The Funeral Planner

by Lynn Isenberg

  “Before you make assumptions, like you tend to do—”

  “Whatever idle threats you have to say, keep them to yourself.”

  “Listen to me, Maddy. Derek’s in tight with the cats in D.C. He can shut you down in a heartbeat because you’re in violation of the new Funeral Rule and—”

  “And what? Our little blogship has no affiliation with any funeral homes. Furthermore, we work on a donation basis only. We don’t provide a service nor produce one. We only offer ideas to help others facilitate their own life celebrations. We’re simply an information provider, Jonny. Therefore we’re exempt from the new Funeral Rule. Tell Derek to take that to his attorney!”

  Richard, Grace Pintock and the rest of the participants watch me give Jonny Bright the verbal boot.

  Richard saunters up to Jonny with a John Wayne swagger and a menacing frown. He stands right over him, his face and posture stern. He says,“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. A man who hides behind a silly costume is no man at all.”

  Without another word Jonny sheepishly gets in his car and drives off. Siddhartha barks after him, dutifully protecting the bar, the workshoppers and me. I collect myself and return inside.

  Grace quietly approaches. “What was that all about, Maddy?”

  “That…that’s what you call corporate espionage, an occupational hazardous by-product of big business where some competitors will stop at nothing.”

  “My goodness,” says Grace. “I had no idea. Is that in all businesses? Even the mortgage business?”

  “Across the board and around the globe,” I say flatly. “Most wars these days are waged on corporate battlefields.”

  On the last night of the workshop when all is said and done, Grace and I sit on the bar stools talking before the bar opens to the public.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” says Grace. “This workshop has given me a whole new outlook on life and a way for me to continue loving Tara in a healthy way.”

  “I’m so glad, Grace. By the way, is it okay to ask—how’s Arthur?”

  “We don’t talk much. He seems to be moving on with his life. I did send him a copy of your pamphlet because it’s time we go through Tara’s closet. In fact, I’d like to plan a memorial for her, Lights Out style. Can I write up some ideas and come back to talk to you about it?”

  “Of course, Grace. Come in anytime.”

  “Thank you. But I don’t want to be sad anymore tonight, Maddy. I’d like to buy you a drink. How about the Guy Special or Uncle Sam’s Favorite?”

  I glance at the chalkboard on the wall that is now labeled with drinks in memory of loved ones who frequented the bar or are related to those that do. The list includes Joe’s Choice, Glenn’s Pitch, Jet’s Last Run and Tara’s Song. “I’ll have Jet’s Last Run, lemonade with a shot of iced tea.

  Thanks.” I start to get up, but Richard winks at me from behind the bar.

  “I got it, you sit,” he says, and starts fixing me the drink.

  From the television that hangs above the bar, CNBN’s signature music carries over to the group of us sitting on bar stools. I glance up, only to see Derek Rogers sitting smugly in front of the camera on James Malek Live. The caption beneath him reads “The Heartache Handbook for Tributes in a Box.”

  I feel my pupils dilate and my mouth drop open. “Oh, no, not again!” Richard and Grace and the other workshoppers react and glance up at the screen.

  James begins,“We’re here with Derek Rogers, wunderkind of Palette Enterprises and now CEO of Tribute in a Box where he’s working the same magic.” James shifts his attention to Derek. “You turned Palette Enterprises into a gold mine and now you’re doing the same in the funeral industry with a chain of mortuaries and funeral homes called Tribute in a Box. Before we get to the book, tell us about these expansion plans you’re about to unveil.”

  “Well, as you know, James, we have over one thousand funeral homes across the country. But now we’re in the process of expanding our business tenfold by acquiring an extraordinary number of international, publicly traded and privately owned funeral homes to become the largest conglomerate of mortuaries and funeral homes in the world.”

  “This has to be an incredibly costly venture.”

  “Yes, it is, to the tune of two hundred million dollars.” James shakes his head. “Tell me, how do you put together that kind of money?”

  “Well, James, we have deals in place with several Fortune 500 companies seeking sound investments for the future, as well as stable mortgage companies like Pintock International who are key to these deals in terms of national and international real estate.”

