The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  “You did reshoots with him yesterday. How was he? Did you notice anything…anything at all, Sierra?”

  “We shot for a couple of hours after I spoke to you. He had me laughing so hard my sides hurt. We shot his fishing lure collection and then he tried some new material for the video.”

  “New material?”

  “Jokes…really bad jokes. How did it…happen, Maddy? And when?”

  “My dad had dinner with him at his favorite place, Eagle’s Nest, across the lake. He dropped Uncle Sam off and came home, and later a neighbor called. He said Uncle Sam’s lights were on past midnight and that never happens, so he went over to check in on him and Uncle Sam was…gone. Just like that. Went to sleep and that was it. Did he say anything unusual or seem ill when you saw him?”

  “No. He was great, Maddy, really great. He said he was glad to be doing this and he made me take a break and play a hand of poker.”

  “Who won?”

  “He killed me.” She grimaced. “I mean, he won.”

  “Sounds like him.” I smile back through suppressed tears.

  “Look, Maddy. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Be with your family. I’ll work around the clock and finish editing this in time for the funeral.”

  “Don’t I need to be there?”

  “You need to be with your family. You need to be with your feelings.”

  “That’s exactly where I don’t want to be.” Why did my feelings have to keep chasing me down? Why couldn’t they simply evaporate and leave me alone?

  The Wright Funeral Home in Jackson is quaint and unpretentious. Sierra and I are greeted by Richard Wright, a tall, stoic man in his late fifties.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Maddy. Your uncle never stopped talking about how proud he was of you. I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”

  “Me, too,” I say. It’s an awkward moment and I’m not sure what to do so I hold up the bag of Sierra’s cookies. “Cookie?”

  He nods and takes one. “Mmm. These are great. Here, let me show you around.”

  We follow Richard into the main chapel with a stage and high ceilings. “This room seats a hundred people—used to be a high school theater with stage lights and all,” he says.

  I look around and glance at Sierra who reads my mind. “Yes, I’ll do it,” she says.

  We pass through a casket viewing room with duplicate caskets I remember from the funeral convention. But Richard’s selection has many simpler, plain pine boxes to choose from.

  “Why so many plain ones?” I ask.

  “Some funeral homes keep their low-end caskets out of sight, but I don’t like to sell all the fancy stuff to folks in distress, unless they really want it.”

  “How about Uncle Sam?”

  Richard smiles. “He was a shrewd man, your uncle, but an honest one. That’s why we got along so well. He checked the general price list and grilled me on every detail over five shots of whiskey, until he had the price he thought was fair for what he wanted.” Richard chuckles. “Nope, Sam couldn’t stand to be ripped off—not even over his own dead body.”

  We all share a look. I’m not sure how to respond.

  “Uh, sorry, about that,” offers Richard. “Guess I owe you ten for that one.”

  “Ten?” we ask in unison.

  “Well, out here, the worse the joke, the more we say we owe. My neighbor’s humor is so awful I think he damn near owes me five hundred dollars by now.” He leads us down a maze of hallways and stops in front of a closed room. “Sam’s in there,” says Richard. “Take your time, Maddy. I’ll show Sierra the rest of the grounds.”

  “You’ll be okay?” Sierra asks me.

  I nod, then look at the door, take a deep breath and enter.

  Inside the room is a Formica table on top of which sits a modest-size pewter-colored urn. I stare at it, where the remains of Uncle Sam now reside. “Hi, Uncle Sam. How ya doing in there?” I whisper, holding back my tears.

  I wonder—if I rub furiously on the urn while repeating a mantra, will he magically pop out in genie form and grant me three wishes? “Come back from the dead, come back from the dead, come back from the dead,” I would plead on all three accounts.

  “So…what do you want me to do to authenticate your life?” I ask the urn, hoping for a sign, for some miracle of communication to drop from above.

  I stare at the urn. Nothing. I look at the ceiling. Nope, no manna dropping down here from behind fluorescent lights; maybe I need to initiate contact with a cue. I start to whistle “Fishing Free,” but it’s a feeble attempt. Nothing. I rub the urn. Nothing.

