Ten women, all of them new students from Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Virginia, sat in chairs before Lelia, their faces upturned in rapt attention or scribbling notes as they listened. They were washerwomen, cooks, clerks, and cleaners, and they had come to change their lives.
“Many of your customers, to save money, will try to tell you they’ve washed their hair at home,” Lelia went on. “Even so, you should wash their hair yourself to make sure the cleaning is thorough. You do not want anyone to complain to you that they’re dissatisfied with the Walker method because their hair was not washed properly beforehand.”
Sarah, standing unnoticed in the open doorway, stared at her daughter with a momentary sense of wonder and pride. Look at this girl! A year ago, with help from Lelia and C.J., Sarah had found a large brownstone in Pittsburgh where she could live in comfort and set up Walker Manufacturing, a small beauty salon, and two classrooms for the school she had been envisioning for so long. Lelia College. What could be more fitting? A few short years ago, with her savings stolen from her, Sarah had not been able to afford to send her only child to college the way she’d sacrificed so many years to do. But now Walker Manufacturing was making so much profit that, at long last, Lelia had a beauty school bearing her name. Even a year later, Sarah felt a wave of gratification every time she stood in one of the classrooms or gazed at the neatly painted sign in the window of the street entrance: LELIA COLLEGE.
And Lelia had blossomed so much, Sarah thought. Her conservative dress showed off her ample figure, and she spoke as if she’d been addressing groups her entire life. At twenty-four, had Lelia finally grown up? Watching her daughter command a classroom, Sarah thought so.
“You will want to clear the head of dandruff,” Lelia went on. “If you’re scared of dandruff, ladies, then you need to reconsider your decision to be a Walker hair culturist. There is no escape from it. You might as well be a surgeon who faints at the sight of blood.”
The women in the class laughed, and Sarah nearly laughed with them. She didn’t like the way Lelia often parted from the guidelines they had devised so carefully for the Walker course, but she couldn’t help admiring her daughter’s sense of humor. Lelia had her own ways, no doubt about it. Friends and neighbors had been pointing out Lelia’s charm ever since they moved to Pittsburgh, telling Sarah how lucky she was to have such a fine daughter, and Sarah had to agree.
But not all moments, Lord knows. The memory of their argument that morning washed over Sarah, stealing her smile. They’d done nothing but argue these past few months, it seemed. Sarah hadn’t even been able to sit back and enjoy smoothing the wrinkles out of the Pittsburgh manufacturing office and Lelia College for half a minute, it seemed, before the arguments had begun. Finally, after days of screaming and days of silence, Sarah had resigned herself to giving up. Lelia had proven herself very responsible in the past two years, more than ever. Because of her high-school training, Lelia had been instrumental in helping Sarah establish the school; and she’d just returned from Bluefield, West Virginia, after spending nearly a year recruiting Walker agents and students for the school. She’d done everything Sarah had asked of her, and even a few things she hadn’t. So no matter how rash or silly Lelia’s latest decision seemed, Sarah had no choice but to trust her daughter.
Why was such a small thing so hard for a mother?
After asking her students to stand and gather around her, Lelia stood over the woman in the demonstration chair and carefully began to part her hair with a plastic comb. “You part the hair in the center. Then you’ll want to lift the dandruff with the comb using a rotary motion, like this, with the comb almost flat against the scalp. Don’t jab at the scalp with the teeth of the comb, or you may scratch it and cause an infection. You’ll continue like this, parting the hair off into small sections… .”
For a brief instant, Lelia looked up and saw her mother watching her. Sarah recognized the usual nervousness that crept over her daughter’s face when she was being supervised—Mama, why do you have to stand over me like you expect me to set somebody on fire? she often asked—but then her expression hardened, becoming defiant. Lelia continued her instruction, her voice clear and knowledgeable, not missing a beat.
Sarah had never had a home like the one she and C.J. bought at 2518 Wylie Avenue in Pittsburgh, and often as she walked inside she scarcely remembered it was hers.
