The Funeral Planner (4 page)

I stare at the casket and, unable to say goodbye, simply whisper, “See ya later, Tara.” Someone claps, then stops. Silence follows as I nervously return to my seat.

Tara’s father, renowned Arthur Pintock who runs the world’s largest international mortgage-lending business, stands up. He clears his throat. “Thank you, Madison. Thank you for honoring the life of my daughter.” He nods at the minister and sits back down, squeezing his wife’s hand in an act of solidarity.

The minister faces the crowd. “Thank you all for supporting the Pintock family in this time of need. Do remember to sign the guest book on your way to the reception line. God bless.”

Now that I’ve blown my cover, I duck through the crowd for a fast exit. But suddenly, Sharon, from my leadership development class, blocks me on my left. I squeeze to the right, but Marcus from my ethics and corporate governance class appears along with Lani, president of the Venture Capital Club.

“Maddy! You look amazing! How are you doing?” asks Sharon.

“Did you write that speech?” asks Marcus. “It was beautiful.”

Lani adds,“I’m sorry to see you here on this occasion, but you must tell us what you’re up to and what kind of business you’re in.”

“Oh, um, well, I’m in L.A. and it’s going great,” I say, dodging the questions.

My ethics professor appears, smiling at me. “Madison Banks.”

“Professor Osaka. How are you?”

“Great. I forgot you were in Los Angeles. That’s perfect.”

“It is?”

“Yes. I’m a visiting professor at UCLA. How would you like to do some mentoring for me? I’ve got some students who could really use your kind of influence. They can intern for you. You’ll enjoy it. I’ll send you the info.”

Before I can utter a word, Osaka shakes my hand. No wonder he had a Guinness-like world record for deal closing—it was done before you knew what hit you. But how would
Lynn Isenberg
he contact me without having my business card? Of course, at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the guest registry I had signed or Osaka’s superb research methodologies. Clasping my hand, he does note a lack of jewelry. “What? No ring? A catch like you?”

“I’m practicing risk management. Besides, you’re the one who taught me never to merge without the right value proposition,” I quickly reply.

An unmistakable voice, sardonic tone and all, pipes in, “Nice way to get to the dad, Mad.”

I turn to face my archenemy, the handsome, pretentiously charismatic Derek Rogers, as he cuts in to the reception line. I’m shocked he would be here. But of course he would—any opportunity to climb a corporate ladder and Derek Rogers is there. He would stop at nothing to find his success and do
whatever
it would take. The Tower of Babel had nothing on Derek Rogers. I’m mortified by the comment, remembering now why I lost respect for young, ambitious men, all because of Derek Rogers. But before I can counterpunch, he moves past me into the reception line to pay his respects to Arthur Pintock. I have no doubt that Derek Rogers will use this moment to insidiously work his way into Arthur’s professional life, no doubt at all.

Outside, I’m about to climb into my rental car when I hear the familiar, soft, sweet voice of Sierra D’Asanti, a beautiful Polynesian mulatto girl and old flame from my first year of entrepreneurial studies. I turn to face her. She’s beautiful and appears wiser and more mature than when we last saw each other seven years ago.

“Hey, Maddy…what you said about Tara was beautiful,” says Sierra. “You made her memory a gift and we all needed it.” She pauses, about to say something more but stops herself.

“Thanks,” I reply. “You don’t think I was out of line?”

“You’re never out of line. You’re Maddy.”

“Guess I should take that as a compliment.”

“Yes, you should.”

“I’m going to miss her.”

“I know…me, too.” Sierra offers a hug.

I hug back for the loss of Tara’s innocent life and for the grief I know I have yet to face. We break apart and she looks at me.

“I don’t know what you’re up to these days, but if you ever need my services, here’s my card,” she says, handing one over. “I’ve got a digital production studio and Web designing firm. You look…great, Maddy.” She pauses, and then turns and leaves.

I watch the beautiful Sierra walk off, her colorful scarf floating in a whipping wind as it trails behind her. I remember how tumultuous our relationship was and how Tara was always there to lighten our load. Tara, Tara, Tara. I realize that I am going to miss Tara more than I could possibly have known from my small dark closet in the heart of L.A.

Missions and Visions: The Genesis of an Entrepreneurial Idea

I
drive to my brother Daniel’s place on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, unable to stop fuming about impersonal funerals.

How many funerals employ ministers and rabbis and clergy who never even knew the deceased? How many people stop to think about how they want to be buried, let alone how they want to be remembered?

In an aging society where baby boomers dominate the demographics, I think I’m on to something. After all, the cost of a casket—who knows? The cost of a burial plot—not sure. The cost of the funeral experience itself—priceless. Like all businesses that sprout from the kernel of an idea, I know I just have to be patient and trust that it will reveal itself in time.

I park, but am considering the irony of the day—attending a funeral and bris hours apart. The former occasion represents the departure of a life, the latter the arrival of one. Both capture a full house. Hardened snow crunches under the weight of my steps. I’m still stomping frozen ice off my boots in the muddy foyer of the small, quaint Victorian when my mother, Eleanor, greets me.

“Maddy! How are you? Let me help you with your coat.” Without missing a beat, she asks,“How was the funeral, dear?”

“Can we talk about something else, Mom? Like, how was the bris?”

“A bris is a bris. One cuts, one cries,” she says with a singsong delivery. My mother’s a classical pianist, renowned as a woman of tremendous grace. “How would you like something to eat?”