  I sit there, stinging in sudden pain, from the implications on-screen.

  Grace gently holds my hand. “Maddy, he must not know. That’s just not Arthur’s style.”

  “And now you have a book with a major publisher, coming to bookstores nationwide, called The Heartache Handbook for Tributes in a Box. I understand this book teaches people how to deal with grief and how to create nontraditional ceremonies that depict the life of the deceased in a celebratory manner. In fact, you even talk about how to get your favorite musician to appear at your funeral for a song or two. For someone who is known to practice an imperialist style of management this is a very heartfelt book. So tell us, Derek, where did you get the idea for it?”

  “Well, it was a natural tie-in for our funeral homes, so of course we will be selling them there, as well, but more importantly, James, the book is designed to really help people overcome grief and make a statement about the lives they’ve lived. It’s about creating new ways of honoring our memories.”

  “You have chapters on how to confront the closet of a loved one who’s passed on, as well as a step-by-step plan for your own funeral. I guess that’s a kind of do-it-yourself tribute.”

  “That’s right, James. We discovered that by planning in advance for your time of need you actually re-energize your current life.”

  “And apparently, with this kind of pre-need planning, you’ve invented a road map for making it a worthwhile investment so it pays for itself when the time of need comes. Is that right?”

  “That’s right, James. Tribute in a Box provides pre-need investment planning for all of our clients within the guidelines of the FTC’s new Funeral Rule. It’s really a win-win for everyone—the client, their survivors and us.”

  “Hey, he’s flat-out copycatting you guys,” howls one of the workshop participants.

  “What are you going to do, Richard?” asks Grace.

  Richard just stares at the television.

  James Malek wraps up the interview. “Thank you, Derek. Join us tomorrow to…”

  Richard clicks off the TV. He looks as numb as I feel, but not too numb to pull a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. “First, I’m going to have an Uncle Sam’s Favorite, before I get really mad. Maddy?”

  I take a moment to contain my burgeoning anger, then reply void of emotion, “I’m going to meet him on the battlefield.” I stare at the blank screen. “And he’ll never know what hit him.” I turn to Richard. “Can you look after Sid? I’m going to New York first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Risk & Mitigation: The Stakes Keep Rising

  Sierra maneuvers her truck through a mixture of mild rain and congested traffic, following the signs to the Detroit airport. I sit next to her, dressed up in my one really great outfit, picked out by Eve Gardner and paid for by Uncle Sam.

  “Are you ready for this?” asks Sierra.

  “I’ve been up all night preparing. But don’t worry, my second wind never fails to appear when needed.”

  Sierra glances at me. “Well, you look great. Very hot for 7:00 a.m. Did you get all the paperwork from your lawyer in L.A.?”

  “Yep. I’ve got the copyright from the Writers Guild and the Library of Congress, the trademark paperwork, original Lights Out business plan and DVDs.”

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  “No. I’m good to go, thanks. The digital r
ights management company is in New York so I’ll pick up that paperwork there. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, there’s my drop-off.”

  Sierra pulls over to the curb. “Good luck, Maddy.”

  “Thanks, Sierra.” I hop out of her truck with one carryon bag. Before I board the plane, though, it’s time to reinstate a ritual. I proudly pick up a copy of the Financial Street Journal. I touch it fondly. I bring the headlines to my face and inhale the scent of black ink. I look at the words and proudly announce, “Hello, FSJ. I’m back.”

  Back in Tara’s Ann Arbor town house, Arthur Pintock makes his move to open the closet of his deceased daughter. Gripped tightly in his hand is the pamphlet that his estranged wife Grace sent him. Neither Arthur nor Grace had taken steps to empty the town house in order to rent it or sell it. Surrounded now by empty boxes, Arthur stands alone beset by Tara’s clothes, books, computer, notes, jewelry, shoes, photos, linens, electric piano, microphone…all the articles and possessions of his precious daughter’s life.

  He stops to sit on the edge of her bed, collect his psychic energy and refer once again to the minichapter on confronting the closet of a loved one. Arthur realizes he should be doing this with Grace. And that she is the only one he could possibly do it with. But it’s too late for that now, he thinks.

