The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  “Maddy. You look wonderful,” says Victor. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Alyssa is my client.”

  “Norm is my client. Remember the golf game-death dress rehearsal?”

  Victor puts it together now as Norm returns from his hug with Alyssa.

  Norm jovially addresses our small crowd. “Alyssa, this is Maddy—Maddy, Alyssa. Two remarkable women! Alyssa is in charge of all the interior designs for me on my conversions of sixties office towers into apartment-lofts in Manhattan. And Maddy runs an outrageous business on customized pre-need funeral services.”

  “That sounds incredibly morbid,” comments Alyssa, turning her nose up at me.

  “Not the way Maddy does it. It’s kick-ass. Not kick-bucket!” laughs Norm.

  I maintain my composure and extend a hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  Alyssa offers a limp handshake back, careful not to put any strength behind it, as if she were conserving her energy for more important people or perhaps reluctant to touch the hand of someone so close to a business predicated on death.

  “And who’s this handsome dude?” asks Norm.

  “This is Victor Winston,” says Alyssa. “One remarkable man.” I pick up on Alyssa’s subtext of my remarkable man. “He’s the investor behind the Designer Tank.”

  “Terrific,” says Norm. “You play golf, Victor?”

  “I was on Yale University’s golf team,” replies Victor.

  Norm pats Victor on the back. “Fantastic. We should definitely talk things over on the course sometime.” He looks from Maddy to Victor. “So how do you two know each other?”

  We answer simultaneously, crisscrossing over each other, “He’s my venture capitalist.”

  “She’s my investment client.”

  “Speaking of which,” adds Victor,“how did the meetings go today?”

  “Great,” I say, comfortable again in the saddle of business talk. “I lined up two more clients and—”

  Alyssa turns to Victor and cuts me off. “Excuse me. But you invested in…death?”

  “That’s right,” says Victor with humble pride. “I did. I believe it’s going to be my best investment yet.”

  I grin as Alyssa raises her brows in mock disgust.

  Norm punches Alyssa in the arm. “What’s the matter, Alyssa? You can’t mock death. You gotta make it your friend, like I did, then you get a whole other life to live. Speaking of which, I need to find my wife, compliments of Madison Banks.”

  Norm leaves as Davide shows up with two apple martinis in golf-ball glassware and hands one to me, catching me off guard. “Oh, Davide, um, thanks for the drink. This is, uh, Victor Winston, my venture capitalist in Lights Out Enterprises. And this is Alyssa Ryan, an interior designer. Everyone, this is Davide.”

  Alyssa seems to back off on her possessive-Victor energy upon Davide’s arrival at my side. Victor, as usual, maintains his poker face.

  “And Davide is…?” asks Victor.

  “Oh, um, Davide is an extraordinary sculptor,” I say, taking a big sip from my drink.

  “Yes, and now I am also a gravestone sculptor,” says Davide. “Yes, of course,” says Victor. “The piece you did on her uncle Sam was outstanding.”

  “Thank you,” replies Davide.

  “Wait a minute,” says Alyssa, connecting some dots in her brain. “Are you Davide Davide? Famous Parisian sculptor?”

  “I hope so,” says Davide.

  “Here’s my card,” she says, handing him one conveniently ready to be plucked from her purse. “I would love to talk to you in the next few days. Not now, obviously, as this is a social gathering.”

  “I don’t mind if you want to talk business,” offers Victor.

  “Oh, but I do,” she replies. “Come. Let’s all dance.”

  I’m impressed. At least Alyssa knows how to turn her on button off. On the dance floor, I watch Alyssa let Victor lead. They dance in elegant fashion together, while once again, I fail to let Davide guide me. It’s simply out of my realm.

  Davide shakes his head. “You do not know how to let a man guide you, no?”

  “I’m trying,” I say as I trip over him. Victor catches my fall.

  Victor looks at Davide. “Do you mind? I need to talk to my business partner.”

  “Not at all,” replies Davide, and we switch dancing partners.

