The Funeral Planner (26 page)

I remember when our class had the same challenge and I started White Mondays. “What business are you starting?”

“I have no clue. So I might drop out.”

“I do. Be a fashion therapist. You already have one client, me.”

She grins. “Really? What do I do?”

I roll my eyes. “Eve, haven’t you been paying attention?” She shakes her head. For the rest of the day, I lecture her, adding more mission statements and executive summary homework to her endeavor.

My preliminary meeting with the fifty-seven-year-old Hector Thornton takes place at his headquarters in New Haven, Connecticut. We sit on cushy forest-green couches in his office drinking tea. I’m in my new Eve-packaged outfit, pretending to be a secret agent absorbing as many clues as possible from his environment. Numerous scientific awards and degrees decorate the walls. The rug is forest green. The paperweight is forest green. Even the coasters are forest green. I take copious notes.

“My goal is to cure the common cold,” he tells me. “Trials on our new drug have been quite promising. I predict we’re less than five years away.”

“That’s great. How long have you been working on it?”

“Twenty-three years. I started out as a lab technician, got my PhD from Yale in genetic biology and formed Thornton Pharmaceuticals.”

“Do you drink, Mr. Thornton?”

“Well, I do love a good martini.”

I write that down. “Do you have any hobbies?”

“Botany.”

I write that down. “Favorite song?”

“I don’t like music.”

“Where do you go for vacations?”

“I like to take my children to arboretums around the world and teach them about plants. You can learn an awful lot about the world from plants.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Well, their circadian rhythms for one thing, and their adaptability to the world around them.” He pauses. “I believe there’s a reason for the phrase ‘the tree of knowledge.’”

I stare at him, thinking. “Would you be willing to taperecord your thoughts on this?”

“Yes, I think I can do that.”

“Great. I’m going to send you a high-quality tape recorder to get started. And if you could fill out this questionnaire for me that would be great, and then we’ll start on the life bio video.”

Mr. Thornton accompanies me to a limousine waiting curbside to take me to his private jet. He shakes my hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Madison. I feel good about this, almost like I’m in control of my afterlife.”

I glide into the limousine and smile. “That’s exactly the point, Mr. Thornton.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing your proposal and budget next week.”

“Next week,” I say. The limo takes off.

I study my notes from the meeting and begin a plan. I’ll propose the funeral take place in a forest or arboretum. If he wants a funeral home, I’ll suggest having a large hi-def video screen show the life of plants and trees with time-lapse photography. I’m sure I can get that from
National Geographic.
And of course, I’ll suggest martinis served in test tubes. Everyone can receive a forest-green lab coat with Thornton Pharmaceuticals’ name embroidered on it. There will be no music, only the amplified sounds of nature, and an audio recording of Thornton’s personal views on the lessons to be gleaned from the life of plants and trees. If he’s ambitious, I’ll suggest we package the audio tapes and distribute them either for free through his Web site or in arboretums around the world with proceeds going toward the cure for the common cold.

My thoughts are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. “This is Madison Banks.”

“Aunt Maddy! I did it! They’re watching it right now,” Andy fervently whispers.

“They are? How did you set it up?”

“I told them that for my birthday I wanted to watch the movie
The Kid,
ya know, the movie where Bruce Willis meets up with the kid he used to be.”

“Yeah…”

“Well…I told Mom and Dad I wanted both of them to watch the movie with me at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, like you told me to do.”

“And?”

“And then I switched the tapes, just like you said,” says Andy softly.

“So they’re all watching it now?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I told them I had to go to the bathroom—so I could call you.”

“What happened when they realized it wasn’t
The Kid?
”

“Grandma said it must be one of those life bio videos you were working on. I told them I wanted to see some of it. And Grandma, Grandpa and Mom wanted to see some of it, too. Then they figured out it was about the death of a marriage and now they’re all glued to the tube,” he says, still keeping his voice hushed.

“Your dad, too?”

“Riv-e-ted…gotta go. I’ll make contact later,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Over and out.”

“Over and out,” I whisper back, hoping Daniel and Rebecca find a way to value their union again.

I pull out my trusty
FSJ
from my briefcase. I scan the headlines and skip to the Market section. There’s a small article about Derek Rogers.

“Now what?” I say to myself.

The article states that Derek Rogers, CEO of Palette Enterprises, has resigned to pursue other interests. Mr. Rogers tells
FSJ
that his success in leading Palette Enterprises to its meteoric rise now leaves him challenged to take on new opportunities. He leaves Palette with substantial stock options and an exit bonus of five million in cash. I predict Palette’s stock will fall in a matter of weeks. The article goes on about who will succeed Derek. I look at the printed words, turn the page and whisper,“I’m not going to wonder what you’re up to next, Mr. Rogers, not anymore.”

I jet-set from New Haven to Houston for my meeting with Roger Lincoln of Green Power Corporation. Roger’s office is lined with books on every subject you can think of, a private library of over ten thousand books. He’s five-six, stocky and well-dressed in his early fifties.

I pull out my steno pad for notes while Roger fixes me a cup of hot tea. I discover that he collects signed first editions of American literature and has a penchant for historical novels about Vikings.

