Nicholas found himself keeping his head down to hide his tears even though he knew no one, not even the ladies at the end of his pew, could see them. Would Rachel’s spirit pay any attention to him? He also wondered if Rachel’s ex-husband was here. He knew she was divorced as some of his friends who were friends of Rachel’s on Facebook had supported her new-found freedom several years ago. From the nature of the comments, which he knew were likely one-sided, few of her friends cared for Reginald Mabry.

A few people followed Marlon to the front to offer tributes. Nick recognized none of them, and whatever association they had with Rachel, meant little to him. He allowed himself to succumb to the memory of first seeing Rachel at the Duran Duran concert, standing next to her through the break between opening act and headline, surprised that this dark-haired cutie in a swooping skirt paid him any attention. When the concert was over, Rachel abandoned the girlfriend she had come with and went with Nicholas to the closest bar. Nothing romantic had happened that night, but they had connected enough that when she gave him her number, it opened the door to countless hours talking about music, books, social issues, and deepest fears.

‘We probably should have talked more about our fears,’ he mumbled to himself, just before noticing the pastor coming back to the front.

“Friends, let us sing again. Please turn to ‘I Watch The Sunrise’ in your hymnal.”

“Well, don’t you have a lot of audacity to show up here?”  The voice, even in whisper, was sharp and clipped coming over Nicholas’ right shoulder.

[To be continued within a couple of days of 7/7/2026]