The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  The congregation cheers. Maurice grins. “Well, I’m sticking around. I want to get to know my greatest fan, even if it is belatedly. The whiskey doesn’t sound too bad, either.”

  I nod in appreciation. “Rabbi, back to you.”

  Rabbi Levin stands before the crowd. “Thank you, Maddy. I must say this is the most…unique funeral I’ve ever participated in. I’d like to conclude by reminding all of you that even as we gather here today to acknowledge the passing of Samuel Banks, I encourage you to reflect on his parting words of wisdom, to remember him in your hearts, and to know that you’ve been transformed into a better person for having known him. God bless.”

  As the crowd disperses, Daniel murmurs to Rebecca, “I think this is a blasphemous display of disrespect.”

  Rebecca rolls her eyes. “You would. You like to live in doom and gloom, but some of us like the idea of remembering the departed not just with a smile, but the ceremony around their passing with one, too. I know it’s a novel idea for you, Daniel, but try.”

  Daniel huffs. “What do you think, Mom?”

  “I agree with Rebecca. I told you, I want rugelah and a klezmer band when I go.”

  “I think it’s…unusual,” states Charlie. “But that’s Maddy. Uncle Sam did say he wanted that song sung and she made it happen. She’s definitely resourceful, your sister, definitely resourceful.”

  * * *

  The cottage buzzes with mourners. I designate five small ice-fishing circles with Uncle Sam’s jigging rods, augers and skimmers. People skim the ice from the holes. There are plenty of buckets to sit on and plenty of Coleman lanterns underneath to keep everyone warm. Ice tents will break the wind if it kicks up again, though for now, the sun shines low in the sky and the wind is on hiatus.

  Sierra and I watch as roughly sixty people from the service take to the ice. Among them are Andy and Rebecca, Charlie and Eleanor, and even Maurice LeSarde, who has become chummy with Rabbi Levin.

  Richard Wright approaches. “Beee-utiful tribute, Miss Madison Banks.” I blink shyly back at him, the way Uncle Sam used to do.

  “Thanks, Mr. Wright.”

  “Call me Richard,” he says. “Think I can get me a copy of that video tribute to remember him by? I’m happy to pay for it.”

  “Sure, but you don’t have to pay for it.”

  “I want to. Tell me what I owe you and I’ll deduct it from the funeral bill, along with the cost of those bad jokes,” he chortles. “Well, I know Sam would want me to get out on the ice and catch a couple of bass for him, so I’ll see you in a few.”

  Sierra turns to me. “Gee, Maddy, you could make DVDs and give them away as funeral favors or sell them and donate the money to a charity in the name of the departed.”

  “You’re starting to sound like me.” I smile. “Come on, let’s go fishing. Got the camera?”

  The two of us capture the unfolding scene on ice. People laugh, trying to catch a fish or two, shooting back whiskey to keep warm, and all the while talking about the video tribute, the fishing lures lighting up on cue and seeing Maurice LeSarde in person! And most of all, how much Uncle Sam would have loved it, too.

  Andy shouts with glee, “I caught one!” Richard Wright helps him haul in a large bass. Sierra catches the excitement on tape.

  A medium-built dark-skinned man of sixty with thick jet-black hair approaches me. He looks familiar but I can’t place him.

  “Hi,” he says. “That was a beautiful tribute. I came from up north to remember your uncle. I knew him when I first started out in the fishing lure business. I’m Joe.”

  “You’re Joe—Fisherman Joe?” I ask, putting it all together.

  He nods.

  “It’s really great to meet you. Uncle Sam’s story about you has been a morality compass for me my whole life.”

  Joe smiles. “Sam was a good man. He always kept his promises, even when they hurt. When he had financial troubles, he still paid me what he promised—”

  Maurice LeSarde interrupts, “Madison, excuse me, but I have to go now. When my time’s up, I want you to do my memorial service. And thanks again for putting me together with Ubiquitous Music and for the opportunity to really get to know your uncle, even though it was, you know, after the fact.”

  “Thank you so much for making it. I know Uncle Sam is smiling.”

  “Goodbye,” he says.

