By SCOTT SAALMAN
Scaramouch
Ironically, on the morning of Mom’s funeral, I was the one who had to dig myself out of a hole.
This, after an awkward incident in the funeral home a few minutes before the viewing’s official start time.
The foyer was alive with awkward, familial chatter as aunts, uncles and cousins repeated the same stories shared at the last family funeral, and the one before that, and the one before that. Some maintained hushed tones, out of respect for the grievous situation at hand, while others dared to laugh aloud at something funny. Mom would’ve approved of the latter, the laughter –actually, she would’ve preferred it.
I inherited my “funny bone” from Mom. Dad compared us to a pack of wild dogs since no subject seemed too sacred for our like-minded levity, each of us in an unspoken competition to get the last laugh.
Mom pulled a great prank on me once. It was on a morning in my single-digit years. As I walked shirtless down the hallway, I heard her cry out from behind, “My God, what’s GROWING OUT of your back?”
A chill filled my spine. I blindly felt for whatever noticeable, godawful thing was suddenly back there. I turned in full, futile circles, like a dog chasing its tail, while twisting my neck almost to the cracking point to peer down my right shoulder. Had a vestigial tail popped out overnight? – a dorsal fin? Whatever was there was both unreachable and invisible. Only when Mom said “April Fools” did I realize her ingenious gag. I never forgot that macabre mother and child hallway moment.
I guided my wife, Brynne, by the elbow toward the funeral home director, Jamie, for an introduction since they didn’t know each other.
“Jamie,” I said. “I want you to meet my wife, Mary.”
Initially, I didn’t realize my faux pas. Brynne freed her elbow from my grip and secured her hands to her hips as if to issue a scorcher of a scolding. An eavesdropping relative exclaimed, “OH. MY. GOD.” followed by another one who said, “OH. NO. HE. DIDN’T.” followed by another one who said, “OH. YES. HE. DID.” The ensuing laughter in the funeral home was loud enough to raise the dead.
Brynne furrowed her brow at me.
“What did I say?” I said.
“You called me Mary.”
“Wait. What? No, I didn’t.”
“Oh yes you did,” said another cousin.
Apparently, I had given my current wife my ex-wife’s name. I had pushed the proverbial fool button. A life-and-death scenario was at hand. Husbands can be forgiven by their wives for many stupid things but referring to them by an ex-wife’s name is not one of those things. In fact – it’s the eighth deadly sin. In fact – the original Ten Commandments had an Eleventh entry – Thou Shall Not Call Thy Current Wife By Thy Ex-Wife’s Name – but Moses left it behind. It was such an obvious commandment that it didn’t need to be chiseled in stone.
Later, when I told my friend, Cedric, about this, he responded, “LOL!!!! NOOOOOOOO, SCOTTT. My wife is a dentist, so if you are missing any teeth, we can help.”
Even Jamie seemed attuned to the hole I’d dug. I halfway expected her to pull out her tailor’s tape and commence measuring me for her next coffin order.
“Brynne, I’m so sorry,” I told my wife.
Once she determined that her freshly, half-orphaned husband had publicly squirmed enough, Brynne said, “I’ll stick it out with you today since it’s your mom’s funeral, but tomorrow you’re packing your bags.”
Whether what Brynne said was meant to be a joke or not, my relatives found it quite funny (talk about a pack of wild dogs). Of course, I married someone who likes to get the last laugh, too, so I wasn’t too worried.
Later, at the cemetery, Jamie, impressed by my wife’s “que sera, sera” demeanor at the funeral home, told her, “You’re a hell of a lot more woman than I am.”
When Brynne’s brow lost its furrow, she squeezed my arm and announced, “You do know your mom made you call me Mary. She got the last laugh at her own funeral.”
After my daughter delivered an emotional eulogy about her grandma to the many mourners, I took the podium to confess to those unaware of my earlier blunder, sort of a last-ditch effort to sincerely apologize to my wife, hoping my public self-shaming would truly convince Brynne how sorry I felt. Everyone found what I said to be quite funny, especially the part about Brynne saying Mom had made it happen.
I closed with “Thanks a lot, Mom” while glancing over at her open casket, ending the funeral service with frivolity, of which Mom would’ve approved. I imagined her winking at me then from her state of rest, conceding from her coffin that I was the winner of our lifelong competition for the last laugh.
Sadly, though, in hindsight, I now realize I wasn’t the one who got the last laugh that day. I’m certain my kids texted to their own mom what foolish thing their dad had done. It was my ex-wife who ultimately got the last laugh, though her name escapes me now. I’m not stupid.
Scott Saalman also writes columns for the Dubois County Herald and the Evansville Courier & Press. He is now a proud Fishers resident. You can reach him at scottsaalman@gmail.com.