  Victor immediately shifts his energy, allowing me to take the lead, as if he’s known all along how to dance with my kind. As long as techno stays out of the picture, I figure I’m fine, and suddenly I’m dancing in sync, as elegantly as Alyssa was with him. Davide happily leads Alyssa, yet I can see that he’s quite surprised to see me working wonders on the dance floor with Victor.

  Victor pulls me closer to him. “So, you were saying about those two clients…”

  I smile with excitement as the old eighties tune “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles starts to play.

  “I landed a professor of literature at NYU who wants to send e-mails after her death that reveal all the millions of secrets she’s had to keep private for so long.”

  “I can see privacy issues are going to become a dead issue.”

  “Oh, Victor.”

  He smiles. “Sorry, that one just slipped out. Anything else?”

  “I also landed a brand manager of Branded Entertainment. The brand manager offered to help brand Lights Out for a discount on her pre-need arrangements. What do you think?”

  “Great idea, I’m all for barters, but both of you should give each other a list—”

  “Of deliverables,” I say, cutting him off. “We already did.”

  “Excellent,” says Victor. “Does she know what she wants?”

  “Yes, when she’s not branding, she’s a vocational actress, and for her life bio video…” Victor and I twirl around, then continue. “She wants to do a scene from Heaven Can Wait with any famous actor we can line up. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “If you’re engineering it, I’d say it’s a done deal.” And he twirls me around again effortlessly.

  Davide and Alyssa cut in, ready to switch partners again. Davide looks at Victor. “How did you do that?”

  “Sometimes letting someone else lead is just another form of leading,” says Victor with a sly grin.

  Davide nods in acknowledgment.

  I stare at Victor. “Oh, really?”

  He grins at me. “It’s just a conundrum, Maddy.”

  “Great,” I say.

  Alyssa pulls Victor away. “Come. It’s time to meet the bride.”

  I watch Victor disappear in the throng. “Um, you know what?” I say to Davide. “I am exhausted from jet lag and I have all this work to do. So, um, why don’t you stay and enjoy yourself. I’m going to catch a taxi back to my hotel.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Hmm. Yeah, I’ll just, uh, you know, see you later.”

  I return to the Venice office, where Eve helps keep everything organized.

  “How’d the outfit do?” she asks.

  “I’d have to say it played a major part, Eve. Nice going. Another win-win deal negotiated. I want you to follow up for me, oh, and by the way, FT 101 will be handling any future costume design when needed for the bios.”

  Eve grins. “You rock, Madison!”

  “Thanks, but it’s a team effort. Anything I need to know?”

  “Mrs. Nuzzo is expecting you at her home in Scottsdale. Here’s your itinerary and your mail. Your plane’s on time and your cab will be here in ten minutes. I have to get to class now.”

  “Thanks, Eve.”

  She leaves as the mailman enters with a stack of envelopes. “This one needs to be signed for,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say, and quickly sign the certified registered mail slip. The mailman leaves and I open the certified letter. As I read, I slump into the prototype chair, unable to move. Devastated. The office phone rings. Then my cell phone rings. Still, I
cannot move. I sit there for some time. Still. Very still. All energy stopped. I finally flip open my cell phone and dial a number to leave the following message. “This is Madison Banks calling. Please tell Mrs. Nuzzo that I’m sorry, but I…I have to cancel our meeting. And I won’t be rescheduling.”

  I shuffle out of the office, passing the cab now parked at the curb, and get in my car. I somehow manage to drive home. I turn off my cell phone and shut down my computer. I look at the Ziploc bag with Uncle Sam inside. “I’m sorry, Uncle Sam. I’m so sorry.” I close all the shades. I unplug the phones. I climb into bed with the clothes on my back and I cry myself to sleep.

  An incessant knocking occurs on my door. I burrow my head under the covers but the knocking turns into a pounding. I reach for some earplugs.

  “Maddy? Are you in there? Open up! It’s Victor. I’m not leaving until you open up!” More pounding.