  “No. No ‘goodbye.’ ‘See ya later’ will do.”

  “Okay.” He pauses, and then says, “See ya later.”

  Rabbi Levin interrupts the life celebration by cupping his hands to his mouth. “Let’s all please gather round!”

  I watch everyone huddle over one of the holes in the ice as the Rabbi leads the prayer for the burial of the dead. “As per the wishes of Sam Banks, we lay him to rest in the place he was most comfortable, here on Clark Lake.”

  Rabbi Levin hands the urn to Charlie, who gets ready to pour Uncle Sam into the lake. I duck out of sight, slipping behind the crowd. This is one ritual I don’t want to acknowledge.

  The burial ends and everyone gathers inside the cottage around the fireplace to eat fresh-cooked bass seasoned with a little cayenne pepper, the way Uncle Sam liked it.

  I lead a circle of people sitting Indian-style around the fireplace in the living room. I blow a whistle. “Okay, Rebecca’s turn.” A bottle of whiskey is passed to her.

  She swallows the now-ritualized shot before speaking. “Well, I remember when Uncle Sam took me fishing for the first time. He taught me how to stick a worm on a lure…and I fainted.” Everyone laughs. “Ever since then, he would tease me about worms. One day he bought me a big stuffed animal shaped like a worm. I was thirty-two!”

  The whistle blows and the bottle is passed to a small, stocky gentleman in wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m George. I was Sam’s accountant. I’ll never forget how he put all his advisers together in a room to come up with creative tax incentives that would save money. He paid us each for our time—his lawyer, his investor and me. It worked. We made history, saving him money and paving the way for other small business owners to do the same.”

  So the stories go, until someone says,“Maddy’s turn to tell an Uncle Sam story.”

  “Me?” I ask. “Oh, um, you know what? I have to go to the, uh, the bathroom. Yep, all those shots of whiskey, whew! It’s running right through me. You guys keep going. I’ll be right, uh, back.” I make a move to escape.

  Sierra puts the camera down. Everyone looks awkwardly at each other. Rebecca nudges Daniel. He looks at her as if that hurt. She nudges him again, harder.

  This time he gets it. “I, uh, I remember the first poem I ever wrote for Uncle Sam, ‘Sam. He is a fisher man.’ That was it.” Everyone laughs, dispelling the weight around my abrupt exit.

  Richard says to him, “You owe me ten for that one.”

  “I thought that rule only applied to jokes, not poems,” replies Daniel.

  As I listen from inside the bathroom, I rock back and forth curled over on the edge of the bathtub, tightly hanging on to the Ziploc bag with Uncle Sam inside.

  The next morning, I wake up in my childhood room again. I stretch in bed and stare out the window at the morning light. I whisper, “It’s a beee-utiful day!” The words do nothing for me, and instead of practicing my reclining meditation and writing up an action plan for the day, I curl up in a fetal position and go back to sleep.

  Hours later, Eleanor gently knocks on the door and peeks inside. “Maddy?”

  I murmur from within a dream.

  “Honey, would you like to come down and have some breakfast?”

  Exhausted, I somehow manage to join my parents at the kitchen table. Charlie looks sad and drained. And yet, there’s a Financial Street Journal on the table next to my plate. I glance at it and then do a double take.

  “Um…what happened to yesterday?” I ask, bewildered and sleepy-eyed.

  “You slept through it, honey,” says Eleanor.

  “I did?”

  “After all
the planning you did for Uncle Sam, it’s no wonder,” says Charlie.

  “So what’s going to happen to all of Uncle Sam’s stuff at the cottage?” I ask.

  “Nothing, right now,” says Eleanor, sipping from a cup of hot tea.

  “I’m not ready to go through it just yet,” says Charlie, staring at his food, hanging on to the ritual of breakfast for some comfort.

  “When are you going back to L.A.?” asks Eleanor.

  I take a moment to compute the lost day into my schedule. “That would be this evening. But I have to see Sierra. We were supposed to work yesterday.”

  “I told her you were sleeping,” says Eleanor.

  “What you did was quite extraordinary, Maddy,” says Charlie. “Uncle Sam would have been very proud.”

