The funeral was over, and the gathering had dwindled down to immediate family. The old man asked for a double Irish, and for once no one questioned him on the medical implications of his request. He raised the glass just above the level of his eyes, said, “White Ghost,” and then took a sip.
His oldest daughter glared at him. “What is that, Dad? You and Mom have been doing that forever, and have always refused to explain it. I think it’s time.”
The old man looked at her, and then looked around the room, considered who was there, and then gave a very small nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess it is, at that.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared into the whiskey glass in his hands.
“Your mother and I were best friends when we were children, but then my family moved away when we were ten, and the friendship faded. We never quite lost touch with each other, though, and when we both ended up at the same university, I felt obligated to look her up.
“It was great. We were instantly best friends again. She told me that she was rooming with her best friend from high school, and that she really hoped Jennifer and I would get along.
“Jennifer turned out to be beautiful and crazy, and she LIKED me. I fell in love immediately. Jennifer and I got engaged over spring break sophomore year, and during junior year the three of us shared an apartment. Don’t roll your eyes! The kinkiest thing about the arrangement was that that Jennifer occasionally commented that, if your mother and I ever wanted to have sex, she was OK with it, as long as she got to watch. I told you she was crazy.
“And then one night, I was studying in the library, and I heard Jennifer say, ‘I still want to watch.’ And I looked up, and looked around, and there was no sign of her. And no one else in the room had heard anyone say anything. I packed up my stuff and went back to the apartment.
“The police were still there; Jennifer had been killed in a hit and run accident. Your mother and I identified her body, and, eventually, we car-pooled across three states to attend the funeral.
“On the first day of that trip, your mother asked me if I believed in ghosts, and I said that I did, now. She nodded, and asked if Jennifer had spoken to me, and I said she had. And then she asked me what Jen had said, and I blushed, and she said that that was what Jen had said to her, too.
“And then your mother asked me what we were going to do about it, given that it was essentially a last request from a dead friend, and I got so flustered I almost crashed the car. But, well, we gave Jen what she wanted, and, well… It worked out. And maybe none of you would have existed, otherwise.” He sat up straighter, took another sip of his whiskey, and then went back to his elbows on knees pose.
“But…” said the oldest daughter said. “I see that’s a ghost story, but it’s not really an explanation.”
The youngest daughter said quietly, “If you toast someone by name, people will want to know who are you are talking about and why. If you say something nonsensical, they will likely just let it go.”
“I still don’t get it,” one of the sons said. “What’s the connection?”
The youngest daughter rolled her eyes. “‘Jennifer’ is a Cornish name, originally. It means, exactly, ‘White Ghost’.”
P.D. Haynie
May 26, 2023
If you would care to read a fictionalized account of the process that led to this story, you can find it here.