Gibbon's Decline and Fall Read Free

menu had more flavor than the food. Mike’s wife, Tricia, was sleek and dark and outspoken; Hal’s wife, Barbara, was little and plump and quite witty. Carolyn tried to ignore the heat in her face every time she looked at Hal, and was able to admire the pictures Barbara passed around, two toddler boys, rotund little staggerers with Hal’s eyes and Hal’s curly, lovely-looking mouth.
    Then they all went to see the new Hitchcock film with Cary Grant—all that chasing about on Mount Rushmore—and Albert took her back to her hotel room, kissed her chastely on the forehead, and bid her good night. She showered and braided her hair and climbed into bed. The night was quiet, the bed comfortable, but something kept nagging at her. Eventually she fell asleep, only to waken repeatedly, her heart pounding at a sense of imminent peril. She knew all about these night terrors, though she hadn’t had them since she was a child, after her father had died. Then they had been provoked by loss and pain. What had provoked this one she couldn’t imagine. All she could remember of the dream was a voice saying ominous and terrible words. It wasn’t Albert’s voice. It wasn’t anyone she knew. Eventually, about dawn, she fell deeply asleep.
    â€œDid you have a nice time?” Mama asked when she got back home.
    She wanted to say, “I fell in love, Mama. With a married man who has two sons.” She wanted to say, “I had this awful dream,” or, “The funniest thing happened.” A peculiar sense of caution stopped her from doing so.
    â€œIt was very nice,” she said instead. “We had a pleasant supper with the Winters and the Shepherds, who are colleagues of Albert’s.” She didn’t say “friends.” The Winters and Shepherds were obviously friends of one another, but even though they had chatted politely through dinner, she did not feel they were Albert’s friends, no matter what Albert believed. “We went to the movies, and of course I saw where Albert works.”
    â€œThat must be impressive.” An aunt, smiling, approving.
    â€œOh, yes, very impressive,” she responded, trying not to sound negative.
    â€œAnd next week it’s off to school!” Mama, very jolly sounding, trying to make the best of it.
    Carolyn couldn’t help but feel sorrier for Mama than for herself. Once Carolyn was gone, Mama would be there all alone among the Crespins.
FALL 1959
    The campus sprawled rosy brick over a hundred acres and buzzed with a thousand new students making their way through room assignments and registration. Extracurricular activities were posted on the bulletin boards in front of Old Main. Drama-club meeting on Saturday morning. Orchestra tryouts for non–music majors, also on Saturday morning. Women’s-chorus tryouts, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings.
    Carolyn had an unencumbered hour on Tuesday, so she decided to sit in on the chorus tryouts. She sang some, and if the standard wasn’t too high, it might be fun to try out. She sat down next to a plainly dressed young woman with a strong, rather horsey face and offered her hand.
    â€œCarolyn Crespin, from New York.”
    â€œI’m Agnes McGann. I’m from Louisiana.”
    An improbably perfect blond on the other side of Agnes leaned forward. “Hi, I’m Bettiann Bromlet, from Fort Worth.”
    She smiled, rather shyly. Carolyn, looking at the careful grooming and wealth of tumbled curls, wondered what she had to be shy about.
    â€œSopranos,” called a woman in gray from the front of the room. “Please pick up a copy of the audition music from the table to your left. Contraltos, the table to your right, please. The accompanist’s music is clipped to yours. This is for reading ability, ladies—we’ll do you alphabetically. Be sure your name is on a sign-up card.”
    â€œI’ll be near the front,” said Bettiann.