Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil Part 20

Mrs. Mooreland was in turmoil. Happy as she was for her friend Jim Williams, she was nonetheless appalled. She had been unaware of the details of Williams's private life until his trials had so rudely awakened her, and she had finally come to terms with all of that, mainly by putting it out of her mind. But now this sordid business about the squares. And these new witnesses! Who were were they? Male prost.i.tutes! Burglars! Thieves! Mrs. Mooreland unburdened herself to her husband over breakfast. He attempted to put the new developments in perspective for her. "You wouldn't expect this Danny Hansford, this unsavory little punk, to discuss his murderous schemes with someone on the order of Mac Bell, would you? Or Reuben Clark?" The names Mr. Mooreland mentioned were two of savannah's most esteemed gentlemen, bank presidents both. they? Male prost.i.tutes! Burglars! Thieves! Mrs. Mooreland unburdened herself to her husband over breakfast. He attempted to put the new developments in perspective for her. "You wouldn't expect this Danny Hansford, this unsavory little punk, to discuss his murderous schemes with someone on the order of Mac Bell, would you? Or Reuben Clark?" The names Mr. Mooreland mentioned were two of savannah's most esteemed gentlemen, bank presidents both.

Well, that did make some sense, Mrs. Mooreland had to admit. But she was still dazed by what she had learned about the nefarious goings-on in the squares, and as she drove around them this sunny noontime in May, she did a little timid sleuthing. Maybe that's one of them, she thought, casting her eyes on a s.h.a.ggy-haired boy lounging casually on a bench in Madison square. But then it crossed her mind that he could have been one of those art students from the savannah College of Art and Design. How could anybody tell anymore? Mrs. Mooreland shuddered and checked her watch. It was time to go to the party. But she had still not resolved her biggest dilemma: what to say to Mrs. Williams about the news. She could hardly exclaim, "Isn't it wonderful!" because a plot involving sodomy, murder, and theft could in no way be described as wonderful. There was nothing in those horrid little stories that was even slightly discussable at a polite luncheon party. She told her husband she thought she might just feign ignorance and pretend she had not read the newspaper at all that day. But he pointed out that a tactic like that could backfire. "It might just force Mrs. Williams to tell you all about it herself," he said. "Better to say something noncommittal like 'We're all keeping our fingers crossed.'" And that is what she finally did.

In fact, in one way or another, that was how all of the guests handled the matter. Mrs. Williams stood at the door of Mercer House in a light blue chiffon dress, accepting obliquely worded congratulations as her guests arrived.

"I feel the tide is turning," said Mrs. Garrard Haines, giving Mrs. Williams a kiss on the cheek.

"Isn't this this a sunny day!" said Lib Richardson. a sunny day!" said Lib Richardson.

Alexander Yearly put it another way: "I expect it won't be long before Jim will be among us again."

Mrs. Williams beamed. "It's just like James said. Everything is going to work out just fine."

The double doors at the end of the center hall were open to the courtyard, giving a view all the way through the house to the opulent greenery of the courtyard garden. The rear of Mercer House was distinctly different from the Italianate facade in front. The back of the house had the look of an antebellum mansion. Tall columns supported a wide porch shaded by dense swags of overgrown wisteria. Several of Mrs. Williams's guests came out to sit in the wicker chairs and look at the sunken garden, the grove of ten-foot-high banana plants, and the lily pond while they ate their lunch.

Betty Cole Ashcraft sat beside Lila Mayhew. Mrs. Mayhew poked absently at her tomatoes and okra. "I suppose we'll have another Christmas without Jim's lovely party," she said in a wistful voice.

"Good gracious, Lila," said Mrs. Ashcraft, "it's only May. So much can happen before Christmas, and anyway it does look as though it isn't all over for Jim just yet."

"Jim always had his party the night before the debutante ball," Mrs. Mayhew went on. "That was his night. Friday. I can't remember what on earth we used to do in the days before Jim started having his parties. I've tried, but I can't recall. My memory is failing, you know."

"Well, never mind, Lila," said Mrs. Ashcraft. "Before you know it, Jim will be right back here giving his parties again. They'll just have to let him out now. I feel sure of it, what with all these ruffians popping up at long last and saying how they were getting ready to kill him. It's a wonder Jim didn't shoot them all. He would have been within his rights, you know."