  I shake my head and climb out of bed in my wrinkled work clothes and slowly drag myself to the door. I open it up, shielding my eyes from the fluorescent hallway lights. Victor looks me over, then picks up the two-foot-high pile of newspapers at the door and walks in.

  “What’s going on?” he demands, pacing the room, dropping the newspapers in a corner. “I’ve been trying to reach you for three days. No one’s heard from you and you don’t let anyone know where you are. Are you sick?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Did someone die?”

  I think this one over for a moment. “Sort of,” I say, mumbling under my breath.

  “Who?” he asks, concerned.

  “More like what,” I say, shuffling back into my bedroom.

  “What?” he asks, following me. I never knew how relentless Victor could be until now, but I’m beginning to get an inkling of his persuasive powers.

  I hang my head and slowly utter, “They turned the Lights Out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The FTC and the Senate Special Committee on Aging—they revised the new Funeral Rule,” I say, climbing under the covers again.

  “We knew a revision was in the works. What is it?”

  I pause, holding back the tears. “Under the new rule, Lights Out falls under the definition of ‘Professional Civil Celebrant.’”

  “I’m listening,” says Victor, now sitting on the edge of my bed, clearly weighing the details of my body language against the words that tumble out of me.

  “The difference between a professional civil celebrant and a nonprofessional one is that the professional has partnership agreements with funeral homes.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “To comply, professional civil celebrants have to go through a government-approved accreditation program…which requires one year of study…with tests that must be passed. And the head of this new accreditation task force is Derek Rogers. Effective immediately. Operating without accreditation results in closure of business, plus fines exceeding a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “This sounds a bit far-fetched, no?”

  “Not to mention a conflict of interest.”

  “How can they pass a bill like this…and have Derek Rogers in charge?”

  “The same way they can have a judge judge the friend he goes hunting with.”

  “What about any funeral organizations?”

  “Well, if they tried to fight it, they failed. Or else they’re part of it. Who knows? Derek must have been working on this for months. He probably slipped it in under some other legislation. Even if we follow this new law, we can’t afford to lose a year without operating. We’ll lose all market share, and by that time Derek’s empire will have grown and the event industry will infiltrate and dilute whatever business opportunities remain. And besides all that, Derek Rogers will make it impossible for us to get accredited.”

  “We can fight this. It’s a clear case of antitrust. We’ll go to D.C. and meet with the FTC and the Senate Special Committee on Aging and tell them he can’t build a monopoly.”

  “Oh, Victor. How do you know they’re not all investing in Tribute? I’m sure Derek set it up that way to protect his interests.”

  “It would be a scandal to uncover.”

  “At what cost?” I whisper. “At what cost?”

  “We can create another accreditation program. Why should there be only one?”

  “Then what are we doing? Wagging the dog? Building one business after another to chase Derek instead of sticking to the original game plan? I can’t keep playing one-upmanship with him. That’s not the business I want to be in.”

  Victor stands up, opens the shades and stares out the window. He knows I’m right. He turns around. I realize he’s staring at my work clothes and the wrinkled black ribbon still pinned on my shirt. “Why don’t you put on some pajamas and I’ll make you some tea.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  By the time Victor returns from the kitchen, I’m in flannel pajamas, and propped against some pillows. He brings me a cup of hot tea and sits down next to me. “Thanks.” I swallow hard and look straight at him. “I’m sorry, Victor. I’ve lost your investment. I failed. Lights Out is…dead.”

  “Look, Maddy. If you think you failed, it’s crucial to understand why.”

  “Why? Derek Rogers is a better salesperson than me. He can sell someone their own car, for Pete’s sake. He gets people to believe him even when they know he’s lying. And he used those skills to plagiarize my business plan, obtain unlimited capital, destroy my board, acquire my clients and form an impenetrable lobby to create a monopoly. What’s to analyze? I think it’s pretty clear, don’t you?”

  “There’s more to it than that. You’re honest and he isn’t. You’ve got morals and he doesn’t.”

