The Funeral Planner (13 page)

“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.”

“It will certainly help, honey. Don’t you worry. I’ll be by your side to lend a hand whenever you need it. Have a good time in New York.”

“Thanks, Uncle Sam. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Maddy.”

I’m sitting at the airport in the pre-boarding area, when I realize I forgot to ask Uncle Sam about the Stansbury hats. I must remember to ask next time. Meanwhile, I set up all my New York appointments via e-mail, and manage to get myself on the invitation list for the event. I send a pop quiz to Eve: “Define the difference between a good business and a good investment. Provide examples for both, due in a week.” I send yet another e-mail to Jonny Bright reminding him that it’s been two months now and to please reply so I can, if necessary, move on to other venture capitalists. An automatic e-mail reply bounces back saying he’s out of the country for two weeks. I sigh, and log on to other Web sites to learn what I can from reading obituaries.

My first appointment in New York is with the head curator at the Museum & Gallery of International Sculptural Design. A slender brunette named Toby Helman sits across from me at the museum-gallery’s café, sipping a latte.

“I still can’t believe your deal here was usurped by that guy Derek Rogers who started Palette Enterprises. You were so ahead of the curve.”

“Thanks. But I’ve moved on.”

“Well, just so you know, we can’t stand that guy. The museum board wants him out.”

“Why? Aren’t the licensing deals bringing in revenue for the museum?”

“We call it sell-out revenue, deals with brands that cheapen the art. Derek Rogers doesn’t care about maintaining the integrity of art with a product, as long as he gets his cut from the advertiser. Pairing up a Giacometti with Pucker Up toothpaste! Please! Believe me—it’s just a matter of time before the rest of the art world catches on.”

She sips her latte and I wonder how Derek’s managed to last this long.

“So what can I do for you now, Maddy? What other great ideas have you got?”

“Well…I’ve got a new enterprise…and I’m going to need sculptors willing to take their talents into a whole new field.”

“What kind of field?”

“Fields…with gravestones on them.”

“Cemeteries?” asks Toby. She seems too shocked for words.

I nod with confidence. “I want high-end sculptors to create customized gravestones. I want to sign your gallery and museum in an exclusive deal with my company. And I’d like you to be on the advisory board. Most importantly, you need to keep this confidential until my product launch.”

Toby studies me. “You’re dead serious.”

“Well…so to speak,” I say.

She pauses, then nods. “I’m intrigued…keep going…”