Saving Savannah Read online

  For my fiction editor, Mary Kate Castellani, who believed in Crossing Ebenezer Creek

  ALSO BY TONYA BOLDEN

  Inventing Victoria

  Crossing Ebenezer Creek

  Finding Family

  Dark Sky Rising: Reconstruction and the Dawn of Jim Crow (with Henry Louis Gates Jr.)

  Facing Frederick: The Life of Frederick Douglass, A Monumental American Man

  No Small Potatoes

  Pathfinders: The Journeys of Sixteen Extraordinary Black Souls

  Capital Days: Michael Shiner’s Journal and the Growth of Our Nation’s Capital

  Beautiful Moon: A Child’s Prayer

  Searching for Sarah Rector: The Richest Black Girl in America

  Emancipation Proclamation: Lincoln and the Dawn of Liberty

  George Washington Carver

  M.L.K.: Journey of a King

  Maritcha: A Nineteenth-Century American Girl

  Cause: Reconstruction America, 1863–1877

  The Champ: The Story of Muhammad Ali

  Portraits of African-American Heroes

  WITH CAROL ANDERSON

  One Person, No Vote: How Not All Voters Are Treated Equally

  We Are Not Yet Equal: Understanding Our Racial Divide

  CONTENTS

  Shine, Daughter, Shine!

  Crab Puff after Crab Puff

  The Watch Fire Women

  Beggar in the Rain

  Starlight

  So Mean to Me

  Hell Fighters

  Kitchen Clock Tick-Tocked

  Best Day Ever!

  The Scent of Lysol F&F

  Horrified

  Before the Open Eye Saloon

  In the Wholly Impossible

  Spiraling Blue Leaves

  A Very Bad Influence

  Revenge After All?

  Miss Ting

  Want to Puke!

  Rise Up! Rise Up! Rise Up!

  All Day?

  Far-Off Hopes and Dreams

  Hello, Miss Fine Lady

  Monkey-Chasing, Tree-Climbing …

  Three Crude Wooden Steps

  Pathetic!

  More Chaos to Come

  Two Weak Whimpers

  Frozen

  Same Spoon-Back Chaise

  Scrambled Eggs and Toast

  As It Ought to Be

  Evil Unloosed

  Sunshine Krispy Crackers Too

  Crab Puffs for Yolande

  Sachems, Cabbage Whites, and Tiger Swallowtails

  Beckoned by the Past

  Areopagitica

  Franklin 3159

  Flatirons, Even

  Mewing Her Mighty Youth

  Methinks I See

  Wider Band of Blue

  Eyes Faced Front

  Lord Calvert Steel-Cut Coffee

  A Wider World

  Mother Questing

  Eeny, Meeny

  Like a Wildfire Leaps a River

  More Capital Arrests

  His “Miss Ting”

  Murmuration

  On the Edison Amberola

  Most of All There Is Love

  Author’s Note

  Notes

  Photograph Credits

  Selected Sources

  Acknowledgments

  SHINE, DAUGHTER, SHINE!

  When Mother surprised her with the outfit, Savannah was momentarily enchanted.

  And utterly shocked.

  Was this the same woman who not so long ago said, “Absolutely not!” to spat pumps with a high King Louis heel, to a touch of lip rouge? Who said, “Not in my lifetime!” to getting a Dutch bob?

  Days later, Savannah wasn’t one bit shocked that heads turned when she entered the banquet room, but she cringed at the memory of once enjoying such attention.

  Behind Savannah and her parents were Yolande and hers. Savannah imagined Yolande beyond giddy, and Yolande’s parents, Claire and Oscar Holloway, bursting with pride as they stepped deeper into the room.

  It was a room hung with crimson-and-gold Chinese lanterns. Tall, thin crystal vases topped with white plumes streaming pearls served as sentinel, centerpiece at each of the sea of tables.

  Snow-white damask tablecloths.

  Gilt-rimmed porcelain plates.

  Crimson napkins in standing fans.

  Sterling silver Tiffany Florentine flatware and gilt rim glassware heightened the room’s sparkle and shine.

  “Savannah! How marvelous you look!” squealed Edna Fitzhugh.

