Ghoul magnet
I sensed I was no longer alone in the room, but continued to work anyway. I’d just started painting and was determined to finish. I figured if it was a family member, they’d speak soon enough, and if it happened to be an escaped lunatic killer, then they’d just found an easy loony to kill.
“Ah-hem,” said the source of my no-longer-aloneness–my 10-year-old daughter, Celeste.
“Yes?” I said, without looking up. She allowed a long pause, and I suspected she was carefully choosing her words.
“There’s a ghost in my room,” she finally said, without a trace of fear or excitement in her voice.
“Uh-huh,” I replied as I continued to paint. Accustomed to my wily child’s range of bedtime delaying maneuvers, I’ve become hardened, impervious to all attempts that fall short of requiring e
xtinguishing devices, paramedics, or priests.
“His name is Marv,” said Celeste.
A policy revision was thereby instituted. Exceptions are now made for incidents requiring extinguishing devices, the need for paramedics or priests, and paranormal beings named Marv.
I looked up. She looked pleased.
My girl has a strange imagination. (It must come from her dad.)
“And how did you come to know his name?” I asked.
“He told me.”
“Sounds polite.”
She shrugged and plopped down on the couch. Feeling a bit disappointed that there didn’t seem to be more, I was about to go back to my painting when she said, “He has saggy man breasts.”
“No wonder he’s polite, then,” I said. “Saggy-breasted dead men named Marv can’t exactly go around being rude. No one would stand for it.”
Celeste nodded knowingly. “He has excessive nose and ear hair, too.”
“And body odor?” I asked.
“Ah, c’mon,” said Celeste, after gulping the last of my Coke. “Ghosts don’t stink.”
“Since when are you the authority on apparitions?”
“Since I got my own personal ghost.”
“Other kids have invisible friends.”
“Other moms don’t have the funny kid stories you do.”
“Other moms don’t have Dr. Phil on speed dial.”
“Well,” she said, pointing out a missed spot, “Ghosts don’t stink. At least, Marv doesn’t.”
“So what exactly does Marv do?”
“I’m glad you asked,” she said. There was something about her smile that made me feel I was being set up. “Right now, Marv’s up in my room crying.”
“What does your poor ghost have to cry about?” I asked.
“He has a boo boo,” said Celeste.
Pa-dum pum.
