The Black Rose (65 page)

Sarah stopped, and there was a stark silence in the room except for the scribbling of Lottie’s pen. Even the organ had stopped momentarily. Sarah could hear the erratic rhythm of her own breathing and the clumsy beating of her heart.

“Madam …” Lottie said suddenly. “You should tell her to come home now. Don’t let her stay away until August.”

Sarah pursed her lips defiantly.
She’s right, Sarah,
the voice in her mind railed, the inner voice that had tried to steer her all her life.
You know
what’s happening to you.
Don’t pretend
.

But Sarah shook her head firmly. “I’m getting better, Lottie. Lelia once told me I get everything I want, and she’s right. I’m getting better every day.”

Sarah couldn’t see Lottie’s face clearly, but she could feel the grief bubbling from her bedside. Now, at last, Sarah understood the determination she’d seen on her father’s face as he’d dragged himself out to their front porch right before he’d died. He hadn’t wanted to let death take him, not willingly, at least. Maybe fighting was in the Breedlove blood.

“Madam, I have something I must say to you,” Lottie began. “I know I am not entitled to speak for any woman but myself, but I’ve had such an extraordinary vantage point these past years, watching you. And learning.”

“Learning … ?” Sarah said, chuckling. The chuckle ignited a small coughing fit, and she swallowed more juice to calm it. “There was nothing left to teach you, Lottie Ransaw.”

“Yes,
learning,
” Lottie said, helping Sarah steady her glass. “You’ve made my life rich beyond compare, and not just mine. You’ve given us all so much, at such a price. And in case I haven’t said it properly before, I wanted to tell you … what you did will never be forgotten. I’m going to tell my nieces and nephews about you, and their children after that. I’m going to tell them about a woman who began life with much less than they will have, and how you achieved more than anyone could have reasonably expected. Watching you has taught me how to believe in the impossible, how to believe in a better day, and I will always be grateful to you for that. What you have done has truly mattered, Madam. You have mattered.”

For the briefest instant, the room seemed to lose its air, but then Sarah realized she was holding her breath as if Lottie were threatening to strike her. There was no other way to look at it; Lottie had just given her a deathbed speech. Suddenly, with frightening clarity, Sarah knew why she didn’t want to summon Lelia home: There was no time. She would die, and she would never see her daughter again. She couldn’t change that. Of all the cold facts Sarah had been forced to accept her entire life, maybe this last one was the hardest. Oh, yes. Sarah’s fingers trembled uncontrollably around the glass, and Lottie helped her lower it to her nightstand.

“Dr. Kennedy … will be good for Lelia, won’t he?” Sarah said.

“Oh, yes. He’s a very accomplished young man.”

“And … you and Mr. Ransom will keep her out of trouble, won’t you?”

“You know we’ll always do our best, Madam.” Lottie’s eyes shone.

Sarah nodded, testing her emotions. She’d expected to feel more afraid when she came right out and admitted she was dying. But instead, since there was nothing else to do or change, the idea filled her with a strange calm. She relaxed, letting her head sink back into the pillow. As soon as she did, the bedroom door burst open, startling her because everyone usually trod so gently and quietly in her presence now. She looked up and saw the blurry figure of Lou lumbering toward her.

“Sarah, those nieces we got are ’bout the dullest bunch of folk anyone could stand,” Lou said, exasperated. “Girl, I’m goin’ out my head in this place, an’ I git lost jus’ goin’ to my room an’ the kitchen an’ back—not that you
got
any food I like to eat. I know why you’re sick, Sarah, ’cause you’re
bored
. Now, let’s get Nettie in here and all of us play some whist.”

Lottie’s mouth dropped open. “Whist! Most certainly not, Mrs. Powell. You—”

But Sarah laughed softly. Lou was contrary as always, but she had a point. If Lelia had been here, she might have said the same thing.

“She’s right, Lottie,” Sarah rasped. “I may not make it to Paris, but I still know how to play me some cards. Go make sure Dr. Kennedy is comfortable in his room, and tell him I’ll talk to him more about Lelia tomorrow. Don’t let on we’re in here playing, and
please
don’t say anything to Dr. Ward. Now hurry up and bring Nettie in here. You’ll have to be on my team, Lottie, because I won’t be able to see a single card face.”

