ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife
Book One, Part Two, Chapter 88: Tale of Three Horses
I’m headed to Charles Street to check on the house — no closing date yet because its title still needs clearing — when I hear a honk behind me. I don’t pay it any attention.
Then a gray station wagon pulls over and a woman gets out. She calls my name. I turn around. Smiling, she comes toward me with outstretched arms. A blue bandanna frames her face, and strong white teeth shine against her amber skin. It’s Jeanette, from the bereavement group I attended for about five months.
“I saw you a few streets back, but I was headed in the other direction. By the time I turned around, you’d disappeared. I can’t believe I found you.”
I smile. How many times did Ernie tell me I’d disappeared on him? And he always found me. I’m so pleased to see her. Immediately, I start talking about Ernie.
“Why couldn’t I have awakened before now? Why did he have to die before I came alive? Why didn’t I see the light ten years ago, when he was nearly paralyzed in a head-on collision? Or when he had his quintuple by-pass? His main coronary artery was almost totally blocked. Those close calls didn’t awaken me. Only his death.”
We stand on the side of the road, in front of Jeanette’s car. “This reminds me of the Buddhist tale of the three horses,” she says. Her soft voice comforts me, and I listen closely. Jeanette is wise beyond her forty-five years. “Merely show the first horse the shadow of a whip, and he responds. The second horse needs the sting of the whip to move. The third horse has to be whipped to his very marrow before he responds. You’re like the third horse.”
“Yes. Ernie called me The Black Donkey. Joshua called me Assatina. I had such a thick skin. I didn’t let anything get to me. Anything or anyone.”
“I’m meeting friends for dinner,” Jeanette says, “and I’m already late. I must run, but we’ll meet in the cafe soon.”
We hug. She’s almost back to her car when I call out. “I don’t want to be like the third horse anymore.”
“You’re not,” she says. “You’re softening.”