  He takes a deep breath and removes one of Tara’s business suits, but then a box on the floor of the closet catches his eye: “Original Songs by Tara Pintock.” He opens the box. It’s filled with computer disks in protective cases neatly labeled and dated. He sifts through them, smiling at the humor in some of her titles. Then he sees a CD case labeled “He’s Got Black Dye Under His Fingernails.” Arthur tilts his head. The title is familiar. Didn’t Madison Banks use that phrase the last time they had dinner together? Curious, he pops the disk into Tara’s CD player on her nightstand. The song plays. Arthur listens as Tara sings a detailed tabloid-esque tale of a shyster named Derek who swindles his classmates and a college town for a prize he didn’t deserve. The song depicts how the deceiver poured black dye into his competitor’s laundry service business to win, thereby turning Tuesdays in Ann Arbor black forever. The chorus repeats, “He’s got black dye under his fingernails.”

  Arthur listens to the song a second time. Then he pulls his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and hits a number. The automatic dial rings through to one of his associates.

  “Jake? Arthur. You know that young man Derek Rogers I told you to help find a lender for. I want you to stall on closing his deal. There may be some risks involved that we don’t yet know about. Right. I’ll get back to you.” He hangs up and hits another number. “Anita. Get hold of George Toffler at the Financial Street Journal. Tell him I’ll give him an exclusive on my next move if he would do a little digging for me on Derek Rogers and the infamous Black Tuesdays of Ann Arbor. And one more thing, Anita. Find out for me where Madison Banks is these days.”

  In New York City I leave the offices of my digital rights management company and am soon entering the offices of Agam Publishing, the largest imprint of Panda House, the largest publishing company in the country, which is owned by Vertihore Media, one of the three largest media companies in the world, which also happens to own Ubiquitous Music.

  I approach the receptionist with a smile. “Hi, I’m Madison Banks. Lights Out Enterprises. What’s your name?”

  The receptionist cagily responds, “I’m Jennifer.”

  “Hi, Jennifer. I’m here to see the president of legal affairs. I don’t have an appointment but it is an urgent matter.”

  Jennifer responds by rote. “Mr. Darwen is not available right now.”

  “Is he in town today?”

  “Yes, but he’s on the phone. And he only takes meetings from three to five on Fridays. Today is Tuesday. So you’ll just have to wait like everyone else.”

  I continue smiling, having expected the brush-off. I hand Jennifer a legal-size manila envelope. “In that case, please tell Mr. Darwen it’s in his best interest to review the enclosed file immediately and that he can find me in the offices of Vertihore Media’s chief of legal affairs and corporate communications—that would be Mr. Aidelman, who is both your and Mr.Darwen’s ultimate boss—in—” I glance at my watch. It’s now 10:30 a.m. “—approximately two hours.” Then I pull out my PDA-cell phone-camera, which also captures video. I point and record Jennifer, the receptionist. “For my records, Jennifer, I just want to be clear that you are clear and understand the directions attached to the package that you now hold in your hands. So what will you do with it?”

  Suddenly, on camera, Jennifer takes a more cordial and accountable tone. She can tell I mean business. Her haughtiness falters.

  “I will notify Mr. Darwen that it’s in his best interest to, um, review the contents of this right away. That it’s urgent, and that you will be in Mr. Aidelman’s office at Vertihore Media, in, uh, two hours.”

  “Excellent, Jennifer. I do appreciate it.” I put the PDA-cell phone-camera in my purse and then pull out a small giftwrapped box and hand it to her. “Here’s a token of my thanks. It’s perfume. I hope you like it.”

  Jennifer looks baffled. “Thank you. I’ll make sure he gets this right away.”

  I leave Agam Publishing and step back onto the streets of New York where I hail a cab to Panda House. This time I get past the receptionist to the secretary, pull the same stunt as before and drop off a duplicate package to Ms. Hadley, head of legal affairs.

  On the street, I check my watch. I’m just ahead of schedule as I hop inside another cab for Vertihore Media. En route, I call Adam Berman on his direct line. As his phone rings, I whisper a prayer, “Please be there.”

  “Hello?”

