The Black Rose (49 page)

“All that’s left, then, is for the new board of directors to sign,” added Robert Brokenburr, who had assisted Mr. Ransom with the paperwork. “And we’ll go file and make it official.”

One by one, Lelia, C.J., and Sarah took turns writing their signatures with the fountain pen.

Sarah was surprised to notice that her hand was trembling slightly as she wrote. Damn! Her penmanship was poor enough already—that was one of the things Lottie had vowed to help her improve—but her signature looked worse than usual, and on such an important document!

She was afraid, she realized. Her heart’s pounding had felt like exhilaration at first, but now there was no mistaking the nervousness she felt. What was she afraid of?

I don’t want to lose this
, she thought. They had made this company, and now she was daring to raise her hopes that
she
, of all people, could help build a company all Negroes in the country could be proud of. That was what Mr. Ransom said. But what if that wasn’t what happened at all? What if they failed? Observers might say,
Well, what do you expect from Negroes
? Sometimes it all seemed to be held together by such a fragile thread.

“Once this is filed, I’ll turn my attention to that other matter, Madam Walker,” Mr. Ransom said quietly as he walked past Sarah, being ever so discreet. Sarah appreciated the young man’s discretion. The other matter was her nephew, Willie Powell.

A month ago, Sarah had sent a train ticket and shipping money to Lou so she could move from Mississippi to Indianapolis and take a job with her company. Finally, after so many years, Sarah was ready to fully repay her sister for taking care of her all of those years after their parents died. She and Lou had their differences, all right, but that had nothing to do with the debt Sarah felt she owed her older sister.

Since neither of them thought it was a good idea to live in the same house—
Sarah, this ain’t a house; it’s a museum, girl
, Lou had complained.
I can’t live someplace I have to stay so hushed an’ be skeered I’ll break somethin’ on the floor
—Lou had found a suitable apartment nearby, which Sarah paid for. Lou also worked in the factory packaging hair grower, although early reports were coming to Sarah that her sister was far from industrious; she often arrived late and wanted to leave early. Frankly, Sarah thought, there were probably other problems her staff was afraid to report to her. Still, she decided, Lou would receive ten dollars a month from her regardless. She was going to take care of her sister.

And now that she had lawyers, she was going to try to get Willie out of prison. It was just too bad neither she nor Lou had been able to look into it properly before now, fifteen long years later.
But better late than never
, Sarah thought.
What good’s money if you can’t use it to make life better for your own
family?

Later that evening, after dressing for the planned dinner with her family at a local colored eating house called Gray’s to celebrate the company’s incorporation, Sarah stepped into the long hallway outside of her bedroom and saw C.J. and Lelia standing at the far end of the hall. They were nearly hidden in the shadows, but Sarah could tell there was something adversarial about their stance as they faced each other, so much so that she was startled. She ducked back into the doorway. The nervous feeling was back; her stomach felt tight.

“Well, it’s done now,” Sarah heard Lelia say. But she didn’t sound happy.

“Yep, it’s done.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, C.J. Walker,” Lelia said in a hard voice Sarah had almost never heard from her daughter, “you may be on the board of directors, because that’s what Mama wanted, but you wouldn’t have been if it was up to me.” The brashness of her words took Sarah aback.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss A’Lelia. But I don’t suppose it’d do much good for me to care too much ’bout what a spoiled li’l gal like you thinks of me. ’Specially since you don’t mind none what the rest of the folks in this town think of
you
.”

What in the world … ?
Sarah thought. She knew C.J. and Lelia weren’t close, but she hadn’t realized so much open animosity had grown between them. It was as if she’d stepped backstage at a play production, catching a glimpse of actors who had taken off their costumes.

“If you keep trying to do the same mess like before, you better be concerned,” Lelia said. “If I were you, I’d be
real
concerned. And you can take that exactly the way it sounds.”

