Gibbon's Decline and Fall Read Free Page A

“Just for once I wish they’d do it backward. It makes me nervous, being first.”
    â€œBound to be a few Adamses or Abrahams before you,” Agnes McGann muttered.
    But there weren’t. Bettiann was called first. She handed the piano music to the person at the keyboard, went to the front of the dais, and sang competently. She read the music easily, and though her voice was small, it was true. Considering the shy smile, and the nervousness, Carolyn was surprisedat the amount of personality she displayed, a bit too much pizzazz for Carolyn’s taste. If Bettiann Bromlet was the general standard, Carolyn herself might decide to try out.
    â€œVery nice,” said the woman in gray. “Lily Charnes?”
    â€œYou’ve done that before,” said Carolyn when Bettiann returned to her seat.
    â€œBeauty contests,” Bettiann murmured, flushing hotly. “My mom was all the time entering me in these pageants. Last time around I won a scholarship.”
    â€œCongratulations,” said Carolyn.
    The blond shook her head. “It’s crazy that I won. I’m not that good-looking. It’s all pretending.…”
    Carolyn found this an interesting idea. She hadn’t thought before that one could pretend to beauty, though of course it made sense. Certainly Bettiann’s stage personality was not the same as that of the rather hesitant girl sitting beside her.
    It was a while before they got to McGann. Carolyn asked her if she was nervous, but Agnes said no, not particularly. She’d had a good voice teacher at St. Monica’s. They’d had a choir they were proud of and paid a good deal of attention to.
    â€œCatholic school?” Carolyn asked. “Me, too.”
    â€œReally? I’ve been in boarding schools since I was six. My family was killed when a truck hit their car, and the settlement was put in trust for my education and keep. I’ve spent my life in Catholic school. Too long, Mother Elias says. She’s the abbess at the Sisters of St. Clare near New Orleans, where I’m going to be a nun. I wanted to enter right away, but she wants me to get through college and take an M.B.A. first.”
    â€œAn M.B.A.? For a nun?”
    â€œThey want to start an oyster farm, to make money for the abbey school, but there’s no one in the order with business training—”
    â€œAgnes McGann?” called the woman in gray.
    Agnes had a voice better than Bettiann’s, with a good deal more range. She, too, sang competently, though almost without emotion. Carolyn identified the style as churchy: angelic voices conveying as little human emotion as possible.
    â€œVery nice,” said the woman in gray. By this time Carolyn had it figured out. “Very nice” meant you were in. “Thank you very much” meant you were out. Hmm, “thank you” meant “maybe.” When Agnes returned, the three of them went on sitting, curious about all the other putative singers.
    â€œFaye Whittier,” the woman called at last. The final one.
    Faye was colored—tall, graceful, with her hair cut very short. Agnes had never seen hair worn like that, just a cap of it, natural. She thought colored people straightened their hair. The maids at St. Monica’s had. The pianist tinkled through an introduction as Faye clasped her hands loosely in front of her, holding the music almost negligently. Either she knew this composition or she’d already memorized it.
    The voice came like velvet, smooth throughout its register, organlike on a low note, whispering on a high one, easy, fluid, capable of infinite shading and power.
    Carolyn decided she would skip trying out for chorus.
    â€œOh, God,” whispered Bettiann. “If that’s what they want! I’ll never make it. I shouldn’t even have tried.…”
    Agnes shook her head, put her hand firmly atop Bettiann’s hand and said, “No. You and I are fine for