A Present for Ghosty’s Wife

They called you Hero, because you used to be a cop. They called you, Good Husband, because you didn’t beat your wife. They called you Good Friend, because you told off-color jokes.

Your wife, Ghosty, is an idiot. When you died, I couldn’t buy her flowers because you did. Once in eight years of marriage. Carnations and baby’s breath in a throw-away glass vase. Your wife photographed it. She kept it on her kitchen table with the ribbon still attached after six years. She filled it with fake sunflowers. When you died, I couldn’t send her on a trip, because you did. Once in eight years of marriage. To the slot-machines and burnt-out billboards of Atlantic City one state away.

When you died, I bought her a purple, sparkled, winged, stuffed unicorn from the Price Chopper, where she introduced me to strangers as her daughter. Once when I was 16, you took me to brunch at West Point. You introduced me as your daughter to strangers. I have only met your wife three times. She clutched the unicorn to her chest and cried. She thanked her daughter for the present.

Your wife called me, Ghosty, and asked me for five hundred dollars to pick up your ashes. She wants to put you on top of the TV. I did not give her the money.