“Oh, I love to read,” he tells me. “I find it incredibly helpful for business, too.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

“When authors write about their regions, I learn about their customs. It actually helps when I travel for business. Like in the South, they ask a lot about your family before they close a deal. In New York, they’re slick as oil, and the faster they talk, the less they know. In the Midwest, they’re straight and real. How do you like your tea?”

“Black is fine. Thanks. Do you have a favorite author?”

“Lynne Sharon Schwartz. She wrote
Disturbances in the Field.
A classic, if you ask me—should be mandatory reading for college literature courses.”

He hands me my tea. “Thank you. Do you write, too?”

“I dabble in poetry. I love Robert Frost. ‘Stopping by the Woods’ is priceless. And Sylvia Plath, she was a genius. The new young poets are quite incredible, too.”

I stop writing. “Roger, I’ve got an idea. What do you think of having a poetry slam of your favorite poems?”

“That is brilliant!”

“How would you like it if I could get one of your favorite authors to read your eulogy?”

“That would be amazing!”

“I know you’re into the Vikings, so have you considered a Viking funeral?”

“What a great idea! I could have flaming arrows hit the sails of a wooden boat set to sea at dawn with me in it.”

“Yes, and you could have your favorite music playing at the same time. By the way, what is your favorite music?”

“Anything by Herbie Hancock. In fact, if you could get him to play live while the ship sets sail, I would resurrect myself for the event.”

“Just so you know, we’ll have to work out burial details for the “viking funeral” with your local funeral home. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with some paperwork and you can start selecting the poems you want read.”

Back in Los Angeles, I’m swamped preparing Lights Out for a funeral industry trade show. I leaf through stacks of mail and find a fancy invitation to the wedding of Norm Pearl and Elizabeth Thyme. “Good going, Norm.”

I mark it in my calendar, not surprised, given the looks Norm and Elizabeth shared at his “death and dying” dress rehearsal, yet I wonder how he found the balance of the buttons.

My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. The caller ID reads my parents’ house where Andy’s been for a few days. I answer. “Hey, Andy. What’s the outcome report?”

“That was a clever ruse you pulled, dear,” says Eleanor.

“Oh, hi, Mom. What ruse?” I ask, trying to cover my tracks.

“You know very well. Andy included me in on the plot—in which he was a superb actor, I might add. You realize that you’re a storyteller, don’t you, dear? Whether you like it or not.”

“How’s that, Mom? I thought I was an entrepreneur.”

“Your bio video on the life and death of a marriage is a story—a powerful one, by the way. Personally, I think those two will end up back together sooner rather than later. But stories are powerful teachers. You and Andy managed to wield that power. Rebecca’s decided to delay filing for a divorce.”

“We did? What happened?”

“Well, Daniel cried like he did at the bris. What’s new? And Rebecca, even though she wore her stoic look, was without question affected. Not one quip out of her during or after the video. So she’s holding off, for now. And Andy feels as though he’s won a Pyrrhic victory,” explains Eleanor.

“So that’s good. It gives Daniel more time to get his act together,” I say. “Does he suspect any behind-the-scenes coercion?”

“Not a clue,” says Eleanor. “And Andy’s sworn me to secrecy. I guess that makes me an accomplice.”

“How’s it feel?”

“Oh, super. I can’t wait until it’s over so I’ll have a great story to tell,” she laughs.

My doorbell rings. “Hang on, Mom, and tell me what you think,” I say, and hit the hold button. While I retrieve a large box from FedEx, I know Eleanor is listening to a humorously prerecorded “hold” message.

A light feminine voice says, “
While you’re acting out on the stage of life, do you ever wonder what people might say about you when the show’s over? You know, when the curtain drops? Well, you don’t have to wonder anymore. Lights Out lets you light up the way you want to be remembered…”

I pick up the phone. “What do you think?” I ask as I open a box stacked with pajama tops baring the name “Lights Out.”

Eleanor can’t stop laughing. “I love it, honey. I think you ought to give out those little novelty flashlights at the trade show with your company name on them.”

“That’s a good idea,” I reply. “Thanks!”

Competitive Landscape: The Past Reprised—

History Repeats Itself

T
he Funeral Trade Show in Las Vegas is filled with exhibitors displaying their wares. There are wall-to-wall items related to one’s time of need and the afterlife, and the room is jam-packed with owners and employees of funeral homes from across the country and its allied industries, as well.

My booth is in the low-rent district away from the main thoroughfare, a cost-conscious move on my part. A large banner boldly hangs above the booth baring the name Lights Out Enterprises. I did, however, give in to Sierra’s suggestions and display a forty-five-inch television monitor playing clips of the life bio videos in an ongoing loop, including scenes of Maurice LeSarde singing live at Uncle Sam’s tribute. Pajama tops and novelty flashlights with the name Lights Out on them are giveaway items. And on display is the customized gravestone by the renowned French sculptor Davide. It is an extraordinary patina sculpture of Uncle Sam fishing. The artist cleverly placed the fishing line’s hook and lure in a round empty watering hole where visitors can leave a memento. There’s also an attachable video monitor inside a matching patina sculpture in the shape of a fishing tackle box. When you open the tackle box, the life bio video automatically plays with sound. There’s also a button to push on the sculpted fishing lure that plays the melody to “Fishing Free.” At the base of the sculpture Uncle Sam’s name is engraved along with his dates and a small inscription that reads “It’s a beee-utiful day.”