The Funeral Planner (15 page)

I nervously clear my throat, almost afraid to ask because of the answer I might hear. “Um, Dad. When did Uncle Sam prearrange everything?” If the answer is, after I shared my initial concept with him, or even after he agreed to do the prototype, I think I’ll puke. It would be as if I were responsible for bringing this on through the birth of Lights Out. If the answer is, before all that, then it’s okay, I think. And it would make sense why he understood my idea so well from the start. It would clarify that Uncle Sam was indeed a visionary. I shudder, waiting for the answer.

“Uncle Sam took care of this over five years ago,” says Eleanor. “He asked me to help pick out the urn. I told him it was silly, but he insisted. He wasn’t afraid to prepare for his passing. Maybe that’s why he lived so well.”

I sigh, relieved at least on that account.

“There is one more paragraph that he recently added,” says Charlie. “He specifically bequeaths an additional five thousand dollars to Maddy with regard to their “special project.” He writes, ‘She’ll know what to do to make sure I’m remembered in an authentic way for who I am.’ One of his wishes is that a recording of ‘Fishing Free’ by Maurice LeSarde be played at his funeral. He, uh, writes that if anyone can find a recording of it, Maddy can.”

“That’s strange,” says Daniel. “Maddy doesn’t know anything about music.”

“Singing off-key counts for something, doesn’t it?” Rebecca smiles. Everyone chuckles, grateful for a moment of levity.

“Just cuz I can’t keep a tune doesn’t mean I can’t find a recording,” I say, up for the challenge. If nothing else, it will give me something to do, anything to avoid the grief and keep my mind far from the reality before me.

“Who’s leading the service?” asks Daniel.

“Rabbi Levin,” says Eleanor. “He’s very good.”

“Did he know Uncle Sam?” I ask.

“No. But Rabbi Levin will be coming here tomorrow to meet with all of us and talk about him.”

The doorbell rings again.

“I’ll get it this time,” I say. I reach the front door and open it to find Sierra standing there with welled-up tears in her eyes and a large Ziploc bag of something or other.

“Oh, Maddy,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

My composure starts to give way to vulnerability, but then a gush of cold bitter wind hits me in the face. I take a deep breath to contain the grief.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asks.

I think for a minute, trying to sift through the fog in my mind. “Yes, yes. Can you take me to the funeral home? I want to see him.”

“Of course.”

I glance at the Ziploc bag. “What’s that?”

“Homemade chocolate chip cookies for your family. Comfort food.”

“Thanks,” I say, touched by her gesture. “Mind if we bring them with us? I could use the caffeine and endorphin kick.”

Sierra flips the heat on high in her black Jeep Liberty as I shiver in the front seat beside her.

“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. You 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.”