The Funeral Planner (35 page)

My curiosity is piqued. “What exactly is paraphrasing?”

“Rephrasing what someone says without repeating it word for word, so they know they’ve been heard. I tell ya, it’s just like when a grieving family comes to see you in a time of need. Never ask for the stats first, though,” he adds, getting agitated by a jogged memory,“which is what that Tribute in a Box wanted me do. They’ve got it all wrong, insisting I take notes, makin’ the whole thing so damn clinical and uptight when it’s supposed to ease the pain of a survivor. Ya never take notes at a first meeting. You use counseling skills to help people deal with loss.” He shakes his head, clearly irritated.

“It’s not worth getting so upset over,” I say gently.

“You’re right.” He pours himself a shot of whiskey, kicks it back and settles down. “Anyway, I was saying, when a customer starts talking at the bar, you do like a funeral director—you ask them to tell you about what happened, to explain what the whole ordeal was like for them. Be a mirror. The trick…is to do it with compassion.”

“Be a compassionate mirror, so to paraphrase,” I say.

“Right.” He smiles at me like I’m an A student. “You reflect back to them the meaning their words have for you.” He looks at the clock, which reads five, walks to the door and flips the Open sign around. “Watch me.” He winks. “I’m pretty good in action.”

The first patron to walk in takes his regular seat at the bar. He’s a sixty-year-old man named Guy, who wears long-sleeved thermal shirts under dark green overalls with heavy work boots. “Hey, Richard. You finally got some help,” says Guy.

“That’s right,” says Richard. He introduces us. “This is Guy. He’s here every day at five, sharp. This is Maddy Banks, Sam’s niece. So be nice to her.”

“Is that so?” asks Guy. “Sam was a helluva guy. Best fisherman I ever met.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Can I take your order?”

“I’ll have the usual.” He winks.

“That’s a tall ice-cold glass of draft ale,” Richard tells me. I pour a glass for Guy and hand it to him.

“Sally’s fences around her garden’s come undone again,” Guy says.

Richard gives me a look and turns to Guy. “What happened?”

“I suspect some deer jumped clear across them, except for one who took the whole damn fence down. I’ve been fixing it for a week now.”

“What’s that been like?” asks Richard.

“Hard work, especially in this heat, but Sally makes damn good lemonade and meaty sandwiches. And she plays her music in the house loud so I can hear it. Pretty symphony music…makes the day go by a lot quicker.”

“Sounds like the deer’s mishap with a fence is providing you with some work and keeping you well-fed and entertained while you’re at it,” says Richard.

“Yep. That’s exactly what it is,” says Guy, then he takes another sip of beer.

I smile at Richard, impressed. “That was good,” I whisper.

“That was nothing,” he says softly. “It’s more challenging around grief, when you’re trying to help someone resolve unresolved feelings.”

Siddhartha sticks her nose into Guy’s leg. He looks down and smiles. “Now who’s this little fella?”

“That’s Siddhartha,” I say. “She’s a girl, so it’s Sid for short.”

Guy reaches down and pets her. “Hello, Sid.” He grabs a bar towel and plays tug-of-war with Sid for a while. He looks at Richard and me. “I had a dog once. A golden retriever. She was a great dog.”

“What was her name?” I ask.

“Dunlop, because I found her as a puppy in a pile of opened-up white paint cans. Took me a month and two cans of paint thinner to get all the paint off of her,” he says, smiling at the memory.

“What happened to her?”

“Couple years later I took her to a groomer for a good washing. When I came back to get her, they said she’d died.”

“What! How did that happen?” I ask, horrified.

“They never really told me,” says Guy, getting a little teary-eyed.

“That’s insane. Did you sue them?”

Richard jumps in. “So what I hear you saying, Guy, is that you took Dunlop for a grooming and when you returned she was gone.”

Guy nods his head.

“What was that like?” asks Richard.

