"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."