Mrs. Mayhew put down her fork. "Every year, Beautene made a new dress for me to wear to Jim's party. Beautene is my colored seamstress. I think sometimes she just redecorated an old dress so it looked new. I wouldn't have known the difference anyway. But last Christmas when Jim was in jail, I said, 'Beautene, let's don't bother this year. There won't be anything to do in savannah the night before the Cotillion anyhow.'"

"Now, Lila," Mrs. Ashcraft said gently.

"And do you know what Beautene told me? She said, 'Miss Lila, there may not be anything for you folks to do that night. But that night-the night before Cotillion-that's the night of our our debutante ball.'" debutante ball.'"

"Lord in heaven!" said Mrs. Ashcraft. "You don't mean it."

"Yes. The colored girls. They have a debutante ball the night before Cotillion. When Beautene told me that, I thought, How lovely for them. And I knew right then and there that I would miss Jim Williams's Christmas party more than ever."

Mrs. Mayhew took a sip of her iced tea and gazed into the garden.

As the two ladies lapsed into silence, I became aware of a conversation taking place sotto voce between a man and two women seated on the divan across from me. They were speaking like ventriloquists, barely moving their lips so as not to be overheard. When I tuned in to what they were saying, I understood why.

"It won't work?" one of the women asked the man. "Why not?"

"For several reasons, one of which is that those statements sound as if they were bought and paid for by Jim."

"Would Jim do that?"

"Of course he would," said the man, "and so would I in his position. Sonny Seiler's had both of the boys checked out by a private detective-Sam Weatherly, an ex-cop, good man. Sam says one of the boys may be telling the truth. The other one is poison; he has a reputation for selling testimony to the highest bidder."

"Why can't Sonny just use the one who's telling the truth?"

"Because no jury is going to believe a street hustler, and anyway what he has to say is irrelevant. Danny Hansford's motives are not the issue. He may have wanted to kill Jim, but there's no evidence he tried to do it. There's no evidence he even had a gun in his hand that night. No fingerprints. No gunpowder residue. The physical evidence is the issue. Now, if Jim could pay someone to discredit the physical evidence, that that would be money well spent." would be money well spent."

Mrs. Williams came out onto the porch with a Polaroid camera in her hand. "All right now," she said, "everybody get ready to look pretty!" Her guests looked up from their plates, and Mrs. Williams snapped their picture. The camera made a whirring sound and churned out a black rectangle of film. Mrs. Williams went back inside and laid it on the sideboard with the others. "Later on," she said, "I'm gone carry all these pictures over to James. I just know when he sees them he'll feel like he's been at the party too. I really do. Whenever something important happens, I take a picture to show him. I took him one of the wisteria when it blossomed over the front door, and he called and said, 'Thank you, Mother. Now I can tell it's spring.'"

Faces were beginning to emerge in the photographs on the sideboard. There was Emma Kelly sitting between Joe Odom and Mandy in the rear parlor. Upon arriving at the party, Emma had told Mrs. Williams that every day for the past eight months, she had played "Whispering" on the piano because she knew it was Jim's favorite song. Joe Odom remarked with an ironic smile that the way things seemed to be going lately, he and Jim might be trading places before long.

Two people whose faces were just now coming into full color on the sideboard had caused other guests to stare in disbelief when they arrived at the party: Lee and Emma Adler.

"Now I've seen everything," Katherine Gore had said when the Adlers appeared in the entrance hall.

The antagonism between Lee Adler and Jim Williams had gained a new dimension because of Adler's close a.s.sociation with Spencer Lawton. Lawton had recently announced he was running for reelection, and Adler had cosigned a $10,000 bank loan for his campaign. That check had made Adler responsible for more than two-thirds of all Lawton's campaign money. Adler made no effort to conceal his closeness to Lawton; on the contrary, he put a large RE-ELECT SPENCER LAWTON RE-ELECT SPENCER LAWTON poster on the fence in front of his house. Lawton's smiling face could be seen from the windows of Mercer House. If anything, Adler seemed to revel in Williams's predicament. He hosted a Lawton fund-raising party at which he stood up and read a telegram from "a Lawton supporter" who had been unable to attend. It turned out to be a joke telegram signed "Jim Williams, Chatham County Jail," and it wished Lawton the very worst of bad luck. Adler's audience was not amused. "It was tacky," said one guest. "It made us all uncomfortable, especially Spencer Lawton, who was present." poster on the fence in front of his house. Lawton's smiling face could be seen from the windows of Mercer House. If anything, Adler seemed to revel in Williams's predicament. He hosted a Lawton fund-raising party at which he stood up and read a telegram from "a Lawton supporter" who had been unable to attend. It turned out to be a joke telegram signed "Jim Williams, Chatham County Jail," and it wished Lawton the very worst of bad luck. Adler's audience was not amused. "It was tacky," said one guest. "It made us all uncomfortable, especially Spencer Lawton, who was present."

