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“I can read this to you,” I tell my daughter, of “Wigger.”

So, Susanna is still in the hospital; Wigger is in far-off Switzerland.

A self-pitying, egotistical artist type finds an abandoned pink rag—the beloved Wigger—and climbs up a mountain with it, as his sort of refusenik art project, on Christmas Eve.

“Wigger” satisfies both my daughter’s longing for zigs and zags and my longing for the straightest line possible: the story ends exactly where it begins.

“And Wigger was still all she had,” Goldman writes.