Sally smiles at the group and sits down, visibly allowing a weight of regret to lift from her. Daniel signals our mother. Our mother looks at me. “I think Daniel’s ready.”
“Okay,” I say, still moved by Sally’s appearance. “Can you introduce him, Mom?” Eleanor nods and announces Daniel as the nephew of Sam Banks and a poet who has something to say about Guy based on everyone’s words and sentiments tonight.
Daniel stands next to the fireplace and reads a poem he’s just written. It is a masterful work of on-the-spot-interactive-collective-poem-making. Richard asks Daniel for a copy to hang in the bar. Sally asks him for a copy to put in her house. Mrs. Jones asks for a copy to frame in the library. And Roy Vernon asks for a copy to turn into a ballad in memory of Guy. Daniel is more than surprised by the reactions—remarkably his doom and gloom seems to subside.
Eleanor and Charlie share a knowing glance. “Our children are quite a credit to us, aren’t they, dear?” says Charlie.
“Yes, sweetie, they are,” replies Eleanor, turning to Daniel and me.
Charlie grins at her.
“I know.” She smiles.
Everyone mills about continuing to drink and memorialize Guy. A buzz grows through the crowd. They wish they had more funerals like this in town, and not the rip-offs they’ve been getting from Tribute in a Box. I overhear Donny, who runs the local symphony orchestra, tell Wally, “All the pallbearers are carrying one of these fancy Tribute in a Box caskets to the grave when the bottom drops out! And you know what hit the ground, besides the dead guy? Wadded-up newspaper!”
“Did ya hear about the TIAB branch in Kalamazoo? Cremated the wrong guy. Family sued for emotional damages. They never got to see the body and then found out the ashes were a scam, too. TIAB tried to squirm out of it, saying ‘not to view’ is not damaging, but guess what? The prosecution handed the jury TIAB’s literature about how viewing is ‘essential for grief wellness’ and they finally had to pay up.”
“How was Guy able to pay for this?” Mrs. Jones asks me.
“Well, technically, if there are no heirs or assets, then the state will cover approximately $947 in funeral costs. The rest of it Richard, Sally and I pitched in on.”
Rocky, the mailman, stands up on a bar stool and lifts his mug of beer. “Hey, everyone, I have an idea, let’s petition our congressman to stop the rip-offs from Tribute in a Box and make room for memorials that mean something, man.”
I hesitantly raise my hand. “Uh, excuse me, Rocky, well, actually, excuse me, everyone, but you can all start expressing your concerns and comments right now. I started a blog at www.lightsoutenterprises.blogspot.com. You can let everyone in town or anyone all over the world know what you think. It might help to get it off your chests and put it on the table—I mean, on the screen.”
“What’s the address again?” asks Mrs. Jones as she pulls a pen and paper out of her purse.
Rocky shouts, “Lightsoutenterprises.com! Great idea, Maddy!”
I take a moment to be alone outside. I watch the moonlight glisten over the serene lake water and I start to cry, sniffling over my own memories of Guy and how beautiful this tribute to him has been.
“Care for a cup of tea?” says a voice in the dark behind me.
I turn around, shocked to see Victor Winston standing in silhouette. “Victor! Hi…what are you doing here?!”
“You did write ‘come whenever,’ for that advisory board meeting regarding Lights Out, but I have to say, from the looks of it, you’re doing just fine.”
“I—I had no idea when you were coming. How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been lurking in the back since Lillian Jones got up to speak. I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m sorry about Guy. Sounds like he was truly beloved.”
I realize I had mistaken the shadow in the back of the room for Sally, when all along it was Victor.
“Was that your brother Daniel, the poet?” I nod. “He’s quite talented. And your mother’s quite an emcee. Now I know where you get it.”
“So you saw…pretty much everything.”
“Pretty much. And I saw you light up. I have to say, you can take the woman out of the sunshine, but you can’t take the sunshine out of the woman.”
