Dad died three days later, in a rush hour tangle on I-80 caused by an exhausted trucker who didn't know when to pull over and sleep. I made it through the funeral without saying a word, surrounded by everybody who knew Dad even remotely, enough people to pack the church to standing room only. Reverend Frye gave the eulogy, rambling about what a wonderful man Dad had been, and I couldn't cry because what I remember most out of that whole thing is everyone staring at us, and how much I wished they'd stop. There ought to be a separate funeral for relatives and friends, with the immediate family left out. Put us in a room filled with Lazy Boy chairs and movie theater buttered popcorn served with icy vodka tonics, because that's comforting, not being stared at.
Nobody wants to be ogled when they're hurting.
I was a well behaved fifth wheel at the cemetery, doing my part by standing quietly, glad for the frayed black veiled hat with tiny bows across the front I'd picked up at a bridal shop and dyed in my kitchen sink with two bottles of Rit. I had it to hide behind, that through its tight mesh, the boys and Artie weren't quite so blonde, or quite so pulled together. I stayed quiet until the last mourners wandered from the grave site, leaving me with Artie. The boys had drifted away, helping people back to their cars, whispering last minute directions to our house, advising someone to crank down the heat on the meatballs and don't forget to set out the veggie trays, because even in death we have to entertain, which is another stupid custom, in my book. We're on opposite sides of the dirt rectangle Dad's being tucked into, shovel after shovel of red dirt slushing in, and it's the first time I've thought about him and not visualized Captain Kangaroo.