Meanwhile, Williams waged war against Lawton's re-election campaign from his jail cell, quietly channeling money to Lawton's opponent. A series of full-page anti-Lawton ads appeared in the Savannah newspaper bearing the headline DISTRICT ATTORNEY LAWTON CHARGED WITH CORRUPTION AND MISCONDUCT. DISTRICT ATTORNEY LAWTON CHARGED WITH CORRUPTION AND MISCONDUCT. The ad reminded voters that in reversing the first Williams conviction, the Georgia Supreme Court had accused Lawton of "corrupting the truth-seeking function of the trial process." The ads had been written and paid for by Jim Williams. The ad reminded voters that in reversing the first Williams conviction, the Georgia Supreme Court had accused Lawton of "corrupting the truth-seeking function of the trial process." The ads had been written and paid for by Jim Williams.

For their part, the Adlers were as perplexed as everyone else as to why they had been invited to Mrs. Williams's lunch. After signing their names in the guest book, Emma Adler wrote the word "neighbors" in parentheses, as if to make the point that their connection to the party was purely geographical.

Mrs. Williams slipped the snapshot of the Adlers into the middle of the stack. "James has his reasons, I'm sure," she said in her quiet way, "but, oh, that Lee Adler made me so mad one day. I would never tell James this. It's been about three months ago, I guess. One afternoon he came to make a courtesy call, and I thought, Well, the man knows James is in a bind now, and he's come to have a look around. He thinks there won't be a thing on the walls and that all the furniture will be sold. So he came in, and he was very polite and everything. But I could see right through him. I knew it wasn't in him to be nice to James. He told me, 'Mrs. Williams, I saw Mr. So-and-so from Sotheby's in New York and this, that, and the other, and if I could do anything for James, or if there's anything he wants to sell, just let me know.' Well! Well! I'm gone tell you, right about that time I was fixin' to blow up, but I didn't say a word. I was just as calm as I could be. And I said, 'I appreciate that very much, Mr. Adler, but even where he is now, James has got connections. He can call New York. He can call London. He can call Geneva.' I wasn't ugly to him or anything. But, honey, inside I was boilin' over, 'Cause I knew he came to have a look around." I'm gone tell you, right about that time I was fixin' to blow up, but I didn't say a word. I was just as calm as I could be. And I said, 'I appreciate that very much, Mr. Adler, but even where he is now, James has got connections. He can call New York. He can call London. He can call Geneva.' I wasn't ugly to him or anything. But, honey, inside I was boilin' over, 'Cause I knew he came to have a look around."

Lee Adler's attachment to Spencer Lawton was the very reason Jim Williams had told his mother to invite him. In Williams's view, Lee Adler controlled Spencer Lawton. "Leopold is the power behind the throne," he said. "He's like the vizier in the Turkish court, the man who stands behind a silken screen and whispers in the sultan's ear. Lawton doesn't dare make a move without instructions from Leopold. That makes Leopold dangerous, particularly to me. I've given him plenty of reasons to hate me. I engineered throwing him off the board of the Telfair museum when I was president, and I'm quite sure he pushed the D.A. into charging me with first-degree murder instead of involuntary manslaughter, though he denies it. He's dangerous. No question. But I understand him. I can talk his language if I have to. Honor among thieves, you know. It's never too late to hold out an olive branch. With my new witnesses, my case is going to break wide open. I can feel it. And when that happens, I don't want Leopold skulking around behind that silken screen making mischief."

