ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife

Book One, Part One, Chapter 13: Living Together

Atop Ernie’s antique bed with its tall, burled-walnut headboard, I throw on a heavy spread I bought the summer before. Its dark blue and green paisley immediately glooms the room. I look to Ernie.

“It doesn’t work,” he says. “We’ll give it to Goodwill and find something else.”

We head back to the living room, where we spend most of our time. In this room Ernie has hundreds of books and lots of art, including an oil painting by his friend Cor — a night scene of a Paris bridge, with faint moon and dim clouds and shadowy figures under the lamp posts. Ernie stretches out on the faded Persian rug, propping his head on Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. I lean against the daybed and open a library book on Manet. I’m schooling myself in art.

Ernie looks up at Cor’s painting, on the wall above the daybed. “Cor visited Paris in the twenties. That’s when he did that oil. Thirty years later, he came to the states with his wife and three daughters. Then he and his wife separated. When I knew him, he was in his early sixties and working as an art therapist at Our Lady of Peace. I saw this oil in his garret, fronting his medicine cabinet, and admired it. Just before he left town, he wrapped it in brown paper and brought it to me. His parting gift.”

“Cor must have liked you a lot to give you such a gift.”

“I guess he did. I’ve tried to find an address for him. I’d like to write him.”

“Why did he and his wife separate?”

“He said materialistic America turned her head. He didn’t talk much about her or his daughters, but I think he thought about them quite a bit. He wasn’t a big talker. More a listener.”

I turn a page of the Manet book. Then Ernie says: “I guess I should tell you about Rosalie.” He says this in a serious voice.

Ernie’s already spoken of Nancy, his college steady whom he met when she was still in high school. He gave her a ring but signed himself into Our Lady of Peace as a way to break the engagement. Thinking of a life with her — involving a house and mortgage and full-time job — probably did make him half-crazy. He’s also told me about Helen, his first wife, and a little about Janey, his second wife. But Rosalie? Who’s Rosalie?

“She was a reporter on the suburban weekly.”

“What did she look like?”

“A cheerleader type. Blonde. Good energy. She was a decent writer, and because she was just out of college, the publisher didn’t pay her much. He was a real cheapo. He didn’t pay me much, either.”

“Did you and Rosalie fall for each other?”

“I was married to Janey, so I wouldn’t allow myself to fall for her. Loyalty is big with me. You know that.”

Yes, I know that. Didn’t Ernie and I swear loyalty to each other when he pricked the tips of our fingers to make us blood brothers? He adjusts the Bartlett’s under his head, keeping one leg propped over the other’s bent knee. He is about to speak. What is Ernie going to tell me now?