  Savannah was just poised to take her seat.

  Julia LaMonte hurried over. “We’ve missed you so at the literary society!”

  “And at my tea two weeks ago!” added Hyacinth Miller, bringing up the rear.

  The gaggle of girls in silks and satins, organzas, taffetas, georgettes grew.

  Inez Graham.

  Rebecca Hawkins.

  Alice Turner.

  Ethel Bazemore.

  Edna grabbed Savannah by the arm. “Let’s get our photographs taken now!” She had Savannah fully in tow when—

  “Wait a minute.” Savannah wriggled free, turned back, beckoned to a woebegone Yolande staring at her water goblet. “Come on, Yolande,” said Savannah. “Come.”

  The girls made a beeline for the corner of the room with panels of sheer white fabric illuminated from behind by strands of flame-shaped bulbs.

  Savannah waved to the photographer, gave him her only genuine smile of the night. “Hi, Uncle Madison!”

  “Hello there, Little Riddle! You look”—he kissed his thumb and forefinger—“bellissimo!”

  Quick, quick he arranged the girls—shortest (Yolande) to tallest (Savannah)—into a pose.

  “Lean slightly to your right, faces uplifted, world-class smiles!” He stepped behind his camera. “Hold, hold, hold!”

  As Savannah held, held, held, she ached for enchantment all over again with her outfit. It really was splendid with its simple V-neck, a bead-flecked emerald-green velvet dress with an ankle-length balloon hemline. Her favorite part was the dreamy draped top layer of emerald-green chiffon bedecked with beaded oval medallions.

  On her feet, silver satin dancing shoes.

  On her arms, white evening gloves.

  Tucked on one side of Savannah’s sumptuous crown braid was a silver-and-rhinestone peacock-shaped hairpin, the bird’s neck craning back. Another surprise from Mother. “The peacock is a symbol of renewal,” she’d said.

  Flash!

  “One more,” said Uncle Madison. “Hold, hold, hold!”

  Flash!

  “Now me and Savannah!” pleaded Edna.

  “Hold, hold, hold!”

  Flash!

  “I get to have one with Savannah too!” said a pouting Inez.

  Then Hyacinth, Julia, Rebecca, Alice, Ethel. Yolande last.

  “Hold, hold, hold!”

  Flash!

  Cary Sanderson, tall, lean, café au lait, swaggered over, waved Yolande aside. Nestled beside a dazed, still blinking Savannah, he slipped an arm around her waist. “Hello there, you.”

  “Hi, Cary.” Her stomach was in knots.

  “World-class smiles!”

  Flash!

  Cary whispered into Savannah’s ear, gave her a squeeze, then strutted off to greet a friend.

  “I can’t believe we’re really here!” chirped Yolande.

  The girls snaked their way to their table in a now very crowded room, alive with so much chatter, chuckles, giggles, sounds of contentment.

  “Remember how we used to jump up and down as our parents headed to this fete in their finest? ‘One day us!’ we shouted. Remember? We stepped so daintily around my parlor trying our best to look charming, elegant, practicing for the day when we—”

  Savannah snickered.
“I remember we had whoever was minding us make egg salad or cheese and cucumber tea sandwiches, then put on an apron and serve us in the dining room—and on the good china too. We threatened that if she didn’t obey we’d say she’d throttled us.”

  Yolande stopped, rose on tiptoe, craned her neck. “Our parents have already helped themselves. Let’s go get some food.”

  Savannah looked right, left. Both endless buffets seemed laden with the same dishes.

  Lobster tails, lobster salad, shrimp salad, shrimp cocktail, oysters and clams on the half shell, oysters Rockefeller, salmon mousse, poached salmon, deviled eggs, Duchess potatoes, Lobster Thermidor.

  Savannah was sickened by the sight of so much food.

  Prime rib, rack of lamb, leg of lamb, squab, ham timbales, Chiffonade salad, Waldorf salad, asparagus tips, crab cakes, crab puffs, radish roses, cucumber roses, celery boats stuffed with cream cheese, manzanillos stuffed with nuts, with peppers.

  “You don’t look hungry.” Yolande was practically licking her lips.

  Petit fours, macaroons, melon balls, chocolate-covered strawberries, jelly creams, meringues.