Williams clearly had some irons in the fire-an appeal in progress, possible new witnesses, and a candidate working to unseat Spencer Lawton. None seemed particularly promising, but if Williams was able to take comfort in them, what was the harm? It was unlikely that an invitation to a congenial luncheon party would convert Lee Adler to his cause. Still, Williams had summoned all the influence he could muster in the effort-the guileless charm of his mother, the delectation of Lucille Wright's cooking, the company of friends in common, and not least of all, the mysterious powers of Minerva. Minerva had come in from Beaufort and was dressed for the occasion in a maid's costume. For the first hour or so, she stood quietly in the dining room while the guests served themselves from the buffet. Later on, she circulated with a pitcher of iced tea. At one point she poured two tall gla.s.ses for the Adlers, while munching on a root and fixing them with a penetrating stare through the purple lenses of her wire-rimmed gla.s.ses.

Williams kept informed of the party's progress through periodic telephone calls during the course of the lunch. He reminded Barry Thomas to turn on the fountain (Thomas had forgotten), and he gave instructions to his mother and Lucille at each stage of the lunch. When the last of the guests had left, Mrs. Williams and Barry Thomas reported to Williams that the lunch had been a success. Mrs. Williams said she would be leaving shortly to bring the snapshots over to the jail so he could see for himself.

After she hung up, she lingered at the desk for a moment. The morning paper lay on the desk in front of her.

"Barry?" she said.

Barry Thomas turned back at the doorway. "Yes, Mrs. Williams?"

Mrs. Williams paused uncertainly. She glanced down at the paper and the story about the new witnesses.

"I ... I've been wondering," she said. "All these things they've been saying about James ... and that Hansford boy ... and now these other boys." Mrs. Williams gestured at the paper. "I try not to pay any mind. But I don't know. Seems like I remember hearing people say the same thing about King James of England. You know, the King James that had them to write the King James Bible? Do you know if that's true? Have you ever heard anybody say that about King James?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have," said Thomas. "King James did have favorites among the men at court, if that's what you mean. He had his special friends. I think he had several."

The hint of a smile appeared at the corners of Mrs. Williams's mouth. "Well," she said softly, "all right then."

Chapter 24.

BLACK MINUET.

In mid-August, despite the statements made by Jim Williams's new witnesses, Judge Oliver denied Williams's motion for a new trial. Sonny Seiler promptly announced he would take the appeal to the next level, the Georgia Supreme Court. A few weeks later, Spencer Lawton won reelection as district attorney, ensuring that he would be in a position to fight the appeal every step of the way.

When the bad news reached Williams, he picked up the telephone and called Christie's in Geneva to place a bid on a Faberge cigarette case that had once belonged to Edward VII. "It cost me fifteen thousand dollars, which I can ill afford," he said, "but it makes me feel better. I'm the only person in the world who's ever bought Faberge from a jail cell."

Increasingly, Williams used little tricks to convince himself and others that he was not really in jail. He continued routing his phone calls through Mercer House and dictating letters that were typed at home on his engraved stationery. He sent several such letters to newspapers and magazines. One was published in Architectural Digest. Architectural Digest. It was a note praising the magazine for having run an article by the New York socialite Brooke Astor. "Delightful!" Williams's note read. "Brooke Astor has given us a delicious treat by recounting her early experiences with formal dining. Her recollections will serve as a lasting guide in the art of living well. My best wishes to our hostess.- It was a note praising the magazine for having run an article by the New York socialite Brooke Astor. "Delightful!" Williams's note read. "Brooke Astor has given us a delicious treat by recounting her early experiences with formal dining. Her recollections will serve as a lasting guide in the art of living well. My best wishes to our hostess.-James A. Williams, Savannah, Georgia."

Williams would not submit to the notion that he was in jail. "It's a matter of survival," he said. "I hypnotize myself so that, in my own mind at least, I am not here." I am not here."

Wherever Jim Williams's mind had taken him, it was clear by early fall that his body would still be in jail at Christmastime. Once again, there would be a gap in the social calendar on the night before the Cotillion ball, the night formerly reserved for his Christmas party. I recalled Lila Mayhew's lament back in May that she would have nothing to do that night. I also remembered what her black seamstress had told her-that the night of Jim Williams's party was the night the blacks had their debutante ball. The more I thought about it, the more I began to feel the urge, as an observer of the local scene, to know more about the black debutante ball and, if possible, to be invited to it.

Savannah's blacks had been presenting debutantes at formal b.a.l.l.s for nearly forty years. The ball was sponsored by the graduate chapter of Alpha Phi Alpha, a black fraternity at Savannah State College. Nationally, Alpha Phi Alpha was the oldest black college fraternity in the country, having been founded at Cornell at the turn of the century. The fraternity was intended to be more than just an undergraduate social club, as its slogan "Bigger and Better Negro Business" suggested. In fact, the graduate chapter in Savannah, with sixty-five members, was more active than the undergraduate chapter, which had fifteen.