  I nod, grateful for my father’s sentiments.

  “I come bearing gifts,” I say, knocking on Sierra’s office door with two caffe lattes in hand. I’ve splurged, but then she deserves it. I hear Sierra editing; sounds of online music samples from Ubiquitous Music play back as I knock on the door. There’s a swiveling sound on a hardwood floor as a chair rolls toward the hallway. I hear a kick and the door pops open. I watch Sierra swivel back to her desk. I enter, noting the clutter of multiple digital videotapes. She keeps her eyes on a surgical editing job.

  As the coffee’s aroma wafts over to her, she murmurs, “Mmm, smells good. Hang on, let me just finish this cut.” She hits a few buttons and then, satisfied, turns to face me. “How’s Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Fine. Really. Fine. Except that I loathe losing time I can’t account for. And you?”

  “Excited to show you what I’ve got. Three prototypes for you.”

  “Three?”

  “One is pre-need, one is time-of-need, the third is a combo deal. So you have options depending on the circumstances.”

  “Okay, let the screening begin,” I say, taking a seat next to her.

  “First we need to order some fuel. And since Uncle Sam talked about creating memories…how about revitalizing one in particular?” She pauses and gives me a knowing look. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  I nod and place the order to Big Ten Burrito. Then Sierra reveals what she’s done. I watch, making careful comments to adjust by cutting for tone and length. Hours of fine-tuning pass before I think to look at my watch.

  “Oh, no! My flight to L.A. is taking off right now…without me.”

  “Let it go,” she says. “Leave tomorrow morning and you’ll have this ready to go.”

  We work until 3:00 a.m., when Sierra starts to peter out. Her head hits the table and she lets it stay there, too tired to lift it.

  “You’re exhausted. I’m driving you home. We’ll finish in the morning and I’ll take an afternoon flight,” I insist.

  Sierra mumbles from the table, “No argument here.”

  “It’s too late for me to wake my folks. Is it okay if I crash at your place?” Sierra liftsa brow as if to say, What do you think?

  “Thanks. Now shoot a gaze in the direction of your car keys. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Sierra glances toward the couch. I pick up her purse and the videotapes.

  * * *

  I manage to maneuver Sierra into her house and to the bedroom, where she promptly crashes. I slip her boots off, find a blanket and cover her with it. I take an extra blanket with me. I’m about to walk out of the room, when Sierra comes to—well, sort of.

  “You’re letting me sleep in my clothes?” she murmurs.

  I smile and by the time I pull her faded blue jeans off, she is fast asleep again. I give her a small kiss on the forehead and tuck her in. “Thanks,” I whisper, “for everything.”

  Wide awake after thirty-six hours of sleep, I pop the rough cut into the VCR machine in Sierra’s living room. I curl up on the couch under a blanket with pen and paper in hand to take more notes. But this time, watching in the stillness of the night, I am quickly transported to the grief I am desperately trying to avoid.

  “Maddy.”

  Startled, I turn. Sierra stands tentatively behind me in a Michigan sweatshirt. “How come you never let yourself cry?”

  I remain silent. To go there, to try, widens an already open wound.

  She crosses over to me. “It’s okay to cry, Mad. There’re no heroics in stoicism. It takes more courage to be vulnerable.”

  “I know,” I say.

  She sits next to me. “Why don’t you tell me an Uncle Sam story?”

  “I—I can’t.” Because it’s too hard. Her compassion shows in the lines around her eyes and mouth, begging to be addressed. I do it with a dollop of humor. “Got any more of those comfort cookies?” I grin, masking my pain.

  “You demolished all of them, remember?” She smiles, the most forgiving smile I’ve ever seen. “But I’ve got comfort in my arms. Can you let me comfort you, Maddy?”

  The compassion in her eyes makes me nod. She takes me in her arms and holds me, soothing my emotions. Inside the safe circle of her arms, the unleashed tears pour out of me.

  She tenderly dabs the tears away with the back of her hand, then with the slightest dab of her tongue. Feeling her warmth, I let my mouth find hers and succumb to a comfort kiss. She senses my needs and responds. Her hands slip lovingly inside my shirt, pulling me down on the couch. I release a murmur of sensual pleasure and then gaze up at her.

