No, my Dad was just gone, body and soul. Poof! A flash of light, and he was outa here.

Dad was a church usher for seventeen years. Where did it get him? Overlooked, that’s where. All his work for the old parish didn’t mean jackshit when we moved to the new parish. It had to get to him, I know it did. The day before he went away, I saw him standing in the living room. He was looking out the window. Sad look on his face. Did he know what was about to happen?

Father Gronowski, from the new parish, came to bless our new house that day. He went room by room, dousing everything with holy water. Man, I thought sure he would find my Swedish porno collection, but I got lucky.

When Father Gronowski left, I saw Dad pass him a fifty. A tip, you know. Dad was trying to cover his bases. You never know when things might go apeshit.

They did the next morning. I was in the kitchen eating pancakes. All of a sudden, the room got real cold. I had goose bumps. Mom was all white in the face. “Go check on your father,” she said.

He had gone out to get the paper. But when I got there, he was nowhere. Just his clothes, in a pile on the sidewalk. Shirt, slacks, socks, and his black shoes. Dad wasn’t big on underwear.

Where the hell was he? I knelt down and touched his things. I got a whiff of his Old Spice. And something really strange. The sidewalk was all slippery. I ran my finger across it. It tasted like bacon grease.

I smelled that grease the rest of the day. When the cops showed up, and that night when the neighbors started bringing casseroles.

Then things got complicated. Mom called Father Quinn from our old parish. Asked him to say the funeral mass for Dad. But he said, call the priest at your new parish. Shit! After all his ushering, they had already written Dad off. Seventeen years for nothing, Mom said.

That’s when Mrs. B, our neighbor, came over. She brought three bean salad. Nasty stuff, let me tell you. Anyway, she said they ran into the same problem trying to get their daughter baptized at the parish where Mrs. B went to grade school. The old parish said no. You moved away, try the new parish. It’s all about territory, Mrs. B said. And she threw up her hands.

You know what Mr. And Mrs. B did? Hell, they took matters into their own hands. Baptized their little girl in the backyard with the garden hose. With two pink flamingoes for witnesses. Mrs. B said parishes shouldn’t be run like franchises. We’re not talking hamburgers and auto parts.

Mom finally got hold of Father Gronowski from the new parish. I’ll bet Dad’s tip was still in his pocket. Here’s the deal. He told my Mom that Dad couldn’t have a mass. No way. People who die from this spontaneous combustion stuff don’t get a proper church send-off. He said this blowing-up business is too exotic for the American Church.

Yeah, heart attack or cancer, that’s the ticket for a mass. Father Gronowski said Dad died like they do in exotic places - Ceylon, Bangladesh. Mom was crying, and she said, “Father, we don’t know exotic. We’ve only been to Hawaii, when we won the parish raffle.”

In the end, we had to settle for a service at the funeral home. Oh, Father Gronowski showed up. He read some prayer I know he swiped from a missionary book. And when all was said and done, Mom tipped him. His pockets are jingling is how I see it.

Mom’s had enough. Me too. From now on, forget parishes. Turf wars. They can go to hell.

Hey, you think we expected this blowing-up stuff? Bacon grease? No way. But we got punished anyway. Be careful. It could happen to you.

Wherever Dad is, I hope he’s not an usher. I hope he’s proud of us. Wherever he is, I hope there’s room for us too.