  Savannah settled on a single-rib lamb chop and a Duchess potato. Yolande’s plate was a crowd of crab puffs.

  “Having a good time, girls?” asked Yolande’s father, ginger-haired, could pass if he wished.

  “Best time ever!” said Yolande.

  “And you?” asked Yolande’s mother, a gazelle-like chocolate beauty.

  Savannah flashed the requisite smile. “Best time ever.”

  “Shine, daughter, shine!” Father had belted out as they left the house that evening. He, hair salt and pepper well beyond his temples, in tuxedo with tails, silver vest, high-stand wing-tip collared shirt, top hat. Doe-eyed Mother, sandy hair with streaks of gray swept up in a mature woman’s Gibson, did look stunning, Savannah had to admit. Her silver lamé-and-mesh gown was gorgeous. So too Mother’s slate evening coat with its pattern of peacock feathers in a delicate dance. And Mother did sound more earnest than pushy when she said, “This night will do you so much good!”

  For weeks Savannah had struggled to churn up the courage to tell her parents that she did not want to go to the Sanderson fete. Time and again, she vowed to make her stand over breakfast, over dinner, but …

  Then two days before the gala, as she and Mother sat in the Madeline Beauty Parlor waiting their turns for facial massages, manicures, washes and sets—

  “Mother,” Savannah began, eyes cast on the checkerboard floor.

  “Yes, my darling girl?”

  Once again Savannah chickened out.

  The thought of disappointing Yolande—a twinge of guilt.

  The thought of disappointing Mother not a whit.

  But wiping a smile off Father’s face …

  “Shine, daughter, shine!” he always said before a ballet recital, her face cupped in his hands, a kiss planted on her forehead.

  Out on stage with his praise and love hugging her heart, Savannah was a bright and shining star with every plié, piqué, and pirouette, with every grand jeté.

  She knew how much Father looked forward to arriving at the Sanderson fete with Mother on one arm, her on the other.

  So she went.

  So she did her utmost to shine.

  When Uncle Madison said “Hold, hold, hold!”

  When overwhelmed by that obscene buffet.

  When she surveyed people puffed up, preening, jockeying to pose beside Mrs. La-Di-Da, Mr. So-and-So.

  Flash!

  Savannah managed to shine when that fella with a wicked smile, with eyes that hypnotize led his band onto the stage.

  When The Duke’s Serenaders, dressed to the nines, launched into a toe-tapping rendition of “Hindustan,” Savannah found herself softly singing. Maybe she’d find renewal in the night after all.

  Camel trappings jingle,

  Harp-strings sweetly tingle,

  With a sweet voice mingle,

  Underneath the stars …1

  In back-to-back dance requests Savannah sought to lose herself in the Castle Walk’s dips and rises, glides, hesitation steps, in the Two-Step’s slow, then quick moves, spins, and swings.

  Though breathless and queasy, when Cary Sanderson took her by the hand Savannah let him take her into a tango.

  A figure eight.

  But then, a beat before the close—

  The chatter, chuckles, giggles, those sounds of contentment became a deafening crescendo. All that sparkle and shine as blinding as a high-noon summer sun.

  And Cary—with his parents’ wealth, good looks, expensive suits, prospects for Amherst, mapped-out life—no heft, no depth to him.

  “I’m sorry, Cary, I can’t—”

  Savannah slipped the sterling silver friendship ring from her finger, pressed it into Cary’s hand.

  Stares.

  Glares.

  Mouths agape.

  Savannah didn’t, couldn’t care. She fled from the dance floor to her table.

  “I need some air.”

  “Shall I come with you?” That was Mother with furrowed brow.

  “No, no, I’m fine. I simply need some air.”

  Yolande rose.

  Savannah grabbed her evening purse—beads, sequins, a peacock eye appliqué. “Some air and some time alone.”

  Savannah raced to the cloakroom for her silver brocade cape, then flashed down the corridor.

  “Thank you,” she said to the doorman, whisking through the outer doors.

  There was frost in the air.

  Staring up at the stars, Savannah ached for the strength, the freedom to scream. She paced instead.

  The minutes a weight. Time a tease.