I smile. No one’s referred to me as “sunshine” since Uncle Sam passed away. Siddhartha finds me outside, clearly looking to make sure I’m okay.
“This must be Sid,” says Victor, bending down to gently pet her and instantly endearing himself to her. “Hello, Sid. She’s sweet.”
“Yeah, sweet and mischievous at the same time. Siddhartha, say ‘hi five’ to Victor.” Siddhartha lifts her paw in the air. Victor smiles, and Sid licks his face.
“Siddhartha is her full name?”
“Yes. We’re on a journey together.”
“Any discoveries to report?”
“The joy of unconditional love for starters,” I say, giving Siddhartha a warm hug. “So how was your trip?”
“Good,” he says. “I checked into the Comfort Inn downtown.”
I had wondered about that—where he would stay if he came and if I should offer Uncle Sam’s place. I am relieved to hear that he didn’t make any assumptions.
The back door swings open and Sierra and Milton appear. Sierra immediately recognizes Victor.
“Victor. Hi. This is Milton. Milton, Victor. What brings you here?”
“I thought it was time for an advisory board meeting with Maddy. Are you still on the board? You’re welcome to join us.”
“It’s at the local bowling alley,” I add.
“Oh, darn, I’m going out of town,” says Sierra.
“You are?” asks Milton.
“Hmm…I forgot to tell you,” she says. “Maddy, it was a very meaningful evening. I’m proud of you. We’ve got to get back to Ann Arbor now.”
“Thanks for all your help.”
Sierra camouflages a whisper in my ear with a goodbye hug. “Let your fire shine.” She winks at me as they leave, then Eleanor appears.
“Maddy?”
“Mom, over here. I want you to meet someone.” Eleanor walks over to where we’re standing in the light. “Mom, this is Victor Winston. He’s the guy who seconded Uncle Sam on Lights Out. Victor, this is my mom.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’ve got quite a daughter.”
“Thank you, I know.” She looks him over. “Would you like a sandwich?”
“I’d love one.”
For the remainder of the evening, I introduce Victor to my family, to Richard Wright and to bar friends. Richard and I notice Wally offer to escort Sally home. We share a glance, one that humbly recognizes the ironies of how one event leads to another.
The next day, Victor meets me at Uncle Sam’s place. Victor plays Frisbee with Sid outside while I make lemonade. I bring two glasses out.
Victor takes a long sip, staring at the sailboats and jet skiers. “It’s beautiful out here. Kind of hard to imagine bowling indoors right about now. What do you say we postpone our meeting and take in the great outdoors of Michigan?”
“I’m game. What do you suggest?”
“Is there somewhere I can teach you the art of the Eskimo roll? It’s a powerful negotiating tactic when it comes to kayaking.”
“Yeah, and I know just the place. Follow me.” I drive us to the Canoe-Kayak Livery on the Huron River, where we rent two sea kayaks with skirts for flipping.
The river moves under a warm breeze. Victor kayaks away from shore and gallantly offers a demo.
“All you have to do is flick your hip to twist it over and then use your waist to swing you through to the surface.” I watch him maneuver the apparatus with a quick underwater sideways somersault, returning to the surface on the other side, his lean muscular body arching to bring him back to center gravity above the river’s surface. Glistening water drips from his biceps.
I give it a try. At first being upside down underwater freaks me out, but then, I’ve already died, so this is reall
y nothing. After several attempts and under Victor’s coaching prowess, I actually get it. Another first, I think to myself. Is it the teacher or the student? Or some willing, ready and able combination of the two?
We take some mild rapids and find ourselves invigorated by the challenge. I realize it is indeed a negotiation with immovable nature as I maneuver through jagged rocks and swirling eddies.
Later, as the sun sets on Clark Lake, Victor and I take Siddhartha for a walk along the water’s edge. I wear my Stansbury top hat, explaining to Victor the origins of my entrepreneurship. He smiles at my off-key attempt to sing. Siddhartha jumps for a reprise at a dance with me. Victor’s eyes flicker with affection. We decide to go to the bowling alley for our supposed meeting over burgers and ten pins.