  This sucks. Where are the miracles when you need them? Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “You know? I don’t know what to say. I mean, what is this, Uncle Sam? You just up and die,” I say, feeling my emotions gyrate between unrestrained anger and denial. “What the hell is that all about? I mean, I know you’re the one who’s dead here, but I’m the one who’s left behind. You promised you’d be there to help me through the tough times. Well—this is one of those times.”

  A light goes on inside my head as I circle the urn. “So you know what? I’m making you keep your promise, Uncle Sam. That’s right. This is no Weekend at Bernie’s where you’re getting rid of a dead body, nope, this is Every Day with Maddy, where you get to stick around and keep your promise.”

  I make sure the door is closed tight. I uncap the top of the urn and slowly peek inside. I hurriedly glance around the room for a container. Nothing. An idea strikes. I take the Ziploc bag of Sierra’s homemade cookies out of my purse and unceremoniously dump the cookies in a garbage can. I carefully tilt the urn over and pour part of Uncle Sam into the chocolate-smeared bag…until I hear voices approach from down the hall. I rush to finish the job, which causes me to spill some of Uncle Sam onto the table.

  “Oops,” I squeak, jumping around to clean it up, mumbling, “Come on, Uncle Sam. That’s it. You’re going for a ride, cuz ya know what? This ride’s not over!”

  “Maddy? You all right?” asks Sierra from behind the door.

  “Yep, fine. We’re just having a private moment here,” I shout back. I quickly screw the top back on the urn, dust off the table, and shove the Ziploc bag with Uncle Sam in it safely inside my purse. I shake my head, smooth down my clothes and look at the urn, suddenly bringing forth a calm and composed demeanor for the benefit of those who might be listening behind door number one.

  “Okay, so that’s how we’ll do it, Uncle Sam. I’ll get you that recording…” I smile and whisper,“I’ve got the tag line, Uncle Sam, ‘Lights Out means Lights On.’ I knew it would be different with you by my side!”

  I whip out my PDA-cell phone and pull up Maurice LeSarde’s private e-mail address, which I remembered to add to my contact file. I compose a quick message. I glance upward to the gods above. I close my eyes and hit the send button. Poof goes the e-mail. I duck out of the room. Sierra leans against the opposite wall, suspiciously staring at me. I quickly turn my grin upside down into a pout.

  Sierra ever so shiftily lifts a brow. “This ride’s not over? Can we say ‘I’m in denial’?”

  “And who says denial is a bad thing?”

  Sierra scrunches her face and smells the air. “Why does it smell like chocolate chip cookies in there?”

  “Um. Comfort food,” I say.

  “Are there any left? Because that was a lot of cookies.”

  “And I needed a lot of comfort,” I reply, holding my purse tightly by my side.

  “Anything else you need?” asks Sierra.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I need to get to a fishing tackle store right away.”

  The day before the funeral, a package arrives from UCLA. Inside is a beautifully wrapped gift from Eve Gardner along with a portable CD player and headphones. A note instructs me to listen first. I put the earpiece in my ear and hit Play. Eve’s voice booms in my ear. I adjust the volume.

  “Dear Madison, I’m sorry about your uncle. Y
ou must be in shock, so please follow the auditory directions based on our conversations and e-mail correspondence. No points necessary. Step one, open the gift.”

  I open the box and discover a stunning muted-yellow cashmere sweater, black pants, black pearl earrings and mascara. “As you can see,” continues Eve’s voice, “you have the double C’s here. I picked yellow so you can make a statement, sort of like a metaphor for the life-celebration theme, but muted for subtlety, and because your uncle called you Sunshine. I know you’re upset, but I’m sure you’re going to speak and, well, funerals are no excuse to let yourself go, so Step two will guide you through the makeup process. Remember to blend. The mascara is waterproof. Hope this helps you through a difficult time. Eve.”

  I stare at the contents in the box. It is the perfect gift. Even though Eve is consistently inconsistent, she has cleverly delivered a dose of fashion therapy at the perfect moment.

  Despite the blizzard that strikes on the morning of the funeral, Uncle Sam packs a full house. Over two hundred mourners arrive to pay their respects. It’s standing-room only as ubiquitous clouds clear up, bringing the snowstorm to an abrupt halt and making way for a luminous sun to shine on the chapel.