The graduate Alphas were representative of the upper level of Savannah's black community. Their membership included teachers, school princ.i.p.als, doctors, ministers, owners of small businesses, and lawyers. Notably absent were bankers, partners of the city's most influential law firms, directors of big corporations, and people with inherited wealth. The Alphas, unlike the members of the Cotillion, did not belong to the Oglethorpe Club, the golf club, or the yacht club. One of Savannah's three black city councilmen was an Alpha, but it could not be said that the Alphas-or the black community as a whole-were part of Savannah's power structure. The annual activities of the Alpha graduate chapter included a voter-registration drive, a dance to raise money for scholarships, and a series of social events leading up to the debutante ball.

The debutante ball had been the brainchild of Dr. Henry Collier, a gynecologist and the first black doctor to perform surgery at Candler Hospital. Dr. Collier got the idea for the ball in the 1940s when he heard that a group of black businessmen in Texas had sponsored a cotillion. He suggested to his fellow Alphas that they sponsor a similar ball in Savannah, and the Alphas agreed.

Dr. Collier lived on Mills B. Lane Boulevard, several miles to the west of downtown. He had built his house in the 1950s when no one would sell him property in the exclusive white enclave of Ardsley Park. It was a rambling brick structure that had been added on to over the years without any apparent plan. A modest front door opened on a double-height entrance foyer with a grand circular stairway and a bubbling, two-tiered fountain in the center. A buoyant man in his late sixties, Dr. Collier greeted me warmly and ushered me into the family room off the kitchen, where we had coffee while with great enthusiasm he told me about his brainchild, the debutante ball.

"Our first ball was in 1945," he said. "We presented five girls that year, and we set up a system that we've used ever since. The members of the fraternity nominate the girls, and then we check them out to make sure they meet our criteria. The girls have to be of good moral character. That's most important. They have to have finished high school and be matriculated in a school of higher learning. We interview their neighbors, their high school teachers, and people in their church. For a girl to be disqualified, somebody has to have definite knowledge of misconduct-that she has left home, or that she frequents lounges or nightclubs, or has been in trouble with the police. If a girl has had an abortion, for instance, that would rule her out.

"Once the debutantes have been approved, we require that they attend what we call Charm Week so that they will know how to be gracious and the like. The Alphabettes take charge of that. That's what we call the wives of the Alphas-Alphabettes."

Dr. Collier opened a photo alb.u.m of memorabilia from past debutante b.a.l.l.s. "This was our first ball," he said. "We had it at the Coconut Grove, which was a black dance hall. In those years, of course, public facilities were segregated, so none of the hotels would rent their ballroom to us, and the newspapers acted as if we didn't exist. We got coverage in the black press only. That all changed with integration. In 1965, for the first time ever, we presented our debutantes in the ballroom of the old DeSoto Hotel-the same room where the Cotillion had its ball the very next night. About that time, too, the Savannah Morning News Savannah Morning News finally decided it could call blacks by the courtesy t.i.tles-Mr., Mrs., and Miss-and they began to publish the names of our debutantes. I wouldn't say we've reached absolute parity with the Cotillion yet, though. The society pages always report on all the coming-out parties that precede the Cotillion ball-the mother-daughter luncheons, the barbecues, the lawn parties, the oyster roasts, and what have you. But when we submit photographs from our coming-out parties, they don't use them. However ..." Dr. Collier waved his hand. "In time, that, too, will come." finally decided it could call blacks by the courtesy t.i.tles-Mr., Mrs., and Miss-and they began to publish the names of our debutantes. I wouldn't say we've reached absolute parity with the Cotillion yet, though. The society pages always report on all the coming-out parties that precede the Cotillion ball-the mother-daughter luncheons, the barbecues, the lawn parties, the oyster roasts, and what have you. But when we submit photographs from our coming-out parties, they don't use them. However ..." Dr. Collier waved his hand. "In time, that, too, will come."

As Dr. Collier flipped through the pages of the photo alb.u.m, year after year of debutantes flowed by. Midway through, around 1970, I noticed that a change in complexion had come over the girls. Almost all of the early debutantes had been light-skinned; now there were darker faces too. The change coincided with the emergence of Black Pride, and it seemed that the Alphas had responded by expanding the range of skin tones deemed acceptable for debutantes.