“Is that so?” The ugly sarcasm Sarah hated had returned to C.J.’s voice. “Yeah, maybe I should be downright scared of you, huh, A’Lelia? John Robinson must’ve been plenty scared of you, too, the way he lit out so quick. I figger he was just scared you’d shame him by drinkin’ him under the ta—”

C.J. was cut off by a sharp snapping sound, flesh on flesh. Sarah knew her daughter must have just slapped C.J.’s face, and she didn’t blame her. Shocked, Sarah raised both hands to her mouth, but she couldn’t move otherwise. Her heart was thudding against her chest with something like real horror. What would make them say such hurtful things to each other? Sarah was outraged for both of them, and mortified. Lelia must be trying to protect her from something, or she would have confided what was troubling her about C.J. But what?

“You’re one to talk about drinking,” Lelia hissed, barely audible to Sarah. “And I wouldn’t worry so much about my marriage if I were you. You best start worrying about yours. If something goes wrong with you and Mama, you just wait and see. The only time you’ll set foot in a house like this again will be if someone hires you to come take out the trash.”

Go out there right now and put a stop to this
, Sarah told herself, her heart withering inside her.
Ask them to tell you what you don’t know
. Tears of frustration and disgust welled in Sarah’s eyes, but she couldn’t make herself move from her hiding place.

If you keep trying to do that same mess like before
, Lelia had said to C.J. Did that mean whatever she was talking about was over? Yes, it had to be! Maybe C.J. had taken a mistress in the months they’d been apart. Well, he was a man, wasn’t he? Had she expected him to be a monk all the time she was away? She and C.J. were finally together, and with all they had to share now, what more could any man want? And once Lelia was away from her unseemly crowd in Indianapolis, with new responsibilities in Pittsburgh, she’d be forced to go back to her sober ways. She’d have to!

Sarah repeated those words to herself over and over, until she thought she believed them.

Chapter Twenty-eight

TUSKEGEE, ALABAMA

JANUARY 1912

(FOUR MONTHS LATER)

To Sarah, the new year was off to an unforgettable and promising start.

She’d heard wonderful things about Dr. Booker T. Washington’s Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute since he became principal of the Negro school in the 1880s; only six years back, in 1906, she’d read that President Roosevelt himself had attended the school’s twenty-fifth anniversary celebration. Now, she, C.J., and Lottie were walking on the very grounds of the campus in Alabama’s nippy winter air, past hilly acres of school buildings and majestic halls. Compared to the worn-down mansions nearby and the faded, bedraggled little town that shared its name, the school looked like a bustling city. There must be more than a hundred buildings, or even twice that! Sarah had decided to attend Tuskegee’s annual Farmers’ Conference to do hair demonstrations and recruit agents, and she was sorry she’d never come before now. Hundreds of farmers, ministers, teachers, and other tradesmen came to the conference each year to discuss practical ways to elevate the race, and Sarah planned to let everyone know colored women could elevate themselves by learning a wellpaying trade as hair culturists.

“You’ll find this hard to believe, Madam,” Lottie said as they walked past a large building marked Andrew Carnegie Hall, “but I understand that Mr. Carnegie gave Dr. Washington a $600,000 contribution in oh three. Mr. Carnegie called Dr. Washington a ‘modern Moses.’ ”

“Moses, huh? Does that mean Carnegie thinks he’s God?” C.J. muttered.

“No, it sounds more like he thinks he’s a good friend, C.J.,” Sarah said, thinking to herself,
And that’s the kind of friend I’d like to be someday
. She’d donated $1,000 to the building fund for Indianapolis’s colored YMCA in October—if only there were an association for colored
girls
, too!—which had caused a stir in the press because no one could imagine that a colored woman could afford such a grand contribution. She would keep her word and make the payments, of course, but she’d had to measure them out; her company was worth $25,000, but she didn’t yet have so much money that she could write out a thousand-dollar check without a blink. C.J. and Mr. Ransom thought the YMCA publicity was good for the company, but other “begging letters,” as Sarah called them, were already pouring in. So many people in need!

What would she do if she could give money to anyone she chose?

