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

Book One, Part Two, Chapter 107: Confession

I knock on Bella’s door.

It’s a Friday night. Maybe she’s gone out. But she swings open the door. She’s dressed in a black top and a flirty, horizontally striped black-and-white skirt.

“Are you going out?”

“No. Come in. Take a seat.”

Some day, perhaps soon, I’ll talk to her of someone other than Ernie and something other than my marriage, but not tonight. When she grows impatient with me, I’ll know. She’ll either begin to swing her leg or to nuzzle her cat, Tweed, who stays close to her.

“I never told Ernie I loved him. Not once. Those words never crossed my lips.”

“Not even in the early days?”

“Nope.”

“That’s so hard to imagine. I use the word love all the time. Probably overuse it. I love cheese. I love chocolate. I love my cats. I love my friends. I love my children. I love Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I use the word all the time. But that’s just me.”

I confess my misdeeds to Bella and to anyone else who will listen. I seek their forgiveness. I really want Ernie’s forgiveness. And mine. Will he forgive me? Will I be able to forgive myself?

“You and Ernie placed so much emphasis on the writing, the word. A book is just a book. It’s not a relationship.”

“I know. Our life was out of balance. Too much doing, not enough being. Ernie and I weren’t at ease with each other, but I didn’t realize it. I didn’t know I was feeling tense. I knew Ernie was, but I didn’t know I was. He said TV was the only thing that relaxed him.”

Bella begins to swing her leg. I know to take my leave.

“Bye, sweetie,” she says.