Dr. Collier continued turning the pages. "You know, some people say our debutante ball is just a copy of the Cotillion ball. Sure it is. But you know, in one way our ball is better than the Cotillion ball. And it tickles me every time. See this picture?" Dr. Collier pointed to a photograph of fifteen debutantes in a procession, their left hands resting daintily on the raised right hand of their escorts. "Know what they're doing here?" he asked. "They're dancing the minuet! They don't do that at the Cotillion." Dr. Collier laughed a delighted, cackling laugh. "That's right. We have 'em dance the minuet!" minuet!"

"How did you happen to choose the minuet?" I asked.

Dr. Collier threw up his hands and laughed. "I don't know! I think I must have seen it in the movies. We do it very properly too. We hire a string quartet to play the minuet from Mozart's Don Giovanni. Don Giovanni. And let me tell you, it's quite a spectacle. I'd like you to come as my guest. Then you'll see." And let me tell you, it's quite a spectacle. I'd like you to come as my guest. Then you'll see."

"Ooooo, child!" child!" Chablis cooed when I told her I was going to the black debutante ball. "Take me with you as your date, honey!" Chablis cooed when I told her I was going to the black debutante ball. "Take me with you as your date, honey!"

I would have been hard-pressed to imagine a more demented faux pas than to appear at the ball with a black drag queen on my arm. I was hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible and had already decided to go alone. "Sorry, Chablis," I said. "I'm afraid not."

Chablis saw nothing at all outlandish in the idea of accompanying me to the ball. "I promise I won't embarra.s.s you, baby," she pleaded. "I won't cuss or dance dirty or shake my b.u.t.t. I won't do any of that s.h.i.t. I promise. I will be The Laaaayyy Laaaayyy-dy Chablis all night long. Just for you. Oh, I've never been to a real ball. Take me, take me, take me."

"It's out of the question," I said.

Chablis pouted. "I know what you're thinkin'. You're thinkin' I'm not good enough to clientele with them fancy-a.s.s black folks."

"I hadn't even thought about that part," I said, "but now that you mention it, the debutantes are all rather proper young ladies from what I've been told."

"Oh?" Chablis looked at me archly. "And what does that mean, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Well, for one thing," I said, "none of them has ever been caught shoplifting."

"Then they must be real good at it, honey. Or else they don't know what shoppin's all about. I am serious. I can't believe you're tryin' to tell me that out of twenty-five b.i.t.c.hes not one of 'em has ever stolen a bra or a pair of panty hose, 'Cause I will not fall for that s.h.i.t. All right, now tell me what else is so proper about them?"

"They're all enrolled in college," I said.

"Uh-huh." Chablis studied her fingernails.

"They do volunteer work for the community."

"Uh-huh."

"They go to church regularly and are known to be women of good character."

"Mm-hmmm."

"None of them has ever been seen hanging out in bars or lounges."

"Child, you are beginnin' to work my nerves! Next you're gonna be tellin' me they've all had their p.u.s.s.ies checked out, and they're virgins."

"All I know, Chablis, is that they have spotless reputations. That much has been checked out. And not one of them has ever been known to be guilty of 'misconduct.'"

Chablis shot me a sideways look. "Are you sure these girls are black?"

"Of course."

"Then all I can say is they must be reeeeeal reeeeeal ugly." ugly."

"No, Chablis, they're pretty good-looking actually."

"Well, maybe, but anytime I wanna see a bunch of stuck-up nuns parade around in white dresses, I can take my a.s.s to church. I don't need to go to no ball to see that. So, you can forget about askin' me to be your date, honey, 'Cause I ain't goin'."

"Well," I said, "I guess that settles that."

The twenty-five debutantes had been culled from an original group of fifty nominees. Some of the nominees had declined the offer for lack of interest or because they could not afford the $800 that being a debutante would cost, including the entrance fee, the price of a gown, the expense of hosting a social event, and incidentals. The prospective debutantes were invited to a meeting at the Quality Inn, where they were welcomed by members of the Alphabette Debutante Committee and told what lay in store for them in the months preceding the ball.

