ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? (19 page)

"What do ya say, Arthur," Tony trying to hide his impatience. "Ya
know my vote. Now, what's yours? You gonna vote your brother's way?"

"That's not fair, Tony," Ms. Pinchick complained.

"Don't we already know how he's going to vote?" Walden asked.

Arthur sat up straight. "No one says how I'm gonna vote but me."

"Okay," Carl said. "But vote already, won't you?"

"I vote yes. Wid Tony."

"Four to tree," Tony announced, pleased. "The anti-meeting
campaign is on."

Sylvia Pinchik glared at Tony Zolli. "I think you're going to regret this,
Tony. I think we're all going to regret it." She stood, slipped her purse
over her shoulder, gave him one last angry look and marched out of the room,
heels clicking on the wooden floor.

"I guess you can't please everyone," said the youngest Zolli,
flashing what he hoped was an endearing smile.

"Yeah," said brother Arthur. "Some people."

"Gentlemen," said Big Tony, "'scuse me, I gotta see a man about
a horse."

"Same here," said Carl Pollack, getting up to follow.

In the restaurant men's room, a study in hexagonal white tiles and black stall
doors, the two men found themselves standing side by side at a pair of
old-fashioned full-length urinals.

"I knew we were going to win," Pollack said.

"Oh yeah?" said Tony. "We ain’t won yet."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll win when Callaway cancels dae meeting."

Pollack finished and zipped up. "What if he doesn't?" He went to the
sink, ran a few drops of water over his hands and shook them dry.

Tony zipped up. "Then we'll have to light a few fires," he said.

Chapter Ten

The Confederacy was a land of traditions, some so ingrained they seemed
genetic. Among these was the Debutantes' Ball, a lavish cotillion during which
society's most eligible females—meaning its richest and best-looking—were put
on display and introduced to their mirror images of the opposite gender.

In decades past, such festivities had been annual events at dozens of
Confederate plantations, reflections of customs that began in old England. They
gave the CSA's upper crust—the people who owned all the lands they could see
and hugely profited by the once slave-tended cotton, rice or tobacco grown on
it—the chance to meet, mingle and steer their children into appropriate
matches, the better to perpetuate and mix aristocratic fortunes and blood
lines.

In the 19th century and even the first half of the 20th, these balls were
exceptionally extravagant lavish events. Held in the great plantation houses
with luxuriantly-planted grounds and ballrooms the size of field houses, they
were attended by hundreds of guests, all of them dressed in the finest, most
elaborate and most stylish clothing of the day, and served by flocks of
handsome, smiling, elegantly uniformed Negro servants.

In these ballrooms, they danced the quadrille or Virginia Reel and, later,
waltzes, polkas, tangos and foxtrots, to music provided by orchestras famous
throughout the Confederacy. They ate the finest food, game and meats, the
bounty of plantation-ground hunting parties. They were entertained by privately
performed dramas starring the country's greatest thespians, and by the foremost
orators and most popular vocalists.

It was in this capacity—and because of her many lifelong friendships among the
sons and daughters of the plantation families—that Delphine Bourque, Daughter
of the Delta and Songbird of the South, came to visit Westover Plantation, on
Virginia's James River, and to share with the assembled guests her considerable
talents.

But she had come for another reason as well—on assignment from Roy, on a
mission that could be very important to her father and to her country. It was a
heavy responsibility, and it had its risks. But she was determined to do the
job and confident that she could carry it out.

Delphine flew into Richmond, arriving at about 2 p.m., carrying her guitar and
a single suitcase. A uniformed Black driver, a smiling, round-faced,
grey-haired man in his 60s, met her at the gate, picked up her suitcase—she
held on to the guitar—and escorted her to a Westover limousine—a stately old
Cadillac, imported in better days.

They rode along the James River, through the verdant countryside, arriving at
the famous plantation in less than an hour. Coming around the north side of the
great house, they entered the grounds though the famous iron gates, which
featured the initials of the original owner, William Evelyn Byrd, the bird
theme repeated with lead eagles on the gateposts.

For Delphine Bourque, this was something of a homecoming. As a child, she'd
frequently visited the Westover Plantation, befriending the even younger Cecily
Randolph, daughter of Westover's current squire, Edmund Randolph, one of
William Byrd's several great-grandsons. The girls had chased puppies over those
vast green lawns and ferreted out oatmeal cookies from the pantry cabinets,
while the plump Negro cooks looked on indulgently.