Lottie stood stock-still for a moment. Then, only vaguely, Sarah saw her grin. “Yes, Madam!” Lottie said, sounding happy for the first time since Sarah’s collapse.

With the bedroom door firmly closed to keep out intruders and physicians, and the window open to let in the spring breeze, the four women played cards all afternoon at Sarah’s bedside between fits of irreverent laughter. The organ downstairs played without a flaw, and none of them paid any mind to the ringing telephone.

Sarah figured if she didn’t live another day, she was having one last day worth living for.

Epilogue

MAY 30, 1919

Madam C.J. Walker’s life was the clearest demonstration I
know of a Negro woman’s ability recorded in history. She has
gone, but her work still lives and shall live as an inspiration to
not only her race, but to the world.

—
MARY MCLEOD BETHUNE

There was so much traffic, the Irvington village police chief himself was posted in the middle of the road on Broadway, outside stately Villa Lewaro. He directed the cavalcade of cars and large autobuses while birds chirped merrily in the trees on that sunny afternoon, but the birdsong was the only merriment as perfectly groomed men and women in muted mourning colors filed past him for the funeral of Madam C.J. Walker. The police chief was keeping a tally of people in his head with mounting disbelief: First there had been two hundred, then three hundred, then four hundred. And that had been an hour ago. Now, he realized, the number of arrivals must have reached one thousand, and most of them were Negroes. He had never seen so many Negroes in his life, and certainly not like
this
: erect, self-possessed, dignified. Although lines of sadness creased their faces, their manner bespoke a roiling sense of purpose. As long as he lived, he never forgot the sight of them.

It was Friday, and Sarah had died on Sunday after spending three days in a coma. Her nurse said that Sarah’s final coherent words had been that she wanted to live to help her race.

Inside the grand mansion, the grief was so pervasive it seemed to have its own breath, despite the explosion of springtime colors in the flower arrangements lining every inch of the living room walls. Women clad in white, representing the Motor Corps of America, helped usher the attendees as the crowd inside swelled. Where so recently the halls had been filled with laughter and celebration, Villa Lewaro had become a cheerless shrine, suddenly robbed of its hostess. The guests greeted each other with heartfelt handshakes and lingering, silent hugs. They passed their hushed recollections back and forth like precious trinkets.

“I was just here for her Christmas party, and I never imagined I’d be back like this… .”

“I saw her not even a month ago, over in Indianapolis… .”

“We had dinner in March, and I knew she wasn’t well, but she was so lively… . .”

Fifty-one years old. The mantra came from all their lips, adding further confusion to the sudden turn of events. Madam C.J. Walker, as most of them knew her—or Sarah Breedlove, as a select few of them did—had died when she should have had so many useful years ahead. Losing her was tragedy enough, but to lose her so soon … And there was another pained whisper, a pervasive hope that flowed through the mourners:
Has
A’Lelia made it back yet?

A’Lelia and her daughter, Mae, were probably still at sea, they had been told. A’Lelia had learned of her mother’s death on an ocean liner on its way back to the United States from Panama, but there had been no more word of her arrival. Each time the massive doors opened to let in new mourners, heads swiveled in search of A’Lelia’s face. As more time passed, it grew more and more likely that A’Lelia would miss her own mother’s funeral.

Another sadness, when there was already so much.

Lottie Ransaw, in the same dreamy haze she’d been in since Madam first collapsed in St. Louis, wove her way through the mourners to go to the organ her employer had loved so much. She did not glance inside the open bronze casket gleaming in the center of the drawing room because she had already had too long to study the vacant face of the lifeless woman who now had a wreath of orchids across her still breast; she
resembled
Madam, but that was only her body, after all. Instead Lottie’s fingers settled across the organ’s keys, sure and ready. After a deep breath she began to play, and the music gave her relief. Lottie knew Madam must be watching her from above with a smile: She was playing
Communion in G
, one of Madam’s favorite pieces. Lottie smiled a little bit herself as the organ’s majestic notes flowed throughout the house. It was the first time she had smiled in days.