As soon as Sarah visited Pittsburgh for the first time as part of her sales tour, she knew Wylie Avenue was the place she wanted to be. It reminded her of Papin Street in St. Louis, teeming with Negroes who wanted to make good homes and open their own businesses. Some sections of Wylie were less than desirable, but by the time Sarah arrived in 1908, Wylie already had colored barbershops, two colored grocery stores, two confectionary stores, and a shoe store. She’d also heard about other Negro businesspeople in Pittsburgh who owned a stationery and bookstore, a photography gallery, a loan company, a real estate company, and an insurance company. There were even a few doctors and lawyers.
What had really made her decision was the large two-story brownstone on Wylie that had caused the back of her neck to tingle when she saw it standing on the corner, as if it had been waiting for her. She would live upstairs, she decided, and remodel the downstairs for the business and college. Aside from a few scant pieces of furniture they shipped from C.J.’s house in Denver, the new six-room house upstairs represented a new beginning for both of them. Because they were so busy and had little time to visit local furniture stores, they furnished it almost entirely during late-night huddles over the Bloomingdale’s and Sears, Roebuck & Co. mail-order catalogs. The process, to Sarah, had been like she imagined Christmas must feel to children whose parents could afford to pamper them; she studied page after page of furnishings and decorations, giddy with delight, and pointed out one luxurious-looking item after another. Can we afford this? she asked C.J. time after time, and he said of course they could. But she knew that, didn’t she? They could afford almost anything.
The Walker Company was making four hundred dollars a month—what some people made in a year—and all signs told Sarah their profits would continue to grow. There were steady orders for Wonderful Hair Grower and Glossine from every region Sarah had visited on her exhaustive eighteen-month tour, Lelia College was turning out dozens of culturists who paid twenty-five dollars for the course and then returned to their homes and recruited even more Walker customers for their kitchen beauty parlors, and her steel “straightening” comb, as customers insisted on calling it, captured the imagination of almost every colored woman who saw what it could do.
Sometimes, with the mail-order catalogs spread out on her bed, Sarah felt pangs of guilt. Why should she have so much when so many other colored people had so little? Pittsburgh attracted hordes of poor Southern blacks who overcrowded houses and even slept in alleyways, hoping to find jobs in the steel mills but often falling to the easier temptations of bootlegging, selling cocaine, or prostitution. The poverty here seemed even more dire to Sarah because the city’s industry made it so ugly; it was smoky, with its landscapes marred by towering converters, furnaces, and ovens, making the Allegheny and Monongahela riverfronts anything but scenic. Pittsburgh residents were boastful about how visible their industry was, but Sarah couldn’t help comparing the city to the airiness she’d just left behind in Denver. Pittsburgh, it seemed to her, made some of its residents rich and choked others in its smoke.
So far she was one of the lucky ones, but how long could she count on that? She’d been in the habit of hoarding her money for so long that her stomach felt tense even when she ordered tiny items she wanted but didn’t really need. When she asked C.J. Can we afford this?, sometimes she felt as if she were really asking Do I deserve this?
And C.J. knew it, too. Her questions seemed to aggravate him. “As hard as you work?” he’d told her more than once. “Woman, what’s wrong with you? I know you ain’t hardly ever home, but you might as well enjoy what home you’ve got. Don’t
you read those letters you get from those Lelia College graduates? You’re not just makin’ money off those women, Sarah, you’re doin’ exactly what you said you wanted—you’re givin’ them freedom. And if givin’ people freedom makes you rich, then so be it.”
C.J. did not have the same qualms about spending Walker Company money. His collection of suits had been growing steadily since they lived in Denver, and he had two wardrobes filled with fashionable clothes and shiny pairs of shoes. C.J. had a taste for New York-style fashions, and he was often one of the first colored men on the streets to wear a new cut of suit, a new width of necktie, or an outrageous new shade of color. Anyone can see C.J. Walker coming a mile away, Lelia had complained once.
Sarah, too, had bought herself clothes. She had more than a dozen dresses by now, from very formal to merely tasteful, and most of them were tailor-made to fit her wide hips better than the narrow-waisted clothes in the shops. But, unlike C.J., she bought almost all of her clothes with business in mind. How would she look at church? How would she look at a local meeting of the National Council of Negro Women? How would she look at a banquet? Lelia had tried to urge Sarah to buy clothes for fun, but Sarah couldn’t imagine when she would have time to wear anything frivolous that wasn’t suitable for her meetings, demonstrations, or travels.