“Pretty bad. It didn’t make any sense, ya know? For a long time I felt like it was my fault. What if I hadn’t taken her there to begin with?” He takes a gulp of beer as if to swallow his painful memories.

“I imagine it must have been a painful way to lose her,” says Richard.

“Yeah,” says Guy. “I never talked about it before.”

“Sounds like you needed to talk about it.”

“Yeah. I think so. Thanks for listening.”

“No problem,” says Richard. “The next beer’s on me…in memory of Dunlop.”

Guy offers a nod of deep gratitude.

I’m amazed, and turn to Richard. “You’re
good.
”

The next six hours are a blur of activity as I learn the ropes of tending bar and meet the locals—carpenters, builders, painters, writers, doctors, manufacturers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. Eleven o’clock rolls around and Richard flips over the Open sign in the window to read Closed. I help him lock up for the night, but not without a few questions.

“What does Guy do, Richard?”

“Oh, he’s sort of like the local handyman but deep down he’s quite brilliant. He can invent whatever it takes to fix a problem. He’s an unsung engineering hero,” says Richard, locking up the liquor storage bin.

“Does he have family?”

“Only family I’ve ever heard him mention is that dog, Dunlop.”

“He started to get upset about it.”

“That’s healthy. It’s all part of the protocol of grief.” He faces me. “That’s
love.
Remember, Maddy, you can’t love someone unless you’re willing to grieve over that someone. Need a lift home?”

“No, thanks. Sid and I like the walk.”

“See you tomorrow, then. And, Maddy, you did a great job. You’re a hard worker, just like your uncle.”

Sid and I walk along the shoreline under the moonlight to Uncle Sam’s cottage. “Did you get that, Sid? The protocol to grief is love. To paraphrase with interpretation…that would mean that those who have grieved are also those who have loved. I would grieve you a lot—you know why, Sid? Because I love you a lot. Would you grieve for me?” Siddhartha jumps on me and whimpers. “I know…I’d miss you, too…like I miss Uncle Sam…and Tara.”

For the next week, I endear myself to the customers at the bar, listening and paraphrasing, while Sid endears herself to them by nuzzling up to them for a loving stroke on the head.

I’m working the bar one night when the town’s librarian, Mrs. Jones, shows me a series of her watercolor paintings.

“Sounds like you really enjoy painting from your car-studio during your lunch hour,” I say.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Jones. “I painted these over some twenty lunch hours.”

There’s an extraordinary painting of Guy working outdoors on a fence with strange-looking parts strategically placed on top of it. “That’s an amazing painting. You’re really talented.” I try to squash my instinct to introduce Mrs. Jones to a handful of gallery owners I know from my failed Artists International venture, but I’m determined not to meddle with people’s lives here. What if I helped and it backfired? Better not to tempt fate in this little town, I think to myself. I glance down the bar at Guy sipping his beer. I top off Mrs. Jones’s iced tea and remember the story of D. J. Depree, the founder of Herman Miller.

The story goes that when D.J. went to pay his respects to the wife of a millwright who had died while working for him, she showed him her husband’s book of poetry, and forever thereafter D.J. wondered—was her husband a millwright who wrote poems or a poet who worked as a millwright? That one persistent and prescient thought marked the start of a changing perception of the American worker from machine-centric widget-maker to employee with inalienable rights—rights that D. J. Depree recognized in the 1950s. In fact, his was one of the first companies to give employees participative ownership through stock. Years later D.J.’s son, Max, succeeded him as an equally good leader, maintaining the values his father had instilled in him. It was Max who went on to write the little, well-known book “
Leadership is an Art,”
declaring that leaders should leave behind them assets and a legacy; that they are obligated to provide and maintain momentum; that they must be responsible for effectiveness; that they must take a role in developing, expressing and defending civility and values and implement management-sharing opportunities.

