The Funeral Planner (42 page)

The Eagle’s Nest remains the local bar at night, but transforms into our workshop headquarters during the day. During breaks, Richard and I serve drinks and food. The workshops become a hot spot where people get to know who they are and what they want as we guide them through grief, pseudodeath and how to create participative experiences.

I go all out in developing the workshops. I include a special speaker hour every night at the bar for both the workshop attendees and the locals. I have my mother Eleanor come to tell “Funeral Tales” and my father Charlie talk about the myths surrounding death across cultures. Sometimes Daniel appears to create and recite an on-the-spot memorial poem from audience members’ stories. And sometimes, Roy Vernon shows up and he and Daniel riff together on a customized poem, turning it into an improvised ballad.

At one point, I even bring in a famed financial adviser to discuss pre-need investment planning and how to make those dollars pay for your time of need and still leave a small fortune in your estate, or how to get quarterly dividends and interest from it, and even how to create a “syndicated pre-need investment group,” so it’s almost like a small town’s personal mutual fund. Soon I begin hearing how all financial planners are stressing the importance of pre-need arrangements of your tribute as a fundamental part of estate planning.

I invite Sierra to come and teach people how to make a life bio video. I follow this up with local artists, sculptors, photographers, weavers and so forth talking about what they can add to a life celebration to make it unique for each individual’s passing.

One evening, Eleanor says,“This is kind of like the stone soup of life-celebration-making, dear. Everyone pitches in something they can offer, and suddenly you’ve fed the whole town with something truly emotionally nurturing.”

“And it works because it’s authentic,” adds Charlie.

Word continues to spread through the blog and through local newspapers. People come from all over the world for our workshops and guest-lecture series. I even invite my artistic cousins from around the globe, including the llamawool weaver, the violinist and the modern dancer. Richard and I use the money generated by the sale of the online pamphlets to pay for the guest speakers. As for the workshops, we ask for money only on a donation basis and add that to the Funeral Fund, which we leverage to make more money through dollar-cost-averaging investment practices.

One night at the bar, Pete Gallagher approaches me. “My log cabin is all done and, well, I’d like to invite you over for dinner. How about it?”

I blush. “Okay, I’d like that,” I say. Richard catches on and orders me to take the night off and leave immediately. “But I need to check the blog and e-mails,” I retort.

“That can wait until tomorrow. Go. Have some fun.”

“Okay, I’ll just take my cell phone in case you need me.”

Ten miles down the road, I enter Pete’s now-completed log home on several acres of land. I am amazed at what Pete has managed to do with his own bare hands. Every log, every stone in the twenty-foot-high fireplace had been put in place by him. “This is incredible!” I announce. Siddhartha happily runs around.

“Thanks,” he replies, pouring me a glass of wine while he stokes a meal of Tex Mex-style chicken with a scrumptious aroma. “It just needs some help on the interior decorating. That’s where I kind of fall short.”

As I’m about to take a sip of my wine, my cell phone rings. I reach for it, only to discover the caller ID reads “Victor.” Under my breath I mutter, “Why now?”

Pete looks at me. “It’s that guy, right? I swear it’s always like that. One of the books I read said that’s to be expected. It’s kind of like a test to see if you can move on.”

“Well, I already did move on. And he no longer exists, therefore I can’t answer it.” I close my eyes and turn the phone off.

“Another book I read talked about that, too,” Pete informs me. “They call it denial. The author said pretending to move on is not the same thing as really moving on.”

“Yeah? Well, what about that phrase ‘fake it till you make it’?”

“Doesn’t count when it comes to breakups. At least according to twelve out of forty-two authors I read.”

“What do
you
think, Pete?” I ask him.

“I’m not sure,” he says, thinking it over.

“Well, why aren’t you in a relationship?”

“I’m not sure. I keep trying to figure it out.”

“Are you sure about anything?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I want a brick-red couch for the living room…but I’m not sure.”

I nod at him. “Well…I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, I’ve got about twenty-five books on decorating to read. What do you think? Brick red, forest green…or caramel brown?”

“Hmm. I think some sort of mushy gray might be more fitting.” I don’t know if Pete got the metaphor, but it was black-and-white to me that I no longer cared to find out.

I prepare for a small group of seven workshoppers at the bar. I am taking roll call and waiting for Richard to show up when I realize that Grace Pintock, Arthur’s estranged wife and Tara’s mother, has joined the group. Siddhartha seems to sense some sort of connection and stays close to Grace.

I privately approach her. “It’s so good to see you. How are you, Mrs. Pintock?”

“I’m getting along, Madison, getting along. You know, some days are functional and some days aren’t. But…call me Grace, will you, please,” she says, offering me a warm hug, and then she sits back down.

As I return to finishing the roll, a tall, chunky man in an oversize jacket enters the bar. He sports a thick gray beard, a low-hanging baseball hat and dark sunglasses, making it difficult to see his face.

“Hi, there,” I say. “Are you here for the workshop?”

The man nods. I check my paperwork and then look back at him. “You must be Alex Barber. Welcome.”

He shuffles a note over to me. The note reads “I’m a high school baseball coach from Cleveland, and unfortunately I’ve come down with laryngitis but this is the only week I could do this.”

“No problem, Alex,” I say. “Everybody, this is Alex. He’s got laryngitis so he won’t be able to give much feedback, at least verbal feedback. Alex, if you want to come back another time to get the full benefit out of this workshop just let me know.”

He nods thanks and sits down. “Do I know you?” I ask.

“You seem so familiar.” He emphatically shakes his head.

“Okay, well, let’s get started. Please open your pamphlets to page one. We’re going to teach all of you how to confront the closet of a loved one who’s passed on, how to create a loss timeline and how to plan your own funeral, because we’ve discovered that by planning in advance for your time of need you actually re-energize your own life. We’ll also show you how to make pre-need investment planning worthwhile. One of the wonderful experiences you’ll gain here is to create new ways of honoring our memories, both for others and for ourselves.”

During the lunch break, Grace turns to Alex. “Would you like some help ordering from the menu?” Alex nods. He seems so shy and yet so familiar. Grace also brings him some napkins. And it’s the napkins that give him away. I can’t help but notice when he nervously rubs his hands together on the napkins and then on his pants. Something’s not right. I get a twitch in my belly. I check the cars in the parking lot—no Ohio plates. I see Alex do the nervous napkin thing again and my stomach turns.

When Alex stands outside eating a burger by himself, I whisper a command to Siddhartha. Siddhartha runs over to Alex and jumps on him, and in the scuffle his baseball hat and sunglasses are knocked off, causing his beard to hang crooked. Siddhartha proudly holds the hat in her mouth. Alex attempts to regain his balance, but then his “stomach” falls from beneath his shirt, or rather, the padding does.

I realize I’m staring at Jonny Bright. My mouth drops. “I don’t believe it. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Now listen to me, Maddy, before you jump to any far-fetched conclusions—”

“Far-fetched conclusions? You sneak into my workshop in disguise and I’m the one who’s not supposed to jump to conclusions? Besides your quest for competitive intelligence knowing no boundaries…what is
wrong
with you?”

“Hey, you can’t discriminate against me! I have a right to come to this and I knew you wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t want you to be here? Gee, I wonder why. Read the fine print, Jonny. I have the right to turn anyone away. So shoo! You are not welcome here.”

“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.”