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

Book One, Part Two, Chapter 166: Is This Not So, Ernie?

I sleep during the day and write at night, but this morning’s nine-thirty legal appointment with Kelly keeps me up.

I meet with her for two hours, discussing my upcoming deposition, then come home to a Christmas decoration on my door and a note under my door — both from Bella. I haven’t seen or talked to her since the day before Thanksgiving, nine days ago. Her note says: I’m here for you.

I knock on her door, and she invites me in. She talks of her youngest son’s Thanksgiving visit. “We had our moments. We always do. The three days went by very quickly.” I tell her of my Thanksgiving debacle. “Call your sister,” she says. “Visit with her. She wants to see you.” And we talk of Ernie. I say: “I’m beginning to think I didn’t know how to be a friend.” She says: “How would you? No one ever showed you. You’re learning now.”

Bella is one of my teachers.

I have lunch, read, write, nap. Then Christy calls. We talk. I decide I don’t want to sleep during the day anymore, so I put myself to bed an hour past midnight.

At three-thirty I awaken. A feeling of fear has taken possession of me. I know that thoughts and feelings interact. What am I thinking that brings on the feeling of fear? I am thinking: I am alone. I’m all by myself. I feel weak, ashiver inside. I say to myself: This feeling is what I’ve run away from all my life. What I’ve denied, blocked, resisted, deflected, ignored. Stay with it. Don’t reach for a book. Don’t eat ice cream. Stay with it. Don’t jump overboard. Don’t desert the ship. Stay with the ship.

Then I think . . . ship? and remember Ernie’s long-ago poem to me. I am the ship and you are its light. Together, we can pierce the fog.

Perhaps I am my own ship now. I am my own light. I will pierce my own fog with the help of other ships and their lights. My light will dim at times. Blink at times. But it won’t go out, not entirely, not until I reach the end of my journey.

Is this not so, Ernie?

Ernie would smile at my question. When he worked on the Greensboro Daily News he had an older, scholarly friend — a drinking buddy — whose companion was named Virginia. When the three of them met at their favorite bar, this friend, in the middle of telling a story, would turn to Virginia and say: “Is this not so, Virginia?” The refrain became a part of Ernie. He repeated it every now and then. He was a magpie, picking up colorful bits that struck his fancy and stuck to him.

I was a colorful bit he picked up that stuck to him, a barnacle. Now, I’m working to unstick myself from Ernie.

I have to. He’s not here anymore. He is no longer my ship.