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

Book One, Part Two, Chapter One: The Sweats

I go to bed.

I can’t sleep.

My body is slick with sweat.

I roll back and forth on my pallet on the floor and moan. I am like an addict without his drug. My drug: Ernie. I am deprived of Ernie. I can’t have Ernie. I am sick without you.

I want to sleep. Please, let me sleep. In sleep, I don’t think. I don’t feel. I forget the terrible thing that has happened, unless my dreams betray me.

But I don’t remember my dreams. Only one. You were standing. I saw your face, your mouth jerked sideways in distress, as if you’d just been shot. It was like the Oswald face just after he’d been shot in Dallas that long-ago November day.

Were you shot, Ernie?

Who shot you?

My writer husband’s favorite nickname for me was Ernestina, so in this 3-book memoir, he is Ernie. This is his story, our story, and my story. I invite you in.