Can’t Keep a Good Girl Down: A Roller Coaster Ride through the Other Side of Nashville

Chapter Nine

The next morning, we return to the same beige walls, the same stuffy smell, the same manufactured air. For today’s service a minister (whose minister, I have no idea, certainly not John’s) gives a sermon and Mike Van Etten and Mercer give eulogies. Neither appear hungover.

The Nashville contingent arrives together, the whole dark lot of us freshly showered and transported via the rental van to the Soller-Baker Funeral Home. The family has already settled into the first two rows of padded uncomfortable chairs. John’s parents, stepmother, and Mike and Connie sit in the front row, silent. For their son, stepson, brother, stepbrother. I notice a few familiar faces from yesterday, as well as a few new ones. John has a sister, I’m told, but I don’t see anyone who fits the bill.

Mike acknowledges our ragtag group with a faint smile. A few others simply stare. John D. has his long hair tied back, and Chark’s wearing a solid-colored shirt. Tony B. is the sharpest of us all in his grey suit. All in all, we cleaned up pretty well, though I still squirm like an awkward teenager.

John would hate the stiff formality of this thing: no music, no beer. A preacher. If he had his choice, he probably would have wanted…a party at Robert’s. Wait. We did that! But John’s mom wanted this ritual, which is reason enough to sit and be quiet.

The coffin and all the flowers surrounding it haven’t moved. I mean, where would they go? Mike’s voice doesn’t crack until the end of his talk. As the preacher recites his closing words, it hits me. This is it. As if death isn’t final enough, this is the “last goodbye,” as Jeff Buckley would sing. I can’t pretend John is on vacation, that he faked his own death or that it was all a big mistake.

The hard cover of this book thuds shut. Some of us here will place it on a shelf, among dusty classics with faded spines. A few might pull the book out a time or two, but as the years pass, the book will stay put, left to yellow and fray and ultimately disintegrate with all the others. My copy is still on the nightstand, open.

“You gave me more to live for, more than you’ll ever know…”

Jeff Buckley’s song won’t leave my head. Dana hands me a tissue, which springs a new water leak. For the first time since arriving to Indiana, tears stream down my cheek.

As some prerecorded classical music plays through invisible speakers, the funeral party (party?) shuffles outside. Next, we’re supposed to drive to Tippecanoe Memory Gardens to watch a team of men lower a person-sized mahogany box into the cool, moist earth.

“We decided to have a private service at the cemetery,” John Sr. says to Warren. “Just family. I hope you understand.”

Thud. I look at Warren, and then at John Sr., my mouth agape. We’re not invited? What about my last goodbye? I want to see where his headstone will rest in the perfect green grass. I want to know where he’s staying so I can come back and visit. I want to leave a flower on that headstone on September 6, 1996, ’97, and so on. I want to talk to him there. Not that he could hear me — could he? Or will I have make do with the cold, hard concrete of the Big Red elevator shaft?

“And the memories, offer signs that it’s over…Over…”

Because most of us have to work tomorrow, the Nashville contingent, rejected, climbs into the minivan for the journey home.

With Chark behind the wheel and Jenny in control of the radio — classic rock straight away — the minivan turns onto I-24, headed south.

Behind me, I hear RCN babbling about an old movie. To my right John D. tels with Tony B. about his band’s upcoming five-state tour.

And then suddenly, above me, through the tiny van speakers, I hear a simple electric guitar melody. Six notes, key of A Major. My heart does a flip-flop. Could it be?

There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever not for better

Some have gone and some remain…

It is. The Beatles’ “In My Life.”

John’s favorite song. He told me this on one magical, perfect night, as we flipped through his old photo albums and listened to Cocteau Twins’ Heaven or Las Vegas.

“In My Life” reminded him of all his friends, scattered all over the U.S. They were as important to him as family, he said.

“I want to meet as many people as possible,” he said to me once. “Everyone has a story. No matter who they are, they have a great story. And if you talk to someone long enough, they’ll tell it to you.”

All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends

I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I’ve loved them all

The van goes silent for the duration of the song. I wonder, is the song a sign from him? Is this John’s way of getting our attention? My attention? Is he saying hello? Goodbye? Thank you for coming to my funeral out in Nowhere, Indiana? Maybe it was just a coincidence and meant nothing. But I believe there are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason, and that song came through the crappy van speakers at this particular time to get our attention, quite possibly as a way for John’s spirit to let us know he’s still around.

He loved us all.