How many dead men?

“How many dead men does it take to screw in a light bulb?” My dad leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“That isn’t appropriate, Dad.” I said. I looked around the room. It was a formal gathering, the black-clad mourners smiling weakly as they passed each other. I tried not to look at the dead man, but funerals are not set up to make that easy. I could not recognize the body in the coffin; it looked plastic, fake.

“This is the last look any of you get of the guy, and they put him in that suit?” This time he had not bothered to whisper. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone was focused on the dead man. As I moved closer to the front of the room, I started nervously twisting my hair around my finger.

“You’re not turning all somber on me too, are you?” my dad asked. I glanced up at him.

“This isn’t exactly a party, Dad.”

He ignored that and looked around the room again. “Where’s your mom? Why isn’t she here?”

I looked at my feet as I answered. “She knew you were going to be here. She still doesn’t want to see you.”

“I never could please that woman. She certainly wouldn’t approve of my behavior here, now, would she?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me then stood on a chair and jumped off, clicking his heels together on the way down. I had to smile at that. “Stop it, Dad,” I whispered, but I did not really mean it. I reached out to him. “I need you now.”

He held my hand as we approached the casket. “Well,” he said, “I guess this is it.” I nodded and he jumped onto the dead man and sat down. “Sure glad it’s not you in here, squirt.”

As he crossed his arms over his chest and lay down inside the dead man’s body, I smiled at him again. “At least you finally quit smoking,” I said as I lay the flowers on top of the plastic body. “I’ll miss you, Dad.”