Freeman Ransom heard the music, and he smiled a bittersweet smile, too, from where he stood on the marble staircase, holding his son Frankie’s hand. That music was worthy of a queen, he thought, and Sarah Walker had been just that. Gazing at the gathered mourners, he couldn’t help thinking of Booker T. Washington’s funeral four years ago, when dignitaries and simple folk alike had poured onto the Tuskegee campus to bury the great leader. That had been a sad day for him, but also a proud day; and his pride swelled even more today, outpacing his sadness. Death was never easy—the Wards, who were here, had lost their only son last year, and it rocked that poor family to its core—but losses forced such simple, powerful reflection on how valuable the life of the loved one had been.

All Ransom had to do was look out at the faces here today to feel Madam C.J. Walker’s lasting value in a way he never had before. Just last night, consoling each other, he and Nettie had marveled at how lucky they had been to know her. She had been a true race woman, a woman who had had a role in delivering her people from slavery’s legacy as surely as Harriet Tubman or Sojourner Truth, and he hoped his children, and their children after that, would grow up to follow her example. God had seen fit to bring her into his life when he was a train porter, and now He had seen fit to set her free. The awfulness of losing her only made his luck, and his gratitude, feel that much more keen.

“Daddy …” young Frankie whispered up to him. “Is Ma Walkie gone now?” He’d been very concerned about the moment when she would be buried, when her body would be
gone
.

Slowly Ransom shook his head and gazed down at his son. “Not at all. There’s a piece of your godmother inside every person in this room.”

The funeral had begun with the reading of the twenty-third Psalm, and after Lottie finished playing
Communion in G
, the telegrams of well-wishers from all corners were read, including those from Mrs. Booker T. Washington; Robert Russa Moton, the new principal of Tuskegee Institute; and Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune. Then J. Rosamond Johnson graced the room with an original song he’d written on the occasion of Madam’s passing, “Since You Went Away,” and his sweet voice caused a flurry of white handkerchiefs as the mourners were brought to fresh tears. There was a long, reverent silence after he finished. Then Reverend Adam Clayton Powell walked forward to begin his scheduled remarks.

Sadie Jackson was among the mourners, sitting near the rear, with a contingent of other Walker culturists and agents who had made the trip to the funeral. A woman named Lizette Simons, who had apparently known “Madam Sarah” since she lived in Denver, sat beside Sadie with a lanky young man she’d introduced as her son. They had briefly exchanged proud motherhood stories before the services began; Sadie’s sons had both graduated from college, and one was now a lawyer. And Lizette’s son was in his second year at Howard University, studying pharmacy. What was most obvious need not be stated between them: They had both financed their children’s education through money they’d made as Walker culturists. Sarah, in following her own dream, had helped them secure their families’ future generations.

But that wasn’t the real reason Sadie had come to the funeral. She’d come because of the letter she still carried in her hand, and she glanced at it every few moments so she could feel a sense of communion with her friend.
Please come say a few words about me when I’m gone,
Sarah had written her in a letter, which had arrived the same day her death was announced in the newspapers.
You may know me best of all
.

Now, after watching the pomp and circumstance of this opulent funeral, Sadie knew exactly what her friend had meant in her letter. She and Sarah had grown so far apart in the last few years, Sadie could barely remember when they’d last shared a quiet evening together, but theirs wasn’t the sort of friendship that needed constant tending. Their friendship had been sealed long ago, and nothing in the past few years could have faded it.

A man named Reverend Brooks was delivering a sweeping eulogy, but Sadie barely heard it because of the pounding of her heart. She’d done very well for herself in business—she owned two Walker beauty parlors in Pittsburgh, and she was thinking about opening a third—but she had never cared for the social circles that seemed to accompany success. She hadn’t come up that way, and she’d never yearned for acceptance in those circles the way Sarah always had. She’d congratulated Sarah when she moved into her mansion, but she would have felt out of place at its official opening, and she’d declined Sarah’s invitation. So today Sadie felt pangs of discomfort as she realized she was about to be called on to address this impressive roomful of folks. She hadn’t been able to think of a speech to put on paper, and what could she add to so much praise about how important Sarah had been to the race?