The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  “I’m already exhausted.”

  “That’s from climbing a mountain, not a business plan.”

  I stare at my phone, and then put it back to my ear. “How did you know I just climbed a mountain?”

  “Lucky guess,” he answers. “Don’t worry, Maddy. I’ll be there to help you through the tough times. I promise. You just keep recharging those batteries with a good hike now and again. So what do we do besides send you a ticket back home?”

  “I’ll send you a list of questions for the life bio video and you think about the answers.”

  “You got it. Lights, camera, action.”

  I can see him clearly smiling across the distance. “See ya soon, Uncle Sam.” I tuck my phone back inside its hip holster. An unexpected breeze packed with humidity swings by. I take in the momentary familiarity, and enthusiastically sprint down the mountain. “Yes! Thank you, Uncle Sam! Thank you, Inspiration Trail! Prototype, here I come!”

  The red-eye to Ann Arbor is becoming a good friend. I sit in coach typing away on my computer to fine-tune the template for the Lights Out Video Tribute. I glance at the Financial Street Journal in my backpack, my incentive to finish. I hit the save button, put my computer screen down and pull out the paper.

  I scan the front page and then flip to the Market section. A story with the headline “Palette Enterprises Commands Triple Valuations,” detailing Derek Rogers’s impending rise to fame, snags my attention. I sigh, and dare to read on, only to discover that the international art and design scene has become a hotbed of opportunity, now with Outsider Art catching on, and all at the hands of artistic business genius, Derek Rogers. The article goes on to mention that Mr. Rogers has been seen on more than several occasions milling about Washington, D.C., becoming buddies with a variety of lobbyists across a wide range of industries but that he declined to comment on whether it is Palette-related business or what his next entrepreneurial adventure might be.

  I get that funny feeling again that something’s not right in Derekville. But before I can get in touch with it, I spot a smaller headline at the bottom of the page: “Successor Speculation at Pintock International.”

  The article claims that president and CEO Arthur Pintock, of Pintock International, may step down from his thirty-year tenure position for personal reasons. “Some speculate a recent lack of leadership on Mr. Pintock’s part on account of his daughter’s death, and that scouting for a successor is something the board is advising the sixty-eight-year-old Mr. Pintock to consider sooner rather than later.” The article states that, “It was widely assumed that one day, Tara Pintock would take over the reins. But even after her departure to pursue her songwriting ambitions, and prior to her death, Mr. Pintock refused to comment on the subject. It is widely known that Mr. Pintock keeps close counsel with three key executives in London, New York and Shanghai, each of whom is considered by the board to be a potential candidate. Both Pintock’s board of directors and analysts on Wall Street are eager to know who will eventually take over control and when, with respect to its affect on the direction of the company and its stock market value. But to date, the bench strength of the powerhouse board has failed to convince Mr. Pintock to utter the name of a single candidate, either in-house or out.”

  I close my eyes and think of Tara. I reach inside my bag, pull out a flashlight pen and hold it upright. I flick it on and quietly recite the kaddish prayer for Tara.

  The last of winter begins to melt, making way for mud puddles and the smell of new foliage. A horn honks from the dirt road outside Uncle Sam’s cottage on Clark Lake. Andy stands inside the cottage and turns to Uncle Sam, Sierra and me. “That’s my dad. I’ve got to get to my piano lesson now.”

  “Hey, thanks, Andy, for giving us your time,” I say, sharing a quick hug with him.

  “Yeah, you were great,” says Sierra from behind a high-end video camera.

  Andy hugs Uncle Sam. “It was fun! See you guys later!” He scoots out the door.

  “Let’s see if we can get that magic hour of light,” I say.

  Uncle Sam, Sierra and I walk onto the backyard deck overlooking the lake at sunset. The ice begins to break apart, revealing baby ripples of water against the shoreline. Sierra places the camera on a tripod.

  I turn to Uncle Sam. “Be yourself, and remember to rephrase my question inside your answer, cuz no one’s going to hear me when we finish cutting it together.”