Victor bowls a strike, as usual. I pick a ball and remember to keep my vision on the pins. I use the spot technique and the arrows and I roll a strike. I offer Victor a swagger and a smile.
“I see you found a cocky side to yourself during all that digging and excavating,” he laughs. “What else did you find, Maddy?”
“Self-acceptance. I’m just polishing it up right now.” I grin. “Watch yourself, for I shall soon be a glistening morass of confident energy.”
“I look forward to it.”
Carl brings us our burgers and we dive in. Then I venture the first business question. “Victor, do you think Lights Out will ever see the light of day again?”
“I do.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Faith.”
“So, have I missed anything in the Journal? I can’t help but hear the local reactions to Tribute in a Box—is there anything in the news on Derek Rogers?”
“If there was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I’d like to see where you go without his negative influence on you.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you where I want to go. I started a blog so people in town would have a place to put their anger about Derek’s monopoly. But more importantly, it’s a place for them to put their feelings about grief and a way to raise money for a Tribute Service Fund for those who can’t afford it. Everyone deserves basic rights in life. I think they deserve them in death, too.”
“So everyone deserves a tribute like the one Guy had?”
“Yes…because no one deserves to die anonymously. The more a society values their dead, the more they value their living. And because I wonder, are we all the millwright, Victor, or the poet?”
“Maybe we’re a little of both, Maddy.”
I shake my head and bite into my burger. “Please, no more conundrums.”
“Okay, as your adviser, what would you like me to advise?”
“Help me get advertisers for the blog so I have enough funds to run it.”
“That sounds like a request for action, not advice,” he says.
I stare at him. I feel a long-lost fire inside.
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll help get advertisers for your blog. Who knows? Maybe Norm Pearl and Arthur Pintock will go for it.”
I hold my beer up for him and we clink bottles. “Thanks,” I say. “Speaking of Norm Pearl, what do you know about the stars?”
“Very little, but I have a feeling I’m about to learn a lot more.”
The sky is black. The stars are out in full force. Victor and I lie on our backs inside the little Sunfish in the middle of Clark Lake, quietly drinking beer and stargazing. “Did you know that on a really dark night you can see a thousand stars?”
“Only a thousand, huh?” asks Victor.
“I guess that depends on your vision. Did you know farmers used the constellations to know when to plant? Kind of like a mnemonics game of survival and entertainment. Oh, I think I see Sirius. Also known as the Dog Star, part of Orion.” I draw the shape with my finger in the sky for him. “See it?”
“I see the rabbit on the moon.”
“Doesn’t count. If it’s not an established constellation, you have to make one up.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know we were playing the constellation game. In that case, you go first so I can get the hang of it.”
“Okay. I see…a giant eighteen-hole golf course in the sky.”
“Sure it’s not a thousand-hole golf course?”
“That depends on how many beers you have.” I giggle. “Your turn.”
“Okay, I see…Clark Lake…with a boat in the middle of it and…wait a minute, wow, that is incredible!”
“What?”
“I see a giant bowling ball…and ten pins. See?” He draws the ball and pins in the sky. Sure enough, there it is.
“Victor? Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I can’t drink more than two beers at a time without needing a restroom. And I’m on my third.”
“Copy that,” I say and stealthily sail us back in.
We’re greeted by Siddhartha, who carries a toy over to us. Victor hits the bathroom and then obliges her with a stint of tug-of-war.
“Would you like something else, Victor? I have water and I have Uncle Sam’s stash of whiskey.”
“Water’s good. But will you show me that famous fishing lure collection of his?”
“Do you fish?”
“Everyone fishes.” He smiles. “Just depends on what you’re fishing for.”
