Part 24 (1/2)
She handed over a letter from an old familiar dip up at Lake Arrowhead who was inviting him to a series of lectures on Primal Whisper, Extra Sensory Transubstantiation, EST and Zen. The man's name, scribbled below, seemed to be, ”J'ujfl Kikrk.” As if someone in the dark had typed the wrong letters and never gone back to correct.
The P.S. read: ”If you come, bring Constance.”
”Well?” said his wife, putting too much b.u.t.ter on her toast.
”I don't know know any Constance,” he said. any Constance,” he said.
”No?”
”THERE IS NO Constance,” he said. Constance,” he said.
”Really?”
”Indian scout's mother's honor.”
”Indians are dirty, scouts are b.u.g.g.e.rs, and your mother was an easy lady,” said his wife.
”There never was, never is, and never will be,” he threw the letter in the wastebasket, ”a Constance.”
”Then,” said his wife, with a lawyer's logic, leaning against the stand, ”why,” she articulated, ”is,” she went on, ”her name,” she enunciated, and finished: ”in the letter?”
”Where's the fan?” he said.
”What fan?”
”There's got to be one,” he said, ”for something awful to hit.” Meanwhile he was thinking quickly. His wife watched him thinking and b.u.t.tered her toast twice over again. Constance, he thought, in a panic.
I have known an Alicia and I have known a Margot and I have met a Louise and I once upon a time knew an Allison. But- Constance?
Never. Not even at the opera. Not even at some tea.
He telephoned Lake Arrowhead five minutes later.
”Put that dumb stupid jerk on!” he said, not thinking.
”Oh, Mr. Junoff? Of course,” said a woman's voice as if the description fit.
Junoff came on. ”Yesss... ?” He was one to make two or three syllables out of an affirmative.
”My wife's name is not Constance,” said the husband.
”Who ever said it was? Who is this?”
”Sorry.” The husband gave his name. ”Look here, just because in a moment of tired blood four years ago I let you rack me on your couch and probe the gumball machine in my head, doesn't give you the right to send me an invitation to your saps-and-boots literary get-together next month. Especially when, at the end you add, ”bring Constance.' That is not my wife's name.”
There was a long silence. Then the psychologist sighed. ”Are you sure sure?”
”Been married to her for twenty years. I should know.”
”Perhaps I inadvertently-”
”No, not even that. My mistress, when she was alive, which I some days doubt, was named Deborah.”
”d.a.m.n,” said Junoff.
”Yes. I am. And you did.”
The telephone was dropped and picked up again. The man sounded like he was pouring a stiff drink and giving an easy answer at the same moment.
”What if I wrote Constance a letter-”
”There is no no Constance! Only my wife. Whose name is-” He hesitated. Constance! Only my wife. Whose name is-” He hesitated.
”What's wrong?”
The husband shut his eyes. ”Hold on. Annette. Yes. That's it. Annette. No, that's her mother. Anne. That's better. Write to Anne.”
”What shall I say?”
”Apologize for making up Constance. You've got me in a real pickle. She actually thinks the woman was real.”
”Constance does?” does?”
”Annette. Anne. Anne! I've already said-”
”There is is no Constance, I get it. Hold on.” no Constance, I get it. Hold on.”
He heard more liquid being poured at the far end.
”Are you pouring gin instead of listening to me?”
”How did you know it was gin?”
”Shaken, not stirred.”
”Oh. Well. Do I or do I not write the letter?”
”What good would it do? My wife would only think you were lying to save my skin.”
”Yes, but the truth-”
”Is absolutely worthless with wives!”
There was a long silence from the far end in the villa up by the edge of the lake.
”Well?” said the husband.
”I'm waiting.”
”For what, for G.o.d's sake?”