While their taste in clothes didn’t match, Sarah and C.J. shared a taste for furnishings. For the first time in her life, Sarah lived somewhere she was proud to show off to company. Their fully carpeted parlor was suited with a brand-new matching satin brocatelle settee and parlor chairs, their curtains were black Chantilly lace, and their walls were covered with paintings of peaceful wooded and mountain landscapes. They even had a separate room they’d designated as an office and library, brimming with bookshelves and rows of books Sarah hoped to someday learn to read: the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, a Webster’s unabridged dictionary, and books by authors like Mark Twain, the Brontë sisters, Alexandre Dumas, William Shakespeare, and W.E.B. Du Bois.
They also had their toys.
C.J.’s most prized purchase was his pearl-handled, .22-caliber derringer, which he kept polished to a high gleam in his office desk drawer. They also collected fine ornamental clocks, china pieces, and a Magic Lantern to show her photographic slides. But the item Sarah cherished above everything else in her house was her thirty-dollar Columbia gramophone, which had a lovely oak cabinet and a brass horn. The glorious talking machine played wax cylinder-shaped records with a turn of the crank, filling the parlor with music. Sarah bought almost every wax cylinder recording she could find, even minstrel songs recorded by whites that riled her with references to pickaninnies and darkies, because she loved having music in her home.
Sarah longed to hear recordings by colored performers, but since she couldn’t find any, she and C.J. sat in their parlor in the evenings listening to two-minute recordings by the Edison Symphony Orchestra, the Edison Military Band, the Columbia Quartette, and lovely solos by Ada Jones and Frank C. Stanley. C.J. couldn’t hear enough of the popular Edward Meeker song Take Me Out to the Ballgame, and they both enjoyed the comic song I’m Afraid to Come Home in the Dark by Billy Murray. Best of all, Sarah had found a recording of the waltz On the Beautiful Blue Danube by Johann Strauss II. Every time she played it, her dance with C.J. in the ballroom seemed to come back to life. Not long ago she hadn’t known it, and now she had her own copy.
Life was so full of blessings! Her only true heartache now, Sarah realized, was Lelia. If only her daughter weren’t so impulsive …
“There’s no sense in a girl like Lelia gettin’ engaged to a boy like that,” Sarah said, shaking her head as she tied the bow at the collar of her shirt-waist, gazing at herself in their bedroom’s full-length mirror. “What can he give her? He works in a hotel.”
“Your brother worked in a hotel,” C.J. reminded her. He was standing behind her, admiring his new Italian-style smoking jacket in the reflection. He wore his smoking jackets when he enjoyed one of his Havana cigars in the parlor. “Anyhow, I thought she said he’s the telephone operator over at the Fort Smith Hotel. It ain’t like he’s cleaning toilets.”
“C.J., you know what I’m talkin’ about. We’re gettin’ to a place now where she can meet anybody she wants. She could be the most prized young colored lady in Pittsburgh, an’ she’s set on marryin’ that sawed-off little pup.”
C.J. winced. “Woman, you’ve sure got an evil mouth when you want to.”
“Well, ain’t he, though? The boy ain’t even five-foot-ten, with Lelia standin’ over him like some kind of giant. An’ she keeps talkin’ ’bout his music, how their lives will be so good when he gets more work playing. You know what kind of life musicians lead. I know you’re friends with plenty of ’em, C.J., but they’re not the steady sort you would want your own daughter to marry, and you know it.”
C.J. dropped his hands to her shoulders and squeezed hard. “This ain’t your battle to fight, Sarah. A’Lelia’s grown, and she’s made her mind up. You don’t have to ask where she gets her stubbornness from, so leave it alone.”
Sarah made a face. “I don’t know what kind of young man would even think about marrying a young lady without asking us for her hand first. Even croppers with nothing but a shack to their names got manners enough to know that. I bet he was seein’ her when she was down in Bluefield, sneakin’ down there like she’s trash. He’s a coward, you ask me. He should’ve come to us himself. Instead, Lelia comes tellin’ me like it’s all decided.”
