Gibbon's Decline and Fall by Sheri S. Tepper Read Free Book Online Page A

would be the worst possible defender for Lolly Ashaler. In the eyes of the Army, the girl was damned for half a dozen reasons already!
    Carolyn muttered, “The girl, Lolly … she can ask for someone else.”
    Stace gestured angrily with her brush. “I know that. You know that. She’s just turned fifteen, for God’s sake. She’s so dumb she doesn’t know what’s happening, much less what her rights are.”
    â€œI’m retired, Stace. Three years now.” Since spending time with Hal had become more important than anything else. Or, as she occasionally accused herself, since daily confrontations with evil had become too much to bear. Which was it? Perhaps both.
    â€œYou’re still a member of the bar. You’re still licensed to practice.”
    â€œYou must have a reason for asking me.” She wound the finished braid into a coronet, tucking the ends between the coils.
    â€œI don’t want to prejudice you with my reasons. Just talk to her, all right? I told her … I told her you would.”
    Carolyn wanted to say no. Not. Not go up against cock-o’-the-walk Jagger, with his prancy feet and his rooster stance and his dead eyes. Jagger, who was married to her friend, Helen, and how was Helen managing to survive? Or was she? God help her. Carolyn ground her teeth audibly.
    â€œMom?”
    â€œStace, if Jagger is prosecuting, I’d be the worst person to defend her. I lost the Wilson case to Jagger. I blame myself for what happened to Greta Wilson.” She blamed herself for believing in decency, for being blind to how far some people were willing to go to win. She blamed herself for leading Greta Wilson like a lamb to the slaughter.
    â€œHer sister Helen didn’t blame you, Mom. Her folks didn’t blame you.”
    No, Helen hadn’t blamed her. But, then, Helen had been married to Jagger long enough to know what he was like. If only she had told her sister Greta, or if she’d told Carolyn!
    Reading the line of her mother’s tightened jaw, Stace fellsilent, and Carolyn turned back to her mirror, retrieving a handful of tortoiseshell hairpins in trembling fingers and anchoring her hair, one pin for each slow, calculated breath.
    â€œGreat-grandma’s hairpins,” said Stace, changing the subject, letting the matter cool. “When did you start using those?”
    Carolyn paused, one hairpin halfway in. When had she? “I guess it was when I looked in the mirror and saw my grandmother’s face.” The non-Crespin grandma. The fondly remembered grandma.
    â€œWell, still, Mom—tortoiseshell?” Her tone was a reproof.
    Carolyn shook her head. “The turtle responsible for these pins is a long time dead. My not using the pins won’t bring turtles back.”
    Stace replied doubtfully, “I suppose that’s true. Like ivory piano keys. It doesn’t bring back elephants to junk all pianos.” She stood up, thrusting her hands into the shallow pockets of her jacket, thereby dislodging several envelopes that spilled to the floor as she scrambled to recover them. “I forgot. I stopped at your mailbox for your mail.”
    Carolyn frowned, holding out her hand. “Mail? On Sunday?”
    â€œMom, it’s Monday.”
    â€œIs it?” Of course it was, if Stace said so. Lord, she was getting senile. What was it Faye used to call it? Halfheimer’s Disease, or CRS—Can’t Remember Shit. She was forgetting all kinds of things. People’s names. Places she’d been.
    â€œThere’s a letter from Louisiana, from Sister Agnes.”
    â€œHer RSVP, probably,” murmured Carolyn, sorting out the envelopes and ripping the smallest one open with her nail file. The brief note bore no pious superscription and the fewest possible words.
    Dear Carolyn, it seems ages since I’ve seen you all! Tell Ophy I am bringing oysters for all of us, especially for her,