Derek Rogers must have skipped that class in college because he certainly eschews all those principles. But Victor doesn’t. As far as I can tell, Victor is a man of great principle. I watch the people in the bar. Is Mrs. Jones a librarian who paints or a painter who works as a librarian? Is Guy a handyman who engineers or an engineer who is handy? “God, I hate conundrums,” I mutter under my breath, and focus back on the present.

“What do you think of this one, Maddy?” asks Mrs. Jones.

I stare at another stellar painting. “It’s remarkable,” I comment. In this painting of Clark Lake at dawn, Mrs. Jones has captured its essence perfectly. My instincts win out and I say, “You know…I know a little bit about the art world. I could give you a list of names and numbers of some art gallery owners in New York to contact if you want.”

“Really?” asks Mrs. Jones. “That would be very nice. Let me think about it.”

“Sure. And I’d be happy to call in advance, if it helps.”

I glance toward the other end of the bar to make sure all the customers are happy. Richard pours another patron a second shot of whiskey. I hear the soothing tones of Richard’s voice as he asks, “What was that like for you, Wally?”

“It’s rough,” says Wally, mumbling. “I can’t look at my own bed without thinking about her. I can’t walk up the driveway or stand in the garden without thinking she’s going to be there.”

“Sounds like your home is filled with memories of her.”

“Beautiful memories,” says Wally. He kicks his drink back.

“You ever think about moving, Wally…maybe taking a vacation?”

“Without her? Can’t bear the thought. I’ll take another shot.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Wally. We don’t want any accidents on the road.”

Wally nods. Richard passes me to get a fresh rag.

“What happened to his wife?” I ask.

“Mary Beth? She passed away six years ago. Wally’s never gotten over it. That’s what long-term grief can do.”

“Long-term grief ?”

“It lowers your serotonin levels and triggers hard-core depression. Some people get sad like Wally. Some get agitated and keep superbusy to hide themselves from their own pain. You don’t want to encourage them to grieve anymore, but just help them cope with it.”

Guy overhears us. “That’s what I’m trying to do with Sally. I keep trying to help her cope.”

“What do you mean by that, Guy?” asks Richard.

“When she cries, which is all the time, I try to ease her pain by doing chores around the house, buying groceries for her and bringing them in the house. Sometimes I make her a pot of tea. And I let her cry for as long as she needs to. I know she’s in a lot of pain…but it makes me feel good to be there for her. She doesn’t have anyone else anymore. I just wish she’d be willing to go outside sometime. She lets me walk her to the porch, but she hasn’t left the house for eight months now.”

“Sounds like each of you is helping the other in your own way,” suggests Richard.

“I think there’s some truth to that,” says Guy.

I can’t help but ask,“What happened to Sally’s husband?”

“Joe died a few months after I closed down the funeral home. All the bereavement counseling groups I used to offer got closed down, too. It’s been tough on the locals. They have no social place to grieve anymore. Sally, along with everyone else, had to use funeral homes out in Grass Lake and Ann Arbor. They feel like they’ve been ripped off by the Tribute in a Box Corporation. They now own all the funeral homes within sixty miles of here. Company’s no good, taking advantage of emotionally vulnerable people. Don’t get me started—especially when funeral directors may be the very last stop for some to ever release their grief,” Richard fumes.

I pour a shot of whiskey and hand it to him. “Here, maybe you shouldn’t talk about this stuff for a while.”

Richard drinks his shot. “Maybe you’re right. I can’t stand seeing people get taken advantage of.”

I shake my head and pour myself a shot, as well. “Me, too—especially by Derek Rogers. Oh, you have no idea.” I have the shot and we smile at one another, and for a moment, I flash on Uncle Sam and me sharing a shot and shooting the breeze.

The next day is my day off. Sid and I sail around the lake and catch a bass. I think of Uncle Sam. “I wish Uncle Sam was here, Sid. You guys would have really liked each other.” I start to cry, and this time, I don’t try to hold it in. I just let it flow, and I let Sid lick the tears.

That night, I sit in front of the fireplace and compose another letter to Victor.

Dear Victor,