They would be expected to perform ten hours of community service or write a three-page paper on an approved topic. They would be required to appear at four minuet cla.s.ses. And they would be obliged to host a coming-out party with several other debutantes to which all the debutantes, parents, escorts, and members of the Alpha Debutante Committee and their wives would be invited. Charm Week was the centerpiece of the debutantes' indoctrination. The Alphas' wives, the Alphabettes, taught cla.s.ses in beauty and the social graces-how to plan a party, send out invitations, set a table, introduce people properly, and write thank-you notes. There was a session on table manners ("b.u.t.ter only the piece of bread you are about to put in your mouth .... If food drops to the floor, let it stay there; call for the waiter .... If you happen to put a piece of gristle in your mouth, take it out with whatever put it in-a fork, a spoon, not your fingers"). The debutantes were taught ways to improve their speech ("Never say 'aks,' say 'ask.' Aks Aks should be should be axed axed from your vocabulary ... and get rid of words like 'um' and 'well'"). They were taught how to curtsy ("Don't pop up-come up slowly"), how to sit gracefully ("Keep your legs straight together or crossed at the ankles, never crossed at the knees"), and how to walk like a lady ("Back straight, shoulders up, arms to your sides, and from your vocabulary ... and get rid of words like 'um' and 'well'"). They were taught how to curtsy ("Don't pop up-come up slowly"), how to sit gracefully ("Keep your legs straight together or crossed at the ankles, never crossed at the knees"), and how to walk like a lady ("Back straight, shoulders up, arms to your sides, and no bopping!"). no bopping!").

There was a set of criteria for the debutantes' escorts too. It boiled down to two requirements: They had to be high school graduates currently in college or the military, and they could not have been convicted of a felony. Lining up escorts was not an easy matter. Boys tended to regard being an escort as more a ch.o.r.e than an honor. They balked at attending the dance cla.s.ses, renting a tailcoat, and going to so many parties where the chaperons tended to outnumber the young people. It was not unusual, therefore, for a debutante's boyfriend to beg off and for the debutante to be escorted by someone who had been pressed into service-an older brother, the son of a graduate Alpha, or one of the current undergraduate Alphas.

At noon on the day of the ball, the twenty-five debutantes arrived at the Hyatt Regency for a dress rehearsal, carrying their gowns in garment bags. They went upstairs to a suite of rooms reserved as dressing rooms, and after changing, they came down to the ballroom, where their fathers and their escorts were waiting to rehea.r.s.e the waltz and the minuet.

The Alpha ball was to be a more modest affair than the Cotillion ball the next night: There would be two cash bars instead of five open bars; there would be a breakfast served at 1:00 A.M. A.M. instead of both a dinner and a breakfast, and there would be minimal decorations. Nonetheless, the impending affair was not going unnoticed in the hotel. During the dress rehearsal, a cl.u.s.ter of curious onlookers peered through the door, captivated by the sight of so many young black girls in flowing white ballgowns. One of the observers, a man in a gray suit and tan shoes, called attention to the cases of wine and liquor being unpacked at the far end of the ballroom. "Don't kid yourself," he said with a knowing air. "Blacks drink better whiskey than whites do. Dewar's, Johnnie Walker, Seagram's, Hennessy. All the high-priced brands. I have a theory about why that is." The man cupped the elbow of his pipe-holding arm and rocked back on his heels, glancing to his right and left to satisfy himself that the people standing in his immediate vicinity were paying sufficient attention. He then delivered himself of a peculiarly home spun theory: "Remember when the black athletes at the Mexico City Olympics won a lot of medals and raised their fists in the black-power salute? Well, that's when blacks in Savannah started drinking Dewar's scotch, Seagram's gin, and Smirnoff vodka. If you look at those bottles, you'll notice that all the labels have medals on them. Blacks had suddenly begun to identify with medals because of the Olympics, and that's why they bought those brands. At about the same time, they also started drinking Hennessy cognac. The Hennessy label has a picture of a hand holding a mace-something like the black-power salute. Johnnie Walker scotch has a man with riding breeches and a top hat, which represents the 'good life.' It all has to do with the symbol on the label. The best example of that was when school integration was taking place. That's when blacks started drinking Teacher's scotch, which has a label showing a professor wearing a mortarboard. They go for the symbol, y'see. At least that's the way I figure it." instead of both a dinner and a breakfast, and there would be minimal decorations. Nonetheless, the impending affair was not going unnoticed in the hotel. During the dress rehearsal, a cl.u.s.ter of curious onlookers peered through the door, captivated by the sight of so many young black girls in flowing white ballgowns. One of the observers, a man in a gray suit and tan shoes, called attention to the cases of wine and liquor being unpacked at the far end of the ballroom. "Don't kid yourself," he said with a knowing air. "Blacks drink better whiskey than whites do. Dewar's, Johnnie Walker, Seagram's, Hennessy. All the high-priced brands. I have a theory about why that is." The man cupped the elbow of his pipe-holding arm and rocked back on his heels, glancing to his right and left to satisfy himself that the people standing in his immediate vicinity were paying sufficient attention. He then delivered himself of a peculiarly home spun theory: "Remember when the black athletes at the Mexico City Olympics won a lot of medals and raised their fists in the black-power salute? Well, that's when blacks in Savannah started drinking Dewar's scotch, Seagram's gin, and Smirnoff vodka. If you look at those bottles, you'll notice that all the labels have medals on them. Blacks had suddenly begun to identify with medals because of the Olympics, and that's why they bought those brands. At about the same time, they also started drinking Hennessy cognac. The Hennessy label has a picture of a hand holding a mace-something like the black-power salute. Johnnie Walker scotch has a man with riding breeches and a top hat, which represents the 'good life.' It all has to do with the symbol on the label. The best example of that was when school integration was taking place. That's when blacks started drinking Teacher's scotch, which has a label showing a professor wearing a mortarboard. They go for the symbol, y'see. At least that's the way I figure it."

