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"Chris, you go on up, and I'll follow in a few

seconds." Chris wanted to know what I was planning, so I lied and said I was going to have a few words with our housekeeper about cleaning up the mess. But

I had something far different in mind.

As soon as everyone was out of sight, I ducked

into Bart's huge office, closed the door and was soon

rifling through his desk to find the R.S.V.P. cards that

had dutifully arrived weeks ago.

They must have been fingered many a time

from the ink smudges on the envelopes. Two hundred

and fifty cards had accepted. My teeth bit down on my

lower lip.

Not one rejection, not even one. People didn't

do things like this, even to someone they disliked. If

they hadn't wanted to come, they would have tossed

the invitations into the trash along with the return

card, or sent back the card declining.

Carefully I replaced the cards and then headed

up the back stairs to Joel's room.

Without even a preliminary knock I opened his

door to find him sitting on the edge of his narrow bed,

doubled over in what appeared to be a terrible

stomach cramp, or that hateful silent laughter. He was

in quiet convulsion, quivering, jerking, hugging

himself with skinny arms.

Quietly I waited until his hysteria was over, and only then did he see the long shadow I cast. Gasping, his mouth sunken because his teeth were in a cup by the bed, he stared up at me. "Why are you here, niece?" he asked in that whiny but raspy voice, his thin hair rumpled into devil horns that stood straight

up.

"Downstairs, a while ago, I looked up and saw

you in the rotunda shadows, laughing. Why were you

laughing, Joel? You must have seen that Bart was

suffering."