Ernestina
3 min readAug 25, 2021

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

Book One, Part Two, Chapter 148: A Closing

I drop by the cafe this evening for its special — spinach and cheese quesadilla and creamy tomato soup.

The cafe feeds me. It also gives me a place to be around people yet also to be by myself.

Having a normal conversation with anyone is a challenge for me. I tend to talk only about Ernie. To kind David, my mailman. To young curly-haired Joe, a staffer in my building. To the white-haired woman in the neighborhood walking her dog.

When I talk of Ernie, I tend to cry. How many tears can be left in me? As many tears as there are heavy thoughts, I guess. And heavy feelings.

A daddy carrying his blond little boy is in the cafe line ahead of me. The red-haired chef — he looks like Vincent Van Gogh — takes his order. Where’s Katie? She’s usually behind the counter. Katie knows what I want to order even before I order it, and she always gives me extra bread and puts the soup in a take-out container because she knows I’ll get to it later, at home.

Here’s Katie, coming toward me from upstairs. Ernie called her Katy-did. She’s slender, blonde with brown eyes, quiet and efficient. She’s in her usual jeans and black top, but tonight she’s also wearing a thin cardigan — white with a splash of red poinsettia blossoms. She looks Christmassy. Indeed, she’s heralding the season; Christmas is only six weeks away.

“Did you hear we’re closing?” she asks in her soft voice.

“No!”

My no is both answer and a protest. How can the cafe be closing? Jesus, this is terrible news. The cafe not only feeds me, it’s my hangout. It’s where Ernie and I came for late lunches two or three times a week. It’s where I meet Jeanette for our long talks into the night. It’s where Veronica and I met just three weeks ago for tea on that cool, rainy, Londonish day. How can it be closing? Where will I go? Who will feed me?

I feel shaky, tottery. A major support is being kicked out from under me.

“Jim’s retiring,” Katie says. “His two partners thought about taking it over but decided not to.”

Jim’s two partners each run a second and third cafe. The food’s the same but the atmosphere is different. One’s downtown and the other’s near a medical complex. Neither is open in the evenings. This cafe, with its easy hours, tasty specials, quick service, soft jazz, and kindred souls, is my dream cafe. But I also think this: Jim’s sixty. I’ve heard him call this place his prison. If he can unlock the cage and make his getaway, why not? Life is short.

“Our last day will be the Wednesday before Thanksgiving,” Katie says.

“I will miss you.”

I pick up my order and take it to my usual table. I linger over the food. I watch the other customers leave: a middle-aged son with his graying mother, dragging her left foot; the husband and wife with their blond little boy; a young couple— he’s wearing a black beret a la Hemingway.

Only three of us are left now — Katie, the red-haired chef, and I. Katie reaches into the tip jar, unfolds the dollar bills, and begins to count them.

I don’t want to leave the cafe.

It’s time to leave the cafe.

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Ernestina

My writer husband’s favorite nickname for me was Ernestina, so in this 2-book memoir, he is Ernie. This is his story, our story, and my story. I invite you in.