  Sierra crosses over to Uncle Sam holding a small lavalier microphone in her hand. “Can I hook you up for sound?”

  “Absolutely, I’ll take a beautiful girl hooking me up for sound any day.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. Banks.”

  “You can call me Sam.”

  “Okay, Sam.” Sierra smiles.

  “Hey, are you flirting with my production crew?” I tease.

  “Why not?” He smiles back as Sierra finishes. “You okay with it?” he asks her.

  “Actually, I’m flattered,” she says, and turns to me. “We’re good to go.”

  “Uncle Sam, you ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Sierra lines up a master shot with a wide-angle lens. I stand to the side of the camera.

  “Keep your eyes on me, Uncle Sam. Not the lens. Warmup question number one. What’s your favorite hobby?”

  “My favorite hobby is fishing on Clark Lake. It takes patience, and, well, that’s a metaphor for life…because without the joy of the journey, there’s no joy of the catch.”

  “Hold it,” says Sierra. “The breeze is blowing his hair in his face and there’s a hot spot on him.” She readjusts his hair and powders his forehead. He blushes under her cosmetic touch-up. She smiles at him and returns to the camera.

  “Tell me about your other hobbies,” I suggest. “Like whistling.”

  “I love to whistle. It’s how I communicate with myself and nature. Puts air in your lungs. Makes you feel alive. Just put your lips together and blow.” He puckers up and whistles the tune of “Fishing Free.” An obvious sense of contentment washes over him as he gestures toward the beauty around us.

  Sierra and I watch, mesmerized by the ease with which he handles the art of living. He finishes the song, looks at the landscape and offers his trademark line,“It’s a beee-utiful day!”

  We break into a round of applause.

  Uncle Sam blinks repeatedly several times, revealing shyness graced with humility. It’s an endearing mannerism and I watch Sierra capture it on tape.

  I glance at my guide sheet. “Okay, Uncle Sam, tell me what you are most proud of in your life.”

  He takes a moment, then replies, “I’m most proud of my love of life.”

  “Can you explain what you mean by that?” I ask.

  “I wake up every day and appreciate every moment. It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or the sun is shining. It’s all beautiful. I’m very proud of that.”

  “That’s beautiful,” says Sierra.

  I feel a pain in my heart I can’t define. Will I ever feel that way? I fumble through my papers to resume the questions. “What’s made your life special to you? So far.”

  “My life is special because of the people in it. They make my life special. I hope I do the same for their lives,” he concludes.

  “And your favorite piece of music is?”

  “My favorite song is ‘Fishing Free.’ The melody is both light and introspective. It feels fresh every time I hear it.”

  “What do you believe life is all about? A collapsible reply please.”

  “Life is about doing the best you can without hurting yourself or others along the way.”

  “What advice would you give your loved ones?”

  “Love yourself so you can love others.”

  Sierra gives me a look.

  “What? I don’t love myself ?” I ask.

  “You could love yourself more.” Uncle Sam smiles.

  “Ditto,” says Sierra.

  “I like this girl,” says Uncle Sam. “Where’d you find her
?”

  “I found her,” chimes in Sierra.

  Uncle Sam says, “She’s good for you, Maddy.”

  “I like your Uncle Sam. He’s good for me,” says Sierra. “Do I get a word in?” I ask.

  “No,” they say in unison.

  “Okay, let’s break. Uncle Sam, did you pick out a bunch of photographs for us to go through?”

  “I sure did. Let’s go look at them over a good hearty shot of whiskey.” He breaks out a bottle. The three of us drink and videotape as Uncle Sam relays the memories prompted by each photograph depicting the many chapters of his life.

  “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to one particular photo of a Native American-looking fellow in a red-and-black flannel shirt.

  “That’s Fisherman Joe.”

  “I remember the story about him.” I stare at the photo as if Fisherman Joe is a long-lost friend.

  Sierra shoots close-ups of photos, zooming out now and again to capture us capturing memories.

