Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil (47 page)

“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 album of memorabilia from past debutante balls. “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
finally decided it could call blacks by the courtesy titles—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 album, 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!”

“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.
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!”
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 embarrass you, baby,” she pleaded. “I won’t cuss or dance dirty or shake my butt. I won’t do any of that shit. I promise. I will be The
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-ass 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 bitches not one of ’em has ever stolen a bra or a pair of panty hose, ’Cause I will not fall for that shit. 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 pussies 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
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 ass 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 classes. 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 classes 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 (“Butter 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
should be
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
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 chore than an honor. They balked at attending the dance classes, 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 rehearse 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.
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 cluster 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.