  Turns out Sam Banks had touched the lives of a lot more people than anyone imagined. Once Eleanor contacted the National Fishing Lure Society, word spread like wildfire across phone lines and Internet connections. Friends and colleagues came from all over to remember a rare and special man.

  The shock of his death bloats the air with grief. Mourners enter the foyer and gaze at the giant Memory Board—photos I’ve arranged and displayed, including the one I took of him with Maurice LeSarde. I strategically placed four-foot-high candles around the Memory Board to shine light on a few high points of Uncle Sam’s life. In the chapel, I positioned various themed objects next to the urn: several fishing rods, a fishing tackle box, fishing net and a bottle of his favorite whiskey. Hundreds of fishing lures hang from the rafters.

  Rabbi Levin takes the podium and begins. “Welcome on this sad occasion where we mourn the death of a man so clearly well-loved by so many people. The Bible claims this to be a great gift, when so many come from so far and wide to pay homage, well, then, it has surely been a life filled with Mitzvoth and selfless love, a life that held his fellow man in high esteem, it is a life that shall surely be missed.”

  I try to be respectful, but I can’t help but flinch at the fact that the Rabbi never even knew Uncle Sam. I watch the service from the front row with my family members. We had all decided to forgo the private family room. The place is dominated by black; everyone is in his or her best black—except me. I wear the muted-yellow sweater over the neatly tailored black pants Eve sent. On my sweater is pinned the black ribbon of Jewish custom indicating that one is in mourning for a relative in her immediate family. I glance behind me. Sierra’s in the back taping the service with her camera atop a tripod.

  “Everyone, let’s all please rise for the Mourner’s Kaddish.” The Rabbi leads in prayer as the congregants, a melting pot of various faiths, do their best to mumble along.

  I glance backward at the front door as people arrive, checking my watch.

  “Are you expecting someone, dear?” whispers Eleanor.

  “I keep thinking Uncle Sam’s going to show up any minute,” I whisper back.

  “Me, too,” she says. “I know you’re going to miss having him so close to you.”

  I nod and gently pat my purse where, unbeknownst to anyone else, Uncle Sam remains close by my side.

  The prayer ends. The Rabbi motions for all to sit. “Before I continue, Samuel’s niece, Madison Banks, has something to share with us.”

  I walk to the podium, feeling as if I’m floating because everything’s happening in a fog. As I register the horde of people who have come to pay respects to my uncle, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and loss. My throat clams up. I feel Niagara Falls behind my eyeballs just looking for an outlet. I swallow hard to build a dam and suppress the flood.

  “Thank you all for coming here today to honor the life of my uncle Sam. Now I know you’re all probably wondering why I’m wearing this. I’m, um, wearing yellow today because Uncle Sam always called me Sunshine. I’m wearing yellow because I am here not to mourn a death but to celebrate a life, for that is what Uncle Sam believed in and what he wanted. And he’s here to tell you that himself.”

  I cue Sierra. A big screen comes down. A video projector whirs. Uncle Sam suddenly appears on screen, standing on his dock in a navy-blue pea coat, smiling at the camera. The congregation of mourners watch mesmerized, seeing him alive again.

  “Thought you’d get rid of me so quick, huh?” he jokes.

  People who knew Sam well emit chuckles, unsure whether it’s okay to laugh at a funeral.

  “Well…” continues Uncle Sam, “if you’re all out there watching this, chances are…I’m not—at least not with you—maybe over you. At least, I hope it’s over…and not under.” More chuckles come from the crowd.

  “Any laughs out there?” asks Uncle Sam. “If not, I owe you ten, but go see Richard Wright for that. After all the bad jokes I’ve had to put up with over the years, he must owe me a thousand dollars by now, so Richard, if you’re there and I’m not, deduct it from the balance you owe me…and then deduct that from the balance for the gathering today.”

  Locals laugh. Richard Wright smiles and wipes a tear from his eye.

  “Now, everyone, I want you to stop crying and start living,” instructs Uncle Sam. “And remember, to have a successful life all you need are three things—something to do, something to believe in and someone to love. It’s that simple. And if you don’t know how, well, watch the video and I’ll show you.”