  I throw my arms in the air. “And where does that get us?”

  “Look, Maddy…you have a critical mass of expertise in the funeral industry that Derek doesn’t have. He may be efficient but you’re effective. You want to know why Lights Out is in remission? Because you never applied your true strengths to the business.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you need to deal with your grief.”

  “My grief ?” I ask, surprised and baffled.

  “You never accepted the death of Uncle Sam…or your friend Tara…or your cousin Smitty…or Mr. Haggerty for that matter.”

  My eyes well up with tears. I know he’s hit a raw nerve of truth. “What makes you an expert on grief ?”

  “I’ve had my share of it,” he says. I want to know what lies beneath those words, but he swiftly moves the conversation back to me. “Look, Maddy. You need to go away, get out of town, go into the woods somewhere where there are no computers, no phones, no Financial Street Journal, no newspapers at all.”

  “What if there’s a terrorist attack?”

  “I’ll call you…. But you need to find yourself again. You need to unclog your heart.”

  “But I need to work,” I protest.

  “You’re not meant to work. You’re meant to listen.”

  His words strike me because the tone in his voice suddenly shifts, as if it is someone else’s voice, not his. His words seem a message channeled through him to me from some other entity, perhaps God, or Uncle Sam.

  “Okay. I’ll go,” I say. “But what will I do with myself ?”

  “Just be,” he says gently.

  “What happens when I’m done being?”

  “We’ll find out when you get there. I’m the keeper of the faith, remember?”

  “Faith? How am I supposed to trust that? And what is it anyway?”

  “That’s not a question to ask. ‘Faith requires no proof.’”

  “Did you trademark that line?”

  “Dostoyevsky did…and faith, by the way, is believing without questioning.”

  “Believing in what?”

  “That’s for you to figure out. No one said it wasn’t demanding.” He smiles and looks at my untouched tea. “I’m beginning to think you don’t really like tea
.”

  “Yeah, you know, it’s never really been my…cup of tea. But the idea of it is soothing. Sorry. So, um, what about the business?”

  “Well, as one of your remaining advisory board members, I advise you to drop me a line and let me know how you’re doing.”

  “What about Eve?”

  “I’ll handle that. I’ll make sure she gets her credit and I’ll see if she wants to stay on board one day a week to wrap things up. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding. “Then I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “Yes,” says Victor.

  And before he walks out the door, he adds, “See ya later, Maddy.”

  Critical Success Factors: Diving into Grief

  As dawn arrives, so, too, does my internal alarm clock. I practice my reclining meditation, and then by rote, reach for my daily action-plan page. But this time, I think twice, rip it up and get out of bed.

  I address Uncle Sam in the Ziploc bag. “What would you do?” I wait a minute, and then nod. “Got it, thanks,” I say.

  Two hours later, I’m standing at the bottom of Mount Wilson in the San Gabriel Mountains near Pasadena in hiking attire. I stare up at the Observatory Tower, 6,171 feet above me, and announce, “Well, as Uncle Sam would say, ‘Nothing like a good ascent to clear the cobwebs of the heart and mind.’” I take a deep breath and start climbing, focusing on one step at a time, forcing myself to hike at a slow pace so I can take in the scenery and foliage. That attempt soon fails as I find myself mumbling out loud and quickening my pace. “Go into the woods, he says. Go cold turkey on the FSJ, he says. Find yourself, he says. How do you find yourself ? After all, I am where I’m at. Right? And how do you deal with grief ? Just go be, he says. Doesn’t being still require doing? After all, to be is a verb that means some sort of action is taking place….”

  When I finally look up I realize I’m more than halfway up the mountain.

  “Okay, take this in, Maddy,” I tell myself. I scan the beautiful horizon and suck in the fresh mountain air. I’m about to continue when I hear a soft whimpering noise. I look around and under a cavelike rock formation is a skinny, mangy black puppy. The crying puppy awkwardly hops out from under the rock toward me.