  Even at night, Sierra’s office bustles with activity. A freelance Web designer in glasses and a wrinkled T-shirt works a late shift finalizinga Web site design for one of Sierra’s local clients.

  “How goes it, Z?” asks Sierra as we hurry inside.

  “Almost done with Little Tony’s,” he says.

  Sierra glances at his screen. “Looks great. Keep going. Don’t mind us. We’re digitizing footage we shot today.”

  “Cool,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on his screen. Another employee packs up for the night and waves at us.

  “I left all your messages on your desk,” she says.

  “Thanks, Julie,” says Sierra. She turns to me. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got a great operation going here.”

  Sierra guides me into her private office with views of downtown Ann Arbor. Her office is packed with video equipment, monitors and a high-end compact editing bay. Sierra hooks up cables and wires and monitors, and punches a bunch of buttons.

  “Mind if I make a couple of calls while you…do that?” I ask.

  “Go right ahead.”

  I dial Shepherd Venture Capital. “Jonny Bright, please,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Bright is out of the office today. May I take a message?”

  “Yes, please. Will you let him know that Madison Banks called again, for the third time?”

  “Yes, Ms. Banks,” says the receptionist.

  I hang up.

  “What’s happening with that?” asks Sierra. “He won’t return your calls?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. He’s supposed to give me a final answer on the business plan, but every time I call he’s gone.”

  Sierra finishes matching wires and pushing buttons. “Want to see what we shot?”

  I nod excitedly. We watch a replay of the day’s shoot. “This is great. How soon can we have a rough cut?”

  “Couple of days, if we pull an all-nighter.” Her phone rings. She picks it up. I watch a gentle sweetness coat her inside and out. “Hi, Milton,” she says mellifluously. “I’m great.

  How’s Chicago?” She offers me a brief smile. “I’m working with Maddy. Late night.” She listens, then says,“See you in a few days, sweetie,” and hangs up.

  “How’s that going?” I ask.

  “It’s nice. So far, so good.”

  “Are you in love?”

  “Not yet. Though I’m sure I could let myself fall in love with him. You know there’s that moment when you let yourself fall. I believe you make love happen. It’s a split-second decision. But it is a decision. Like the one we shared nine years ago.”

  “Do you think love is reversible?”

  “Never reversible, Maddy. It just passes through to other realms of friendship.” Her eyes twinkle. “I know you were looking for answers today.”

  I cast a glance at the ground. “I wonder if I’ll ever love again.”

  “Oh, Maddy, ex the solo pity party, you’re playing your results. Don’t beat yourself up for that. It’s your way. And I’m going to help you get there. Remember,‘How do you build a life of joy and contentment?’ By living your passion—and you are, Maddy. Enjoy the journey which is built on experiences and experiences require energy, so if you ask me, the pressing question now is, ‘What do you want to eat to replenish the energy?’ because I’m starving.”

  We smile. Memories of all-night study binges with the best Mexican food Ann Arbor has to offer rush to the surface.

  In unison we chant, “Big Ten Burrito!”

  “To Tara,” I say. “With extra guacamole.” We order in a feast and work through the night.

  I peek. The fresh light of dawn shines through a crack in the curtain of my childhood bedroom. I lie straight as an arrow, crossing my arms over my chest, resting my head on a pillow, staring at the ceiling. I take a deep breath and meditate on my goals for the day.

  There’s a knock on the door. It creaks open. Eleanor pops her head in. “Hi, honey…uh, what are you doing?”

  “Meditating.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to sit up for that?”

  “I prefer reclining meditation. That way if I get tired, I can go back to sleep.”

  “Oh, I see, dear. Well, breakfast is on the table if you like. Dad’s reading the New York Times but he went out and bought you a Financial Street Journal. I’m running off to a piano rehearsal for Rebecca’s high-school drama class.”

  “What’s the play?”

  “A revival of Purlie.”

  “Didn’t I see that with you at the Fisher Theater when I was seven or eight?”