  “What about that guy…Milton?” I ask.

  “What about him?” she replies, and then passionately kisses me.

  “Aren’t you seeing him?”

  She pauses and gently answers, “We don’t live together. We’ve never discussed exclusivity. He’s out of town. And… this has nothing to do with him.”

  In that moment, I decide to let love in. It is far easier to allow myself the comfort of Sierra than to succumb to the pain. I am good at avoidance, I think, and I plan to keep it that way. I will outrun grief like a marathon runner determined to win the race. I had no idea how many miles it would take or that I was racing against myself, instead, everything is quickly washed away by the oh-so-loving comfort of Sierra.

  Financial Strategy: The Venture Capitalist Reprise

  Six a.m. My stark Los Angeles apartment. I stretch, recline and meditate for thirty seconds, then I do my situps and push-ups, and jump into the shower. Water streams down my face as I repeat, “I am grateful for VC money coming to me, I am grateful for VC money coming to me.”

  No sooner do I turn the shower off than my doorbell rings. I leap out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me. I open the door and experience déjà vu as Eve Gardner stands in front of me in one of her perfect double-C outfits. Before I can say anything, she holds up a digital camera and snaps a shot of me with dripping wet hair.

  I scrunch my face. “Hi, um, what’s with the a.m. photo shoot? Did you miss me? Or did we schedule an appointment this morning?”

  “No, but you did, which means I do,” says Eve as she enters. “Is there coffee?”

  “Yes. But I think I’m experiencing a disconnect here.”

  “You mentioned a meeting this morning in your e-mail. I’m here to help you accomplish your goal. As a vital part of your presentation team, that puts me here…now.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and whips out her Prada makeup bag.

  “That’s awfully ambitious of you, Eve.” I’m suspicious. “Might there be another reason?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” she says, sipping coffee, “Professor Osaka wants a visual essay on the before and after effects of our internships, and I believe my contribution has a direct effect on the progress of your company.”

  “I should have known,” I say. “He did this to my class. It’s his way of helping students identify their strengths and weaknesses in business. Okay, well, let’s get to it.”

  Eve smiles victoriously as she leads the way to my bedroom closet. I follow—wondering how that happened.

  Eve quickly composes an outfit combining my new pantsuit with the new muted yel
low sweater. She polishes me off with makeup and a stylized blow-dry. She admires my image in the mirror and remarks,“Ooh, I’m good. Now just transfer your stuff from that disgusting briefcase into my Prada bag and you’re set.”

  I give her a look. “It’s not disgusting, it’s well loved. And while I do this, can you please bring me those letters of emancipation on my desk.”

  She brings a small stack of letters over to me. “What are you free of ?”

  “Debt. Remember, Eve, entrepreneurship is about taking risks, but you still have to be responsible and pay people back. Oops, I almost forgot.” I lift my black ribbon to pin on me.

  “Stop! What are you doing?” screams Eve. “You’ll destroy the stitching.”

  “Eve, I have to wear this. It’s part of the ritual. Mourners wear black ribbons for a month after shiva.”

  “Okay, but if you do that you’re going to be mourning over your clothes next. At least let me turn it into a necklace.” She takes off her Guess or Gap or Tiffany silver necklace and somehow blends the ribbon in so it almost looks like an art piece. I put it on. She smiles at my entire ensemble. “Okay, now you can go.”

  “Thanks, Eve.”

  “Oh, almost forgot,” she says, and whips out the digital camera for the “after” shot.

  I confidently walk through the large double glass doors of Shepherd Venture Capital. I reach the receptionist and offer a big smile. “Hi, I’m here to see Jonny Bright. I don’t actually have an appointment, but I e-mailed him that I would be coming in today…at this time…and…”

  “Oh. He no longer works here,” says the receptionist. “Is there someone else I can put you in touch with?”

  My cheerful countenance crashes and burns. “Excuse me? Did you say…he no longer works here?”

  “Yes, as of last week,” she replies.