“Oh…really? And what do you fish for, Mr. Winston?” I ask as I lead him to the second bedroom that doubles as a fine-art fishing-lure museum collection.
“Well, let’s see. I fish for business opportunities. I fish for consumer opportunities. I fish for—”
“How about fish? Do you fish for fish?”
“I prefer fishing for restaurants that serve them.”
“Choosing the right lure depends on the object of your attention.” I open the door, revealing my uncle’s prize collection. Cases of fishing lures neatly organized, catalogued and identified by date, artist, quality and purpose. “There’s a lot of artistry and craftsmanship behind the art of the lure. For example, take a look at this lure, the Trout-a-Tooni, designed to lure only the most beautiful trout ever born—the queen trout, if you will.” I see I have Victor’s full attention.
“Yes, especially if one is fishing…for love,” he says, looking at me intently now.
I gaze back, feeling that this moment is one we’ve both been secretly moving toward. He takes me in his arms.
“Maddy, I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss you for a long time. May I?”
“I—I was hoping you would.”
He leans toward me while gently pulling me closer. His mouth touches mine, and we kiss, long and sensuously. He pulls back from me and says, “Now that’s a catch.”
I laugh. “You’re a catch yourself.”
He lifts me up and carries me to the bedroom. Our passion increases as our kisses intensify. It feels good to be so connected to the present. Then I feel myself start to squirm, holding back, as the photo of the mysterious woman in Victor’s office haunts the moment.
“Is everything okay?” asks Victor, gently removing my blouse.
Sierra’s words come forth in my mind. “Let your fire shine.” I don’t want this to end. My curiosity has waited this long. It can wait just a little while longer. I murmur,“Everything’s fine. You feel great, Victor. You feel great.”
“You, too,” he says, burying his face in the crook of my neck to kiss me again.
We make beautiful love, after which I privately rejoice in the awareness that for a while, my workaholic on-button has finally been turned off and a personal one activated instead. We cuddle in the aftermath.
“Are you all right?” he asks, gently stroking my face.
“Oh, yes, that was a beautiful merger.” I smile back at him.
“No barriers to entry?” he quips.
“Almost.”
He turns on his side to look directly at me. “Almost?”
“I, uh, I need to know something.”
“Then ask… I prom
ise to answer.”
“Who’s the woman in the photo with you, the one in your office? You seem so close to her—I mean, it looks like a lot of love there.”
Victor’s eyes glaze. For a moment he seems to stop breathing. It’s the only time I’ve seen him remotely trip up.
“That’s my sister.”
“You told me you didn’t have any sibling rivalries.”
“I don’t…because she died. Five years ago. In a car accident. Her name was Shoshanna. She was twenty-six.”
“I’m so sorry.” I gently stroke his chest and cheeks. “Were you close?”
“Very.”
We are both silent for a while. “Is that why you got involved in Lights Out?”
“No, not consciously at least…though I had experienced grief on that level…and her funeral service was an absolute injustice to her—but then, we were all in shock.”
“How are your parents?”
“My parents. My parents are still grieving. I don’t believe they’ll ever stop. It’s one thing to grieve, it’s another to allow it to debilitate you.”
“Sometimes grief triggers depression,” I inform him.
“Yes. It certainly can.” A hint of anger drips through his vocal cords.
“Sounds like you’re upset about that. Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, realizing the paraphrasing has become second nature now.
He falls on his back and sighs. “Sometimes, yes, I get upset. I think because my parents are so consumed by their grief, there’s no room for me. And I’m part of the living.”
“So you do have a sibling rivalry, Victor. It’s just a postmortem one.”
“You’re right.” He pauses.
“I’ve gotten better at listening.”
Another idea hits me. “Hey, Victor, what if you could redo the past? I mean, what if you prepared a tribute ceremony for your sister that really did justice to who she was? You know, the way Lights Out would do it. Do you think maybe a life celebration for her now would help bring some closure to your parents’ grief ?”
The Funeral Planner Page 28