  The camera angle shifts to Uncle Sam standing in a room inside his cottage. “One thing that’s really fun to do in life is start a collection. Collect something. Could be coins, cars or lovers. Me? I collect fishing lures.” The camera cuts to a montage of Sam’s fishing lure collection. “And I collect memories. The rest of this video is a demonstration of what collecting memories is all about, because memory is what shapes our identity, and that’s the most important thing of all.”

  What follows is a ten-minute montage of video, both old and new, still photos and voice-over, dialogue and interviews with friends and family over a gentle soundtrack of original music from Ubiquitous Music.

  The video reveals Uncle Sam buying a framed leaf-art design from Andy and proudly hanging it up in his house; a montage of Uncle Sam as a child and young man. There are images of Sam with Fisherman Joe and his team of employees standing under a sign that reads “Banks Baits—baits you can bank on.” There’s Sam horsing around with a young Charlie and young Eleanor on a pontoon boat on Clark Lake; Sam playing catch with Daniel and giving him his first book of poetry by Robert Frost; Sam wearing a tall felt hat that says Stansbury on it as he introduces me at the age of seven in my pseudo-Broadway debut of Stansbury on the lawn at the lake house.

  I do a double take, wondering how Sierra found all this extra footage and managed to cut it all together. I glance at her. She relays a knowing nod of sweetness.

  The Lights Out life bio video manages to capture life’s rituals from birth to graduation ceremonies, from holiday cookouts and family weddings, to the pleasures of solitude and crowded spectator sports. Interspersed throughout the timeline of memories are Uncle Sam’s comments about life and a lesson on how to whistle, ending with him in silhouette by the lake whistling “Fishing Free.”

  He winks at the camera. “Now I want you all to do something fun, make a memory, and don’t waste another day feeling bad. It may look like the lights went out, but really, they’re just getting turned on…in another room. Have a beee-utiful day!”

  I cue a teenager backstage and as the video screen goes up, the old high school theater lights overhead fade up on stage with hues of bright yellow causing the urn and fishing paraphernalia to glitter like gold.

  The congreg
ation sways between tears of laughter and tears of sadness, not sure whether to applaud or not. Someone in the back starts clapping and shouts, “He’d want the applause, man!” And everyone joins in, applauding a life well lived. Sierra gives me the thumbs-up sign. I grin the way Uncle Sam would.

  “That was beautiful,” says Eleanor to me.

  Charlie nods. “I think you just initiated a new ritual.”

  Daniel sobs. Andy turns to Rebecca. “Uncle Sam did all those things, Mom? Wow!”

  “Yes, honey. He accomplished a lot and he enjoyed every moment of it.”

  I take the stage again. “Thank you, on behalf of Uncle Sam.” I wait until they simmer down and continue. “People dear to us usually have a signature or trademark they carry or do. Sometimes it’s a hat or the kind of cologne they wear. Uncle Sam’s was whistling to the tune of “Fishing Free.” Finding a recording was difficult because the LP is out of print and it has yet to be published on a CD. But my uncle wanted the song to be heard today and so, without further ado, I present to you…Mr. Maurice LeSarde.”

  Maurice LeSarde marches down the aisle and leaps onto the stage. He smiles quietly and politely addresses the crowd. “That is one great guy and one great fan.” Everyone laughs. Maurice looks at the urn and says,“This is for you, Sam.” He then belts out an unbelievably beautiful a ccapella rendition of “Fishing Free.” The audience is in awe. Maurice concludes to a standing ovation.

  Andy grins from ear to ear. “I’ll never forget Uncle Sam, Mom.”

  Rebecca smiles at me and mouths, Bravo.

  “Thank you, Maurice,” I say. He steps to the side. I address the shell-shocked mourners. “In honor of Uncle Sam, we have, uh…funeral favors. Everyone gets a Moonglow jig fishing lure and a whistle. Moonglow jigs are specifically for ice fishing because they glow in the dark, which is a nice metaphor for keeping Uncle Sam’s spirit glowing in our hearts and minds forever. And the whistle, well, anytime you want to recall his memory, just blow. Attached to each of your Moonglow jigs is an invitation with directions to join us in the continual celebration of Samuel Banks’s life during shiva, which takes place now, at his cottage on Clark Lake. You’re all invited to participate in some ice fishing, and afterward, we’re going to cook the fish we catch and tell Uncle Sam stories…over shots of whiskey.”