MR. WAGGONER CAME WEARILY INTO THE LIVING ROOM. HIS WIFE was sitting by the fireplace, knitting. Mr. Waggoner realized with some surprise that he had forgotten his wife’s name.
“Good morning, my dear,” Mr. Waggoner said to his wife.
“Good morning, William,” his wife said.
Mr. Waggoner sat looking at his wife, wondering what her name was. He found himself thinking of a lot of names, none, he knew, belonging to his wife.
Sandra?, he thought tentatively. He wished he had married a girl named Sandra.
“Was your breakfast all right, William?” Mrs. Waggoner asked casually. “I told the maid only one egg this morning. You ate a little too much last night.”
“I had an excellent breakfast, thank you, my dear,” Mr. Waggoner said. Annabelle?
“And what are you going to do today, William?” Mrs. Waggoner asked.
“I really hadn’t thought.” Clarice?
“A little gardening, perhaps? Or some golf?”
“I played golf yesterday,” Mr. Waggoner said, annoyed.
“You want to be playing your best when we go south this year, William.”
Like birds, William thought. What was the woman’s name?
Lucrece?
This has gone far enough, Mr. Waggoner thought. His first concern had changed to anger. This woman had no right to go on being anonymous.
“My dear,” he said.
“Yes, William?” said his wife.
Mr. Waggoner thought deeply. “You remember when we were first married?”
Mrs. Waggoner thought deeply. “Not very well,” she said.
“You know,” Mr. Waggoner said. “When we were first married.”
“Yes?” Mrs. Waggoner said.
Mr. Waggoner took a deep breath. “Remember how silly we were? What did I used to call you?”
Mrs. Waggoner frowned. “I used to call you Bubbles,” she said.
Mr. Waggoner winced. “Ah, but what did I used to call you?” He made his voice deliberately coy.
Mrs. Waggoner compressed her lips. “Bumpo,” she said.
“I see,” Mr. Waggoner said. “Well …” he began.
Evidently considering the subject closed, Mrs. Waggoner said briskly, “I had a letter from Becky this morning. She and the baby will be here on the tenth.”
“Very nice,” Mr. Waggoner said. Becky. Rebecca. That was his daughter. Had she been named after her mother?
Reba?
“You must get your hair cut this week,” said Mrs. Waggoner.
Delilah?
The phone rang.
“Will you answer it, William, my dear?” said Mrs. Waggoner.
William my dear went to the phone. “Hello,” he said vaguely.
“Oh, William,” said a female voice. “May I speak to Jane, please?”
Jane. Jane. Furiously angry, Mr. Waggoner put down the phone.
“Jane,” he bawled. “Telephone. Oh, Jane …”