The limousine passed through the ancient boxwood hedges that enclosed
Westover's serene formal gardens, then pulled up at the front door of the imposing
brick mansion beneath the overhanging branches of the ancient tulip poplars.
The driver got out, scurried around to the limo's back door and opened it.
Delphine stepped out into the bright sunlight, while the driver handed her
suitcase to a slender Negro houseboy, a teenager.

"Miss Delphine?"

"Yes, young man," She said, smiling.

"I'm to take you to your bedroom, in the west wing."

"Lead on."

They walked into chaos—purposeful chaos. To the left, in the grand ballroom, a
troupe of colored workers were moving flower pots into position, putting up
drapes, hanging decorative lanterns from the ceilings, teetering on high
ladders,. In one corner of the room, a pair of bartenders were setting up shop.
To the right, in the dining room, the catering staff was spreading linen over
the huge round plywood tables, along with fine china, silver and crystal.

For Delphine Bourque, it was walking into a scrapbook from her childhood. Not
so many years ago, she'd been presented to the South's finest young beaus at a
party just like this. And since then, she'd been a guest at a dozen similar
glamorous soirees at plantations in Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Louisiana
and the rest the South. And she'd loved every one of them.

"This way, Ms. Delphine," said the young servant, and he headed up
the great oak staircase, which spread wide at the bottom and narrowed toward
middle, then spread out again at the top, dividing into three branches, one
leading to the west wing, another to the east wing and a third to the second
floor rooms of the main house. She stashed her guitar in a closet and followed.

The servant led Delphine to a nice, bright room on the second floor.
"Where will I find Cecily?" She asked. "We're old friends."

"I'll take you to her, Ms. Delphine," the boy said. He led her to
Cecily Randolph's bedroom, on the second floor, directly over the mansion's
main entrance.

Delphine knocked on the door and opened it the moment Cecily answered. The next
few minutes were a blur of hugs and kisses, obligatory but heartfelt—two old
friends seeing each other again after a long separation. Then they stood back
and regarded each other.

"You've turned into quite a beauty, Cecily," Delphine said, looking
with approval at her tall, blue-eyed, brunette friend. Cecily was a girl with
exquisitely delicate features, who could have made a career out of modeling
anything from high fashion to lipstick.

"Look who's talking," Cecily said.

Reunion was followed by reminiscing and reminiscing was followed by gossip,
which led directly to the Big Question.

"So Cecily," Delphine said, eyes twinkling, "anyone special in
your life?"

Cecily turned shy.

"Come on, fess up."

"Well now," she finally said coquettishly. "As a matter of fact,
yes. His name is Malcolm Mayback. He's
gorgeous
. His father is…"

"The Royhattan Plantation Mayback?"

"The very same."

"I assume it's mutual."

She nodded, blushing.

"Flying pretty high, young lady."

That got a big smile. "And what about
you
, Delphine?"

She should have anticipated that, but she hadn't. "Well, there is, um,
someone."

Cecily lit up. "Tell," she instructed.

"Ah, hmm—it's at a, uh, delicate stage. I don't want to jinx it."

"Is he handsome?"

"What do you think?"

"Rich?"

"Not exactly, but…”

"I think you have a beau too."

“Well, perhaps,” Delphine said coyly, surprising herself with an imitation of
Cecily’s impish manner. Suddenly, she was struck by how little her friend had
changed over the years. Cecily remained girlishly innocent and unsophisticated,
having never really left the fairy tale world of her youth, remaining sheltered
by parents, plantation and tradition.

Delphine, as she now reminded herself, had traveled far and wide, and closely
watched her father grapple with the Confederacy’s difficulties. She’d seen
politics at its ugliest. She’d fallen in love, God help her, with a Black man.
What would Cecily say if she knew about Roy Pickett? Would the friendship survive?
Or would she go running to her father, who would then order Delphine to leave
and never darken his doorstep again.

It was time to change the subject, Delphine decided. She walked over to the
window. "Lot of cars out there," she said, pointing—and changing the
subject.

Cecily joined her and together they watched the cars pull up to the main
entrance—big Hudsons made in Birmingham, NAU-built Cadillacs and
Duesenbergs, and, from Europe, Rolls Royces, Daimlers, Mercedes Benzs and
three stately Hohenbergs. Few of them were new, but most of them had been
beautifully maintained.

One after another, the automobiles stopped at the main entrance, where they
disgorged some of the most notable families of the South—the Merriweathers, the
Aikens, the Langhorns, the Buford, the Carswells, the Harringtons and so many
others.

Mostly, they came in fours—the great aristocrats, patriarch and matriarch,
cultured, if elderly, their youngest daughters, some quite beautiful, some not
so much, and their youngest sons, most of them mixed blessings, ready as they'd
ever be to be presented to polite society.