Before I can answer, my debonair father, Charlie Banks, age sixty-two, and professor of mythology at the University of Michigan, arrives on the scene. “There she is! The redeye girl. You must be exhausted. Do you want a big fluffy pillow or a glass of merlot?”

“I’ll start with the merlot, thanks, Dad.”

“You must be hungry, though,” adds Eleanor. “I’ve got your favorite gourmet Neshama sausages.”

I lift a brow. “You’re serving sausages at a bris?”

“Well,
I
thought it was humorous. But Uncle Sam brought some bass, too. Can I get you some?”

“Uncle Sam is here?” My face brightens.

“He’s at the park building a toboggan run with Andy,” offers Charlie.

“Lucky Andy…where’re Daniel and Rebecca?”

Before anyone can answer, my younger brother Daniel, age twenty-eight, a published poet whose entire wardrobe consists of nothing but black Levi’s jeans and black T-shirts, saunters into the room holding his sleeping newborn son, Keating.

I walk over to my new nephew, cooing,“Wow. He’s so little and so cute!”

“Thanks, we think so, too. You missed Keating’s heroic display of exceptional strength and courage. Not a tear!” Daniel states proudly.

“I thought Mom said there was some cutting
and
crying.”

“The crying was on the part of the less-heroic father,” adds Rebecca, Daniel’s wife and high-school drama teacher. She’s simple and bright in her sweats, plaid flannel shirt and moccasins. “I’ve a good mind to put him in my students’ next play where theatrics are needed,” she adds, chuckling.

“Was I that bad?” inquires Daniel.

The entire group nods.

Rebecca laughs. “What marvelous timing! I should make you all part of the chorus!”

Laura Taylor strolls in and greets me with “Hey, cousin!” She’s holding a glass of pinot grigio in one hand and an inconspicuous digital camera in the other. “I have to come all the way to Michigan to see you! You look awesome.”

“So do you!” I reply, delighted to see her. Laura is a total inspiration for me. She knew nothing about business, yet through risk and determination capitalized on her acclaimed adult-entertainment writing career by transforming the experience into a novel and television series.

“Hey, come hither anon, quod ik, and bare thy teeth that I may capture your-e essence with my digital camera.”

I give Laura an odd look.

“I’ve been hanging around your poet brother all afternoon learning Chaucer—what do you expect?” she says as she snaps a shot.

“Yes, but blending Middle English with modern poetry?” I ask. “Sounds like a bad merger to me…pun intended.”

Charlie chuckles. Baby Keating lets out a wail as if to comment.

“So is Laura a good student of Chaucer?” I ask. “Which of the Tales did you teach, pray tell?”

“‘The Reeve’s Tale,’” answers Daniel. “What else?”

“I thought perhaps you might have strayed from the blanket.” Rebecca winks.

“And, Laura, what did you learn?” asks Charlie.

“Well, after some serious word-tripping, I learned that the deceiver is finally deceived,” she responds dutifully. Daniel smiles at his student’s success.

Arrested by the implication of the words, I gulp my merlot. Language may change, but immoral behavior remains the same. I wonder if the deceiver knew he had been deceived. Because otherwise, what’s the point? And if he did know, would he care? Or would he simply look for the next line of defense? Someone, say, like Derek… Before I can finish my thought, I am interrupted by my father.

“So, how was the funeral? Tara’s parents must be beside themselves with grief.”

“It was…the usual from what I can tell, Dad. Kind of a prefab funeral. They could have been talking about anybody. So I spoke about what Tara was like in school. It seemed like everyone appreciated it.”

“That’s beautiful. When I go, please sit around a campfire and tell stories about me,” instructs Eleanor. “And for heaven’s sake, have a good band.”

“What about rugelah and Neshama sausages?” asks Charlie. “After all, Neshama does mean ‘soul.’”

“That, too,” Eleanor replies. “Oh. And make that a klezmer band,” she laughs.

“Duly noted.” Charlie grins.

“Well, since that’s far off and Maddy’s in town, tell us, what’s the latest venture you’ve got going?” asks Daniel.

“I’m in between things,” I mutter. Explaining that my latest venture had met an early death, as eulogized via the
FSJ
article, is something I don’t have the energy to go into.

“Uh-oh. Something went bust,” adds Rebecca.

“Honey, did you have another failure?” asks Eleanor.

“If you did, I hope it was as humorous as the laundry service debacle in college,” quips Daniel.

“Right. After all, Daniel, you seemed to have benefited with a resulting lifetime supply of black T-shirts and black jeans, if I recall,” says Rebecca. “In fact, I recall it every day you get dressed.”

“Not to mention the financial benefit from a wardrobe savings, which supplements your children’s college education, I might add,” I say.

There’s a long pause. “Well,” Laura asks,“isn’t anyone going to tell me the laundry service story?”

“It started with Maddy’s first year of entrepreneurial studies,” explains Eleanor. “Her class was given the challenge of actually starting a business.”

How quickly the past catches up to the present. A barrage of memories resurface. The student who could create, implement and execute the most successful bottom line during the semester would win the “Challenge a Vision” prize of thirty-five thousand dollars to pay back their investors for seed capital, expand and/or begin another venture.

Deciphering a need for a convenient quality laundry service on campus that included pickup and delivery, I made it my business, and turned the desire for hygienic attire into an overnight success. My venture rapidly took off and soon I had multiple locations throughout Ann Arbor and investors wanting to talk to me about franchising the operation. This threatened Derek Rogers’s success, so he blackballed me in order to win the competition. How did he do it? He snuck into my launderettes in the middle of the night and injected black dye into every load. The next day became a campus legend dubbed Black Tuesday.