  “Yes. And you came back home and made Purlie hats out of cardboard and felt. You started to sell them, then stopped when you found out it was illegal because you didn’t have licensing or merchandising rights or something like that.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. So you created your own Broadway musical so you could have your own products to sell. You called it Stansbury after the street we lived on before we moved to Ann Arbor.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Not well. Singing wasn’t your forte. But it was a gallant effort. I accompanied you on the piano and sewed the name Stansbury on top of your Purlie hats. I think you broke even.”

  “Humph,” I reply, trying to remember the details. “What happened to the hats?”

  “Uncle Sam cleaned you out. Have a good day, honey,” she says, and disappears.

  I smile to myself. What a great uncle. I must remember to ask him what he did with those hats.

  I get dressed and join my dad downstairs for breakfast. He’s reading the paper and drinking coffee. Across from him lies the Financial Street Journal. I kiss him lightly on the forehead. “Morning, Dad. Thanks for the Journal.” I head for the coffeemaker behind the kitchen counter.

  “Morning, hon—you’re welcome. How’s your secret project with Uncle Sam going?”

  “Great. Any new news?”

  “Arthur and Grace Pintock are splitting up. They put their home up for sale.”

  “Why?” I ask, surprised. “You’d think they’d need each other more than ever right now.” I carry a mug of hot coffee to the table and sit across from him.

  Charlie puts the paper down. “Actually, Maddy, it’s fairly common in couples who lose a child, especially when it’s an only child like Tara was. There’s a lot of guilt and self-blaming that goes on.”

  “Self-blaming? It’s not their fault. If anyone’s to blame, blame the pharmaceutical company for the faulty inhaler,” I say indignantly.

  “He is doing that. But it won’t lessen the grief, and lawsuits don’t bring back the dead.”

  “But Hercules can,” I say, proud to bring the mythology lessons of my youth to the table, lessons my father taught me. But he looks at me perplexed. “Remember? You taught me the myth of Admetus and Alcestis. Admetus gets ill and Apollo asks the Fates to spare Admetus if someone else will die for him. Only no one steps up to the plate. Not Admetus’s warriors, nor
his aging parents. So his new bride Alcestis dies for him. And then it’s Hercules who fights with Death to bring her back and save her.”

  Charlie sits still looking at me with a mixture of subtle compassion and benign disappointment. “I’m afraid you mistakenly altered the ending. Hercules fights Death off before Alcestis actually dies.”

  “Oh,” I say, frustrated by the inability to skirt death, even in a mythological tale, and at myself for having gotten the facts wrong to begin with—or had I manipulated the facts all these years to allay my own fear of death?

  “I’ve got to get to my class. The age of chivalry beckons. Have a good day,” he says, and walks out the door.

  I open up the FSJ, turning the page to dissolve my disappointment over mythological tales of the past with the small print of the present. There’s an article on the Exceptional Event gala in New York tonight, where all the top event planners will be, including spokespeople for its allied industries in catering, lighting design, tent rentals and so forth. I call Sierra.

  “Hey, Si. You up?”

  “I’m already at the office in the editing bay.”

  “Can you edit without me? The event planning industry is gathering in New York. It’s a good opportunity for me.”

  “No problem. But I need to see Sam again. There are a few takes I want to reshoot. I’ve got his number.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  “Have fun and be safe. I hear a snowstorm is coming,” she says.

  I hang up and dial Uncle Sam. “Hello, Sunshine,” he says. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m off to New York for research. I’ll be back in a few days. Sierra’s going to call you for some reshoots this morning. You okay with that?”

  “Absolutely! I’ll put on some coffee for her.”

  “How are you doing after your debut on camera?” I ask.

  “Great. And now I’m looking at the lake and whistling to the geese. Even though it looks like snow, it’s a beee-utiful day. When you get back I’ll set up a meeting for you and my buddy, Richard Wright, who runs the Jackson funeral home.”

  “Sounds great. I have a feeling the video is going to be the thing that puts this over, Uncle Sam.”