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?"

"For you to tell me what to do."

"You're the psychologist, you're the expert, you're the adviser, you're the guy who puts together mystical bathe-ins for unwashed minds, you're the chap with gum or something on the bottom of his shoes, you you think of something!" think of something!"

"Hold on," said the voice up at Lake Arrowhead.

There was a sound like the snapping of fingers or the adding of more ice.

"Holy Cow," said the psychologist. "I think I've got it. Yes. I have! I have. My G.o.d, I'm brilliant! Keep your pants on."

"They were never off off, d.a.m.n it!"

"Be prepared. I am raising the t.i.tantic t.i.tantic!"

Click.

There was a sound like more fingers being snapped or more ice added or the phone being hung up.

"Junoff!"

But he was gone.

The husband and wife battled through the morning, yelled at lunch, shrieked over coffee, took the fight to the pool around two, napped briefly at four to waken fresh with vitriol and drinks at four thirty, and at five minutes to five, there was an imperious ring of the front doorbell. Both of them trapped their mouths, she on her righteous indignation, he on his now increasingly maddened denials.

They both stared from the bar to the front door.

The royal ring came again. Something mighty and majestic leaned against the bell not caring if it rang forever to call an entire peasant countryside to kneel. They had never heard such a discourteous ring before. Which meant it could be a lout messenger who knew nothing, or a person of such grandiosity as to be forever important.

Husband and wife marched toward the door.

"Where are you going?" cried the wife.

"To answer it, of course."

"Oh, no you don't! And cover up!"

"Cover what what up?" up?"

"Liar! Gangway!"

And she left him in her dust. He went back to the bar and drank heavily for thirty seconds.

Only to see her standing in the doorway at the end of thirty-one seconds. She seemed stunned or frozen or both. With her back to the door, she summoned one hand to gesture strangely toward the entranceway. He stared.

"It's Constance Constance," she said.

"Who?" he shouted.

"Constance, of course!" a voice whooped.

And the tallest and most beautiful woman he had ever seen charged into the room, looked around as if evaluating everything, and loped at a good pace to squeeze his elbows, grab his shoulders, and plant a kiss in the middle of his brow, which grew an extra eye immediately.

She stood off and looked him up and down as if he were not a man but an athletic team and she was here to award medals.

He looked into her great bright face and whispered: "Constance?"

"You're d.a.m.n tootin' tootin'!"

The tall woman spun about to give a similar regard to the wife, and the wife, if not an athletic team of winners, was at least a mob of admirers come along for the game.

"So this is-?" she asked.

"Annette," said the husband.

"Anne," said the wife.

"Yeah, that's it," said the husband. "Anne."

"Anne! What a great name. May I have a drink, Anne?"

The tall and beautiful woman with the huge halo of blond hair and the steady early morning fog gray eyes and the marching stride and the dancer's arms and hands, folded herself neatly into a chair and stretched out her from-here-to-there-and-happily-back-again legs.

"My G.o.d, I'm martini famished. Can it be possible possible?"

The husband stirred but his wife cried, "Don't move!"

The husband froze.

The wife leaned forward to gauge this creature, top to bottom, even as the creature had gauged her.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What are you doing here-ah-"

"Constance!"

The wife looked at the husband. "So there's no no Constance, Constance, eh eh?"

The tall woman blinked at the husband. "What have have you been telling Anne?" you been telling Anne?"

"Nothing." And that was the truth. "Well, she must know everything everything. I leave tonight on the jet to New York and then tomorrow on the Concorde Concorde to Paris. I heard there was a misunderstanding-" to Paris. I heard there was a misunderstanding-"

"Sure as h.e.l.l has been-" said the husband.

"And I thought I'd just race over and clear things up before I was gone forever."