“It is decided,” C.J. said, his voice firm. “You still don’t understand, do you, Sarah?”
“Understand what?”
In the reflection, his eyes met hers, and they suddenly looked hard as steel. “You don’t have the say-so over everything. You best figure that out.”
Sarah’s lips tightened with irritation, but she didn’t say anything. He would have the last word, then. This was an old argument between them they could choose to uncork at any time, but Sarah wasn’t up to it tonight. It was bad enough she would have to spend an evening socializing with the family of Lelia’s fiancé; she didn’t want to add strife with C.J. to her burdens.
C.J. had been more opposed to the move to Pittsburgh than he’d been to her long sales trip. In fact, it had taken him so long to sell his house and join her that some folks had begun whispering they were separated. She’d almost begun wondering if she still had a husband herself! Well, couldn’t he see now that both decisions had been smart? Pittsburgh had about 25,000 Negroes, five times the number in Denver, and business had flourished since their move. She just saw some things faster than he did, that was all.
“What’s the harm in marryin’ a musician, Sarah?” C.J. said after a long pause.
Sarah knew full well C.J. was trying to provoke her, but it still worked. “Musicians are never home. You know how they stay on the road. When would he see her? Most of ’em I’ve met, all they really care about is their mu—” Then she stopped, and she felt her face tingling with anger. As much as she wanted to avoid an argument, Sarah couldn’t keep silent: “Charles Walker, if you’ve got somethin’ to say to me, just say it. Don’t run me ’round the barn an’ back.”
C.J. shrugged, his eyebrows raised innocently. “What do you think I’m tryin’ to say, Sarah?” His tone was nearly mocking, and it infuriated her.
After giving him a glare in the mirror, Sarah pushed past C.J. to find the matching jacket to her skirt, which she had laid across the bed. The one curse to love, she told herself, was that loved ones could make you madder than anyone else. C.J., with his gentle sarcasm and probing, could set her off with merely a look.
“Don’t try to tell me you don’t care ’bout this company the same as me,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t tell me you don’t like that new jacket an’ those new shoes. Oh, an’ how ’bout that pretty buggy you just ran out and bought, and that black mare—”
“You’re right, Sarah,” he said, leaning over to kiss the back of her nec
k. His lips felt dry against her skin. “I’m yours. You’ve got me.”
But Sarah did not feel comforted.
The Robinsons were a middle-class family who lived in a suburb on the east end of Pittsburgh, and their pleasantly modest home was decorated with glowing green lamps for the dinner celebrating their son’s engagement. Sarah, Lelia, and C.J. had barely spoken throughout the long drive in the buggy, so the festive piano music they could hear through the open window as they pulled up to the curb did not match the family’s mood.
“That’s Johnny on the piano,” Lelia said, a tinge of excitement in her voice Sarah longed to share with her, but Sarah didn’t answer. What’s the harm in marryin’ a musician, Sarah? C.J.’s words still irked her. She knew perfectly well what he’d meant: Lelia’s life married to a musician wouldn’t be the least bit different than C.J.’s life married to her. Was that the way he really felt? Sarah’s face was solemn as she wrapped herself in her stole and climbed out of the buggy.
Inside, they found a house full of warmth and smiles. The Robinsons had invited some friends to the occasion, so there were two other couples present. As handbags, wraps, and hats were taken out of the room, there was a round of introductions. Edith and Joseph Robinson were the boy’s parents, and they greeted Sarah and C.J. with cordial handshakes, even if their faces didn’t look any more pleased than Sarah’s. Next, Sarah met Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Ward, a pleasant couple who were visiting the Robinsons from Indianapolis. The third couple, slightly older than the rest, were Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Parks, longtime Pittsburgh residents—known as “OPs,” or “Old Pittsburghers,” part of the city’s colored elite—who had known the Robinsons for years. Joseph Robinson and Reginald Parks were both clerks in city government, Sarah was told, rare positions for Negroes.
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