The Funeral Planner (9 page)

I touch the displays like a kid in Lego Land. The more expensive model clearly has the highest quality of combed cotton inside. All in all, they look like little toy coffins, shiny and rich in texture. I realize it’s kind of fun and weird to stroke the finish and tug on the drawers where one’s private items go, like medals, jewelry and cell phones.

“How does the pricing work in relation to the display?” I ask.

“Take a look at the wall,” he explains. “Which quarter casket looks most expensive?”

I point to the one in the upper left corner.

“And which one looks least expensive?”

I point to the one in the lower right corner.

“That’s retail 101,” he explains. “Designing displays around the psychology of perception. We’ve integrated it into the casket-buying experience by offering funeral homes these movable casket display centers and movable gift shop centers where customers can buy condolence cards, guest book registries and memory boards. We also include a line of books and pamphlets on grieving and bereavement. Over here—”

He guides me to the movable gift shop before leaving to accommodate another prospective client.

“Hello, Maddy.”

I turn. Sierra stands there in her reliable serene repose, bearing a sly smile. She cocks her head toward the displays. “Casket choosing by skin tone?”

“Very funny. But I believe skin tone has a tendency to fade when you, uh, go.”

“Perhaps, but I believe the EnLighten Thee Makeup booth next door will fix that in a jiff. So what have you surmised so far?”

“That it won’t be long before it’s common practice to buy a casket at your local Costco or Wal-Mart. Only to be followed up with a line of designer caskets at Target. Can’t you see it? Architects and designers like Frank Gehry and Philippe Starck designing caskets. And if you want to take it further, I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to imagine Michael Jordan designing a line of afterlife running shoes for Nike. Worn by the deceased when their metaphorically speaking ‘soles’ take flight. What do you think a shoe designed for encounters of the afterlife-kind might look like?”

Sierra cannot stop laughing.

“You know what you are, Maddy? You’re a futurist. I’m looking forward to seeing what happens when the future catches up with you.”

“But then, wouldn’t I be on to the next future?”

“Perhaps, but one day you’re actually going to stop and enjoy it, which would put you in the present. I hope I’m there for it.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see. Come on, let’s go build your enterprise.” She smiles.

We stumble upon a booth showing a series of CDs of original funeral scores.

I turn to her. “Know what I’m thinking? We make a strategic alliance with music production libraries and sound-effects libraries.”

“How do sound effects fit in?”

“Say someone loves thunderstorms and rain.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, like me. So maybe I want those sounds at the closing of the service as people leave the premises. Or we use them in the biographical videos. Clapping sounds as a transition between the chapters in someone’s life.”

Sierra nods. “Okay, I’m starting to get this.”

We pass a booth providing services for slide shows. One section features customized engraved casket lids, another displays fifteen varieties of leg hose. We share a look and smile. “Who’s going to see the hose?” We move on.

Another area boasts headrests embroidered with phrases promoting peaceful rest. I think of Daniel. Maybe this could be a lucrative market for poets, offering their talents to the bereaved with personalized tributes to the departed. Moving on, we notice companies selling embalming paraphernalia.

“Shall we explore this?” asks Sierra.

“Let’s skip this one if you don’t mind.” I discover my curiosity has its limits.

A company sells fabrics with beautiful wall-size tapestries hanging above caskets. A photo of the loved one is silkscreened onto a giant tapestry with overnight delivery guaranteed. I pocket a business card for future reference.

We find the heart of the organization that’s behind the event. Their association commands a wide booth providing valuable educational information to its twenty-one thousand members, funeral home directors, including the latest information about their lobbying efforts in Washington, D.C., a monthly magazine on current funeral-related topics, public relations tips, programs plus information on everything from mortuary sciences to new compliance laws affecting safe, legal and compassionate operations of funeral homes and ways to help their members enhance quality of service.

I collect packets of their information, facts and figures gathered by organizations like the U.S. Census Bureau, the Cremation Association of North America and the Casket & Funeral Supply Association of America.

I turn to Sierra. “Think you’ve got enough visual stimuli here to come up with a great logo?”

“Oh, I’m buzzing with ideas…for the logo and the Web site.”

“I can’t wait, but we’ve got to hit the workshops now.”

“Shall we divide and conquer?” asks Sierra.

“Good idea.” I open my program and point. “Which one do you want?”

Sierra reads the options aloud. “‘Business Transformation Trends,’ ‘Strategies for Independent Funeral Homes,’ ‘Civil Celebrants versus Traditional Clergy,’ ‘Everyday Ethics & Etiquette,’ ‘The Pre-Need Market,’ and ‘The Psychology of a Funeral.’ I’ll take ‘Psychology of a Funeral.’”

“I’ll skip between the ‘Civil Celebrants’ lecture and ‘The Pre-Need Market.’ See you back in the room at eighteen hundred hours.” I smile.

“Aye, aye.” She gives me a wink.

I slip in and out of workshops the rest of the afternoon, fascinated to learn about the growing number of “Civil Celebrants,” a fairly new profession in the funeral field catering to clients without religious ties who want to ritualize the death of a loved one by hiring
not
your everyday clergy, but civil celebrants to conduct the rituals. Civil celebrants can be anyone from your local grocery store clerk to your neighborhood photographer to your personal trainer to your therapist.

I skip to the next workshop to learn more about the growing discussion on “pre-need” versus “time of need” markets. More funeral homes are using outside vendors to help with more complex funeral arrangements. I’m right on target.

