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

Book One, Part One, Chapter 53: Ernie’s Departure Dream

Johnny doesn’t call Saturday, either. Or Sunday. He calls Monday, from his office, just after Ernie and I get back from a walk. “I got your photo. Now I remember you. You had long blonde hair.”

Ernie settles on the daybed. I’m on the kitchen phone, and Ernie can hear me.

“What else do you remember?”

“A porch light.”

“A porch light?” Johnny’s an electrical engineer. Maybe he remembers electrical stuff. Or maybe he remembers bringing me home, kissing me under the light at the side entrance of my childhood home. That’s the more romantic explanation. “What else?”

“Didn’t we go to King’s Island together?”

“No. You must be confusing me with someone else you dated.”

“I never dated two girls at one time. No, I’m sure we went to King’s Island. Mr. Rodman introduced us.”

“Mr. Rodman?” The name rings a distant bell. Wasn’t he the head engineer of the ordnance plant and Johnny’s top supervisor? “Are you sure?”

“I think so. Anyway, I really liked you.”

“You did?”

“But the last time I saw you, you seemed anxious to get back to your friends. I didn’t think you liked me anymore.”

“I’m a hard one to nail down, Johnny. But I always liked you.”

I did like him even though, back then, I probably didn’t admit it to myself and certainly didn’t admit it to him. Johnny was a good kisser. A good dancer. A good tennis player. And he was also very much like my father. Both of them seemed affable and had big smiles — covering up . . . what?

“Where did you meet your wife?” I ask him.

“In California, on a blind date. She’s very understanding. We have two kids, a son and a daughter. Both are out of the house now, thank goodness.”

“Why thank goodness?”

“Kids are costly.”

Not Joshua. Since he was fifteen, he’s paid his own way. In fact, he gives us money.

I ask Johnny a few more questions. He’s a golfer. He’s played the old courses in Scotland. He sets up the annual golf tournament at his northern Virginia country club. He still tinkers with Corvettes, re-wiring them as a money-making hobby. And his father killed himself.

“Was he sick?”

“I don’t think so. We weren’t close. If I had good news, I didn’t pick up the phone to tell him. Talking to my friends helped me through it.”

I don’t know what else to say.

“Thanks for returning my call, Johnny. I’m going through a weird period in my life, and you’ve helped me. You probably think I’m crazy for calling you.”

“Tell the punk to send back my photo!” Ernie calls from the daybed.

“Hey, remember to send back that photo, okay? It’s my husband’s favorite.”

“Will do,” Johnny says.

We say good-by.

“You’re both brainless,” Ernie says to me. “You deserve each other.”

That night Ernie dreams I’ve left him. He sees me in a dark green dress opening the door of our apartment and leaving him.

“Bring on this Johnny guy,” he says to me. “I want to fight him. And he better give me back my photo.”

Johnny doesn’t. Probably, he’s forgotten all about it.