It was a generational moment. For most of these plantation families, the
children were the last of the brood, the older offspring having already made
their debuts, found their matches and drifted away to live their own lives and
raise their own broods.

"I haven't seen the Covingtons yet," Delphine said.

"They sent their regrets," Cecily told her.

"So Cady is missing her own coming-out party?"

"Not just Cady," Cecily said. "Darcy Buchanan won't be coming
either. Neither will Isabel Hicks."

"Darcy Buchanan won't be here?" Delphine asked. "Well, I just
guess I'll have to grit my teeth and make the best of it."

Cecily laughed.

"Is that Felicity Dudley?" Delphine pointed, looking surprised.

"The very same."

"Those can't be real."

Cecily laughed again. "Last year, she was flat as a pancake."

Delphine pointed again. "Caroline Clairborne, right?"

"Yep. All grown up. And blonde."

Delphine continued to watch the arriving parade. Some guests came in fancy
dress, but the majority were casually attired and their drivers were carrying
plastic clothing bags and cosmetics cases. She knew they'd be guided to one of
the mansion's many bedrooms, where they would primp, blow dry, dress and at
last emerge, as butterflies from cocoons, ready to take flight in High Society.

As dinnertime approached, Delphine helped Cecily wriggle into a gorgeous lacey
white Versace gown, then she excused herself, changed into her own more modest
gown, went downstairs and positioned herself near the foot of the grand
staircase, where she would have a clear view of the great procession.

At about 6:30, the orchestra struck up "Dixie" and it began, girls
approaching the top of the staircase from the right, led by Cecily Randolph,
while boys in tuxedoes came from the left. They met at the top, awkwardly
linked hands and descended together, nearly in slow motion. The parents lined
the outside of the staircase, the better to see their offspring.

It was a bit like a fashion show, with the staircase standing in for a runway.
The girls, most of them free-range, dazzling in their Dolces and their
Gabbanas, in their Mizrahis and their Kors, all in extra-virginal white. They
came floating down the stairway like so many c
hrysanthemum
s drifting downstream.

The girls hung on for dear life to the boys in tuxes—and boys they were, mostly
members of the Clearasil generation. All told, Delphine mentally calculated,
they were smeared with enough of the stuff to caulk a small sailboat.
Evidently, there'd been a shortfall of male heirs among CSA aristocrats in
recent years.

At the bottom of the stairway, underneath a crystal chandelier the size of the
Dillard's first floor Christmas tree, stood Edmund Randolph, handsome, tall,
distinguished—exactly what Central Casting would have come up with if asked to
produce the prototypical Confederate-variety "lord of the manor." He
had assumed a patriarchal smile.

As each girl stepped down to the main floor, her escort peeled off. Then the
girl faced Mr. Randolph and performed the traditional St. James bow, also known
as a common curtsy. He took her hand in his, spoke a few words of praise, about
her beauty, her lineage or her accomplishments, whichever he could mention most
credibly, and introduced her to the assembled aristocrats, who applauded
obediently.

Watching this, Delphine couldn't help but think of
her
cotillion and all
the others she'd attended…fond memories of good times and loving families. She
remembered her mother's tears as she came gliding down Acadia's marble
staircase. She remembered her father's proud smile. It wasn't that long
ago—only five years.

But something was
different this time, and not just the cast of characters. She watched the girls
being introduced, trying to figure out what it was. After awhile, it became
clear. The easy self-confidence she recalled from previous balls had faded
away. So had the untroubled delight. They'd been replaced by uncertain smiles
and grim determination.

She was not, she
realized, witnessing a cotillion. She was witnessing the re-enactment of a
cotillion. She was watching a group of people going through the motions,
replaying from memory their roles in an event that, in years past, had been a
genuine coming of age celebration, put on by the wealthiest and most
prestigious families in the country. Now it was an archeological artifact, a
cotillion that had been taken out of the freezer, defrosted and set out on the
table as if were freshly picked,

When the last of the girls had been introduced, everyone headed into the dining
room. They all took their seats, Delphine at the front table with the Randolph
family. Edmund rose, spoke a few gracious words of welcome, and the servants
appeared with platters overflowing with quail and pheasant, while others
brought endless bottles of fine champagne.

They feasted—and conversed—for the better part of two hours. Then the
orchestra started up, and the younger and more energetic guests, including all
of the girls and most of their escorts, adjourned to the ballroom, where they
did their damndest to work off what they'd just eaten and to engage in
merriment and mirth.