Back to the room, I decide. I’m laden with brochures and pamphlets. The muscles in my arms have formed into complicated knots. Thoughts of Seth creep into my mind. One thing he excelled at was the soothing of twisted muscles. I miss his touch. I could call, but what for? We were not a good fit.

I take new action inside the hotel room and luxuriate inside a big bubble-filled hot tub. I leaf through the brochures to digest the information of the day. Sierra enters the room unloading her own accumulated handouts.

She eyes me enveloped in gyrating bubbles. “Now that looks relaxing,” she says. “Would it be presumptuous of me to join you?”

“Only if you fail to bring a washcloth.”

“Done deal,” she replies, plucking a washcloth off the towel rack and tossing it to me. She removes her clothes and slips inside the tub, releasing a sigh of relief. “Ah…the joy of the bath.” She smiles. “So, what exactly is a civil celebrant? Sounds like someone stuck in 1865 on the side of the Union.”

“You’re ice cold.”

“Then it sounds like a Miss Manners course on how to celebrate with civility.”

“Getting warmer.”

“Well, how about I wash your back while you enlighten me?”

“You’re on.” I turn and she glides a warm, wet, soapy washcloth across my back.

“You’ve got great skin. It hasn’t changed at all, so silky and smooth—but these knots!”

I moan as Sierra kneads one out. “Wow. That feels great.” And I actually relax for a moment. “What about you? Any revelations on the psychology of the funeral?”

“Plenty. Did you know an obituary is really a plea for help? A plea from the survivors to the community to be there and support their transition.”

“I thought it was the deceased who was transiting.”

“Nope. The result of their departure leaves the survivors to figure out a whole new social order. Funerals help survivors reconstruct a new social order inside their families and the community.”

“I never thought of it that way.” I turn around. “Here, let me do your back now.” I take the washcloth from her.

Sierra releases a small noise of appreciation. I get the signal and drop the cloth to knead her muscles. “Hmm. That’s the airplane ride, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replies. “So are you seeing anyone right now?”

“Was…but I’m playing the results.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, as if reading my mind. “The right person will fit naturally into your plans. And if it’s any consolation, I think you’re very hot, Madison Banks.”

Her comment mollifies me. “Thanks, Sierra. Are you seeing anyone?”

“I lived with a woman but it didn’t work. Lately, I’ve been dating men again.”

“Anyone special?”

“Well…there is this one guy…Milton.”

“Milton?”

“Yeah. What do you think? Could I marry a guy with the name Milton?”

“I would be suspect, unless he pleases you to no end.” I smile.

“Not there yet… I’m taking it slow. But he does make me laugh.”

“That’s huge. Seth and I didn’t laugh enough,” I reflect.

“I’ll make you laugh.” A mischievous twinkle appears in her eye as she suddenly splashes water in my face. I reflexively splash back. A miniwater fight ensues.

“Okay, okay, you win,” I say, my mouth filled with water and laughter.

We laugh some more and sink inside the water to rinse ourselves off.

Sierra gently runs her hand through wet hair. “It’s pretty interesting, isn’t it?” she asks rhetorically. “That the funeral, aside from being a socially acceptable place to weep and mourn in public, provides the last chance to learn.”

“Learn what?” I ask, reaching for a towel.

“That the dead are really dead.”

I freeze.

Sierra turns around. “What is it, Maddy?”

“I don’t want the dead to be dead,” I whisper.

She holds me in her arms. “Oh, Maddy…you know if it wasn’t for Tara’s death we wouldn’t be sitting in a hot tub in the heart of Las Vegas right now.”

“No, I don’t imagine we would be.”

“If Tara were here, what would she think?”

“She wouldn’t be thinking at all. She would be out dancing.”

“Then let’s go dancing, Mad. For Tara. Let’s keep her alive.”

Couples and singles weave around the dance floor to a loud techno beat. Sierra’s hair is down and wild, and she moves with fluidity and grace, hips shifting to the rhythm of the music as if the vibrations emanate from her bones, not the speakers.

I, on the other hand, can’t hold a beat to save my life. My hips swing out in fierce gestures. I shake my head and roll my shoulders with pronounced vigor. I catch myself in the mirror fumbling to the beat, arms awkwardly gyrating, legs swinging out as if trying to land on undiscovered planets in the solar system. I watch Sierra’s liquid-smooth moves. I stop dancing, shaking my head in defeat.

Sierra glides over. “What’s wrong?”

“I suck. What happened to me? I used to win every single dance contest growing up. Now I can’t even find the beat.”

“That’s because you’re out of touch with the rhythm of life, from working too hard,” says Sierra, through the din of the drums. “Keep your feet on the ground at all times,” she instructs. “And switch your center of gravity from one hip to the other. Like this.”

Her body moves fluidly. I attempt to duplicate her motions but to no avail. “I think I’m missing some vital hip coordination,” I say.

“I can cure that,” Sierra offers. Undeterred, she places my hands on the back of her hips. “Feel it and follow along.”

I face her back, trying to own the beat. She patiently presses my hands on her hips, maintaining a slow, methodical pace until I start to catch on. In minutes, I’m moving to the music, mastering it.

Sierra leans close to my ear. “You want to take a break and get some water?”

I keep moving and shake my head. “Can’t stop now. I may never get it back.”

“I see.” Sierra smiles. “Did you stop to think it might be like riding a bike?”

I shake my head again, still moving to the beat. “Oh, no. This is much harder.”

“Okay, marathon woman. I’ll get us both some water.” She smiles.

Sierra heads toward the bar. A couple of guys approach her like magnets. Meanwhile, I keep moving, wondering yet again how long I can feed my ambition to pursue my goals in order to reach the life I think I ought to be living.