Gazing at the Tuskegee campus, Sarah saw male and female students who were younger than Lelia wandering on the pathways, and others who were much older. They were studying subjects they could use to support their families, like mattress making, typesetting, horticulture, farming, masonry, blacksmithing, and sick care. Tuskegee students, she had learned, built furniture, carriages, and structures on the campus. And the students weren’t all American Negroes, she noticed; some looked Chinese, others were East Indian, and the colorful costumes on some of the Negroes made Sarah think they must be from Africa. Students sought out this school from all over the world! Lottie had told Sarah that
Up from Slavery
had been translated into Zulu, Chinese, and other languages, so Dr. Washington’s story was inspiring people worldwide.

Looking at them, Sarah vowed she’d give money toward education whenever she could. Lottie was a godsend in her life, but Sarah was fortyfour years old, and learning was so much more of a chore than it would have been when she was younger. If only she and her parents could have gone to a school like Tuskegee …

As they walked into the Farmers’ Conference meeting hall, Sarah was no less excited than she had been in St. Louis eight years before, when she’d gone to hear Dr. Washington at the World’s Fair. But there was a difference this time, she noticed; the atmosphere was much more informal, and Dr. Washington was already greeting people in his simple gray wool suit and black bow tie as they walked through the door. Sarah couldn’t believe how close she was standing to him. He was much more pale-skinned than she’d remembered, his skin a fainter brown than C.J.’s, and he wasn’t much taller than she was. But she could already hear the rumbling of his voice and see his exuberant smile. Suddenly his eyes were on her. “Welcome to Tuskegee, ma’am,” he said.

Sarah nearly forgot her words, but she thrust her hand out to him. “D-Dr. Washington, my husband and I are here representing the Madam C.J. Walker Manufacturing Company of Indianapolis, and we’re here to do hair demonstrations—”

Sarah thought she recognized a slight flicker of impatience cross the educator’s face, but his smile didn’t waver. “God bless,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Thank you so much.”

There were many others waiting behind her, and Sarah felt the crowd surging forward slightly; others had come a long way for a chance to talk to Dr. Washington, too. Before Sarah knew it, he had stepped aside to greet someone else.

“You
talked
to him, Madam!” Lottie whispered, excited.

Yes, she had talked to him, but Sarah felt disappointment along with her giddiness. She’d wanted him to know what she was doing, that she’d come from meager beginnings just as he had, that she shared his passion for education. To him, she was just a stranger’s face in a crowd.

“You talked to him, all right. You were ’bout to talk his ear off, Sarah,” C.J. told her. “Shoot, the man was just sayin’ hello. You can’t expect to stand and have a conversation.”

Sarah glanced over her shoulder, and Dr. Washington vanished inside the crowd of farmers dressed in drab suits and hats, probably the best they owned. For the first time in a long time, Sarah felt
overdressed
in her white, lacy shirtwaist and blue skirt. Here was a man who had dined with President Roosevelt and was consulted by President Taft on matters of race—though neither man was a true friend to the Negro, as far as Sarah was concerned, Taft even less than Roosevelt—and he apparently felt right at home in the midst of poor farmers.

But Sarah didn’t know how much Dr. Washington felt at home until he walked to the podium. As he stood there before them, instead of opening the meeting with grand words as he had at the World’s Fair, he simply began to hum. His throaty humming was the only sound in the hall, and the melody surrounded them, filling up the room.

Then Sarah recognized the song. She hadn’t heard it since her parents sang it in the cotton fields, moving slowly through the rows. Sarah could almost hear her papa’s voice:

There is a balm in Gilead
,

To make the wounded whole
,

There is a balm in Gilead
,

To heal the sin-sick soul
.

Sometimes I feel discouraged
,

And think my work’s in vain
,

But then the Holy Spirit

Revives my soul again!

Soon other people in the room began to sing, and the hall became a chorus of rough, happy voices. Suddenly, her toes tingling, Sarah had never felt more at home herself.

Mrs. Dora Larrie. The woman had introduced herself to Sarah personally before the demonstration began, but it hadn’t been necessary. Sarah would have noticed her regardless, the way she always noticed the most promising women who came to her.
Fire,
that was what Mrs. Larrie had. Sarah had seen it in Lottie, too; these women were so eager to change their lives, nearly desperate, that they would take up their new trade with the enthusiasm of converts to a religion. Mrs. Dora Larrie had that fire.