Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

by John Berendt

Luther appeared, carrying a Chinese food take-out carton. “Well, I’ve got the goldfish ready. Let’s go.”

wtf luther

“Who?” The flack cups his ear. “Delia.” “Who is Delia?” “You mean who was Delia,” I say. “That’s all I know about her. She’s dead.”

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.

It grew inward, too, and in such a way that its people flourished like hothouse plants tended by an indulgent gardener.