  She checked her sterling silver bracelet watch. At least another hour.

  Back inside, Savannah walked stiffly past the billiard room, lounge, gift shop, meeting room, smaller banquet room, past a boy in a bellhop’s uniform perched upon a stool.

  She stopped at the plush pink roundabout, eased down.

  Waiters fleet of feet passed in and out of swinging doors, hurried upstairs, down.

  An arrogant-looking man walked the corridor until he didn’t.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You are a guest of the Sandersons, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we get you anything?”

  She was thirsty. “Perhaps a ginger ale.”

  Mr. Arrogant snapped his fingers at that boy perched upon a stool.

  The kid jumped down, stood at attention, and Savannah saw him tremble. He looked petrified, as if one wrong move—

  Savannah cleared her throat. “Sir, never mind about that ginger ale, but thank you.” Minutes later she rose, returned to a night with frost in the air.

  CRAB PUFF AFTER CRAB PUFF

  Only one girl complimented her on her royal-blue taffeta dress: the one they called Beanstalk Belinda behind her back.

  Wall-eyed Winston Smith and Theophilus Graham with horrible breath were the only boys who asked her to dance.

  She spent so much, too much of the evening fielding questions that had nothing to do with her.

  “Where is Savannah?”

  “Has Savannah fallen ill?”

  “What on earth happened to Savannah?”

  When not responding with a shrug, Yolande ate crab puff after crab puff.

  THE WATCH FIRE WOMEN

  “That was so embarrassing!”

  Savannah glanced out her window, envied rays straining through mottled sky.

  The Riddles and the Holloways had walked home in silence that Friday night. And Savannah knew that Yolande would show up the next day to squawk.

  Thin feet welded to the floor, spindly arms at her sides, fists clenched, Yolande stood fuming, pale cheeks flaming red. “It was just plain rude! You simply can’t do things like—”

  Can’t.

  Mustn’t.

  Oughtn’t

 
; Shouldn’t.

  Savannah was so sick of such words—leashes, chains, vises.

  “The event of the year! Only the best of us were invited.”

  “Perhaps that’s the problem.” Savannah fingered the pencil tucked into the thick plait that fell a long ways down her back. She eyed the sketch pad she’d tossed on her desk when Yolande marched into her room.

  “What are you talking about? What problem?”

  “Nothing.”

  Savannah slumped into her desk chair that faced the window.

  Yolande stamped her foot. “I try, Savannah. I really do, but I just don’t understand you.”

  Makes two of us.

  The French window whistled with the wind.

  “The title of this year’s fete was Excelsior!”

  Pause.

  “It means onward and upward!”

  “I know what Excelsior means.”

  “You don’t act like it.”

  Yolande began to pace. “Onward and upward, Savannah! The Great War is over! Onward and upward, for heaven’s sake!”

  Savannah was snatched back to news she had gorged on in the Bee, the Post, the Herald, the Star. Never before had she paid such close attention to the news. Never before been so swallowed up.

  “U.S. AT WAR WITH GERMANY; PRESIDENT SIGNS RESOLUTION.”2

  “Children the Pitiful Victims of Modern War’s Ruthlessness.”3

  “INSANITY INCREASE ATTRIBUTED TO WAR.”4

  “13 MILLION MEN IS COST OF WAR.”5

  Savannah also went back to the passage of the Espionage Act, the Sedition Act, back to Yolande’s feeble attempt at comfort. “Father says we’ll be fine so long as we don’t say anything bad about the government or anything else American, so long as we don’t associate with people who do.”

  And those accursed 4-Minute Men!6 Just when Savannah was about to lose herself in a photoplay, on came the lights and a 4-Minute Man stepped onto the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask for just four minutes of your time …”

  To warn of German spies.

  To preach the gospel of Liberty Bonds.

  “Onward and upward,” Yolande whined. “Do you hear me, Savannah? Not only is the Great War over, but reports of Spanish flu are doing nothing but going down.”

  More headlines flashed across Savannah’s mental sky.

  “SCANDINAVIA IS SWEPT BY ‘SPANISH INFLUENZA.’”7

  “SPANISH INFLUENZA SPREADING IN D.C.”8