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who was supposed to have killed his wife, was seated directly across from Ricky, an image of expansive good health. As time rolled through them all, subtracting things, it seemed only to add to Lewis. It hadn't been true when he was younger, but these days he bore a definite resemblance to Cary Grant. His chin would not sag, his hair would not fall. He had become almost absurdly handsome. This evening, Lewis's big placid humorous features wore—like all their faces—an expression of expectancy. It was generally true that the best stories were told here, in Sears's house.

    "Who's on the griddle tonight?" asked Lewis. But it was only courtesy. They all knew. The group called the Chowder Society had only a few rules: they wore evening clothes (because thirty years ago, Sears had rather liked the idea), they never drank too much (and now they were too old for that anyhow), they never asked if any of the stories were true (since even the outright whoppers were in some sense true), and though the stories went around the group in rotation, they never pressured anyone who had temporarily dried up.

    Hawthorne was about to confess when John Jaffrey interrupted. "I've been thinking," he said, and then responded to the others' inquisitive glances, "no, I know it's not me, and a good thing too. But I was just thinking that in two weeks it will be a year to the day since Edward died. He'd be here tonight if I hadn't insisted on that damned party."

    "Please, John," said Ricky. He didn't like to look directly at Jaffrey's face when it showed his emotions so clearly. His skin looked like you could push a pencil straight through it and draw no blood. "All of us know that you were not to blame yourself."

    "But it happened in my house," insisted Jaffrey.

    "Calm down, doc," Lewis said. "You're not doing yourself any good."

    "I'll decide that."

    "Then you're not doing the rest of us any good," Lewis said with the same bland good humor. "We all remember the date. How could we forget?"

    "Then what are you doing about it? Do you think you're acting as though it never happened—as though it was normal? Just some old poop kicking the bucket? Because if so, let me inform you that you're not."

    He had shocked them into silence; even Ricky could think of nothing to say. Jaffrey's face was gray. "No," he said. "You're damned well not. You all know what's been happening to us. We sit around here and talk like a bunch of ghouls. Milly can hardly stand having us in my house anymore. We weren't always like this—we used to talk about all sorts of things. We used to have fun—there used to be fun. Now there isn't. We're all scared. But I don't know if some of you are admitting it. Well, it's been a year, and I don't mind saying that I am."

    "I'm not so sure I'm scared," said Lewis. He took a sip of his whiskey and smiled at Jaffrey.

    "You're not so sure you're not, either," snapped the doctor.

    Sears James coughed into his fist, and everybody immediately looked at him. My God, thought Ricky: he can do that whenever he wants, just effortlessly capture our attention. I wonder why he ever thought he couldn't be a good teacher. And I wonder why I ever thought I could hold my own with him. "John," Sears said gently, "we're all familiar with the facts. All of you were kind enough to go through the cold to come here tonight, and none of us are young men anymore. Let's continue."

    "But Edward didn't die at your house. And that Moore woman, that so-called actress, didn't—"

    "Enough of that," Sears commanded.

    "Well, I suppose you remember how we got on this kick," said Jaffrey.

    Sears nodded, and so did Ricky Hawthorne. It had been at the first meeting after Edward Wanderley's odd death. The remaining four had been hesitant—they could not have been more conscious of Edward's absence had an empty chair been placed among them. Their conversation had stuttered and stalled through half a dozen false beginnings. All of them, Ricky had seen, were