The Toynbee Convector

“Really?”

“Indian scout’s mother’s honor.”

“Indians are dirty, scouts are buggers, 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 buttered 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?”

“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.”

“Damn,” 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 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?”