Toward nine o'clock, the Hyatt's vast atrium lobby began to fill with guests arriving for the ball. A long, steep escalator carried a stately stream of formally dressed black couples high above the potted plants and trees to the ballroom on the second floor. Inside the ballroom, a string quartet played chamber music as four hundred guests mingled briefly before quietly taking their places at tables around the dance floor. One table of guests, knowing that no dinner would be served, brought a carton of take-out snacks, which they started eating as soon as the lights dimmed.

The president of the graduate chapter of Alpha Phi Alpha stepped to the podium dressed in the fraternity's colors-a black-and-gold tuxedo, a gold dress shirt, and a gold bow tie. He welcomed the gathering and bade the ceremonies begin. With the string quartet playing background music, an Alphabette took the microphone and read the name of the first debutante. The debutante, escorted by her father, walked to a small platform, mounted the steps, turned toward the audience, and curtsied. The announcer called out the names of her parents, her high school, her college, and the subject in which she was majoring. Then her escort approached from the other side, took her hand, and led her down from the platform as the announcer read his name and those of his parents, his school, and his major. One by one, the debutantes and their escorts were introduced in this manner. The girls each held a bouquet of yellow flowers dotted with twinkling pin lights powered by batteries in the handle of the bouquet. The escorts were dressed in black tie, wing collar, tailcoats, and white gloves. They held their left hands behind them at the small of their backs, palm outward.

At the end of the presentations, the debs and escorts stood facing each other in two long rows that filled most of the dance floor. The hall was silent for a moment; then the string quartet struck up again. The escorts bowed in unison, and the debutantes curtsied, their gowns sweeping the floor in a foamy surf of white ruffles and lace. The couples then joined hands and moved forward in a graceful promenade, dancing a lilting minuet to the strains of Don Giovanni. Don Giovanni. The room seemed to rise and fall with each gliding step; it was almost as if they were skating. A current of exhilaration coursed throughout the room. Women held their breath, men stared in wonder. At the table of honor, Dr. Collier smiled from ear to ear, his joy shared by all. The room seemed to rise and fall with each gliding step; it was almost as if they were skating. A current of exhilaration coursed throughout the room. Women held their breath, men stared in wonder. At the table of honor, Dr. Collier smiled from ear to ear, his joy shared by all.

When the minuet was done, the debutantes danced two waltzes, first with their fathers, then with their escorts. After that, the string quartet packed up and left, and the Bobby Lewis band began setting up for ballroom dancing.

Dr. Collier had put me at a table with several Alphas and Alphabettes. In the afterglow of the minuet, the Alphas were beaming with pride. One of the women mentioned that the local chapter of the Links, the most prestigious black women's civic and social organization in the United States, had expressed a desire to preside over the Savannah debutante proceedings, as they did in Atlanta and other cities. But the Alphas would not give it up.