  “Adam,” I say, relieved. “Madison Banks. Don’t know if you got my e-mail last night, but I need to call in that favor you offered months ago. Can you help me?”

  “With all the business we’ve done from adding Maurice LeSarde to our roster, name it.”

  I finish outlining my request to Adam as my cab pulls up to the Vertihore building in Times Square. I pay the driver and step out of the cab, only to be pushed around by a crowd gathered near the building next door. Unconcerned, I try to quickly slide past to the main doors of Vertihore. I maneuver through the crowd, uttering a continuous flow of excuse me’s.

  I collide into a spiffy, pressed Armani suit with a familiar scent. I’m about to say excuse me for the eighty-seventh time when I hear, “Maddy?”

  I turn. It’s Victor Winston. I swallow hard, forcing a grin. “Victor. Hi. You’re alive and well. Imagine that. So, um, how are you?”

  “I’m great. How are you?”

  “Great, just great.”

  “So you got my invitation?”

  “What invitation?”

  “I sent you e-mails and tried calling you weeks ago. So…you’re not in town for the grand opening?”

  “Grand opening?”

  He points to a mega-banner announcing the grand opening of Pearl Living Apartment-Lofts featuring Designer Tank’s Furniture for the Future.

  “The apartment-lofts,” he says. “Remember?”

  “You invited me to this? Did you say anything else?”

  “I thought you might like to see how the building turned out and say hello to Norm and Elizabeth.”

  I nervously check my watch. It’s 12:20 p.m. And the little hand is moving fast. I’ve got nine minutes to be in the office of Vertihore’s chief of legal affairs and corporate communications.

  Victor reprises his perspicacious once-over of me from when we first met. “You look really good, Maddy. No more black ribbon, I see.”

  “Oh, that. I haven’t worn that in months. Look, I really have to go.”

  “Months, huh…” he murmurs. “You can’t stay and celebrate?”

  I think there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice but I can’t be sure. My mind is elsewhere. Before I can answer, Alyssa Ryan appears, tugging on Victor’s arm.

  “Quick, Victor, Norm wants
a photo with the maddening crowd before we get on his private jet for lunch.” She glances at me and then…ignores me.

  Victor quietly yet firmly pulls his arm away from Alyssa. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says. He turns back to me.

  I smirk inside, knowing that an invitation to lunch was never part of the invitation to the opening for me.

  “We should talk, Maddy.”

  “About what? The money we lost, I lost, that I’m still trying to gain back for you, or the results you’re playing? Look, I really have to go. Goodbye, Victor.”

  “Wait a minute,” he says, stopping me. “You said ‘goodbye.’ Not ‘see ya later’?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t have a sixth sense,” I say, and start to brush past him.

  “Sixth sense? What does that mean?” Victor mumbles half to himself.

  “Like the movie. Means she doesn’t see dead people,” offers someone in the crowd.

  Within eight minutes, I’m sitting across the desk of Vertihore’s head of legal affairs and corporate communications, Sanford Aidelman. I lay out my paperwork with all of the facts, check my watch and then look straight at Aidelman. “You should be receiving calls from your head of legal affairs at Panda House and Agam Publishing any moment now. I would appreciate it if they hear this on a conference call.”

  At that moment, Aidelman’s intercom buzzes. “Mr. Darwen and Ms. Hadley are both on the line,” says the voice of his secretary.

  “I’ll take them both,” he says, staring at me with raised eyebrows. “Darwen, Hadley, welcome to the meeting. Ms. Banks here apparently has something very important for us to know about. Ms. Banks?”

  “Thank you for your attention. Mr. Aidelman, Ms. Hadley and Mr. Darwen, the truth is that Derek Rogers of Tribute in a Box stole the pamphlet from our pay-per-view blog to sell you his so-called handbook. You all have copies of the files I dropped off, which contain the trademark, copyright, digital rights watermark and encryption code for the pamphlet. It all proves that the DNA of Derek’s handbook was plagiarized from our pamphlet and is hence highly illegal. If you want further proof, compare the business plan of Lights Out Enterprises dated and launched six months prior to Tribute in a Box—also a case of plagiarism. But more importantly with respect to this publication, I can prove it right now with my do-it-yourself backup encryption code.”