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

Book One, Part One, Chapter 68: Nothing Comes From Nothing

Ernie titles his story about the cousins Nine Finches and a Parrot — Finches because the last name of all nine cousins is Finch. He finishes it in three months. It needs very little revising.

“It’s an allegory of our times,” he says.

Half-sitting, half-reclining on the camelback settee, he re-reads his chapters. He’s in his indoor summer garb — ribbed undershirt and khaki shorts — as a vintage fan, which Joshua found for us on e-bay, blows its breeze on him. A satisfied smile plays on his lips.

“It’s a most unusual story, Ernie. You’ve talked about Finnick before, of course, and Fragile and Feeble. Even Fuckup. They’re part of the family lore. But I had no idea Frolic existed, or Furtive, or the twins Foody and Feudy. Or Fungus. He’s a real surprise. And then there’s Feathers, the parrot Fuckup falls in love with. Where did she come from?”

They all came from Ernie, of course. They’re all part of him, even Feathers.

“I used to think you dreamed up all your stories, Ernie. That you created them out of nothing.”

“Nothing comes from nothing, Ernestina. Don’t you know that by now?”

“I’m a slow learner, Ernie.”

Ernie dedicates The Finches to Sue Grafton, who nagged me into finding my true voice. He and Sue have corresponded recently, but even this dedication doesn’t help him find an agent.

“I’ve had lots of agents over the years,” Ernie says. “Ann Elmo. Ben Camardi. Joan Daves. Ruth Cantor. Others whose names I don’t even remember. Now Jessica. None of them has sold the first piece of writing for me. I have letters from dozens of editors praising my writing. They all love my writing, but they don’t buy my stories. I don’t understand it. I’ll never understand it. I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve tried everything.”

The sadness Ernie feels is not carried in his voice. His voice remains strong and sturdy. It’s in his words. And in his face. And in his body.