Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  Still, this one time, Sarah would have liked to telephone Mr. Walker to tell him she would be ready to meet him at six. It would have been nice to hear his voice, which had been fluttering through her mind all weekend.

  Lelia scowled. “Mama, I’ve met pretty-talking men like him, and believe me, most of them aren’t worth the clothes on their backs.”

  There was something too knowing, too wise, about Lelia’s tone that made Sarah gaze back at her daughter suddenly, searching her face. Lelia’s eyes held steady, and Sarah was almost certain she could see things written in her daughter’s smoky eyes that she did not like at all.

  Lelia sighed, searching for her words, then she went on, not blinking: “You’ve barely cracked a smile to a man in all the time I can remember, and you’re so busy thinking about hair formula, I hate to think how long it’s been since you’ve felt a man’s hands and lips. . . .”

  Shocked by Lelia’s candor, Sarah whirled to face her. “That’s none of your—”

  “Mama, are you going to listen to sense for a minute? Try to forget I’m your daughter and let me talk to you like a grown woman.”

  Lelia’s eyes looked weary in a way they should not, Sarah realized, as if her daughter had already been around the world and back. What had made them look that way? “Don’t you get big with no child, actin’ like a fool,” Sarah said between gritted teeth.

  Lelia shrugged. “Oh, I ain’t having no babies, Mama. Don’t worry about that.”

  The way she’d said that, Sarah knew there was something else behind the words, an unspoken invitation for Sarah to ask her more. But Lelia was likely to say anything at all, and Sarah realized her heart did not want to know her daughter’s secrets. A woman’s secrets were her own, and Lelia was a woman now whether Sarah liked it or not.

  “So let me tell you what I think about this Charles Walker,” Lelia went on, uninvited. “I can tell just by looking at him he’s got a woman in every city he sets foot in. Men like that don’t marry, ’cause they like the bachelor’s life. They talk like gentlemen and dress like gentlemen, but they don’t act like gentlemen.”

  Sarah felt her face turning dark. “Lelia, you act like we courtin’! The man asked me to supper to talk ’bout business.”

  Lelia put her hand on her hip, gazing down at Sarah as though she had never heard anything so silly. “Why would a man all the way from Denver care about what we’re mixing in your little kitchen, Mama? You don’t have to go to supper to talk about that. You can talk on the porch.”

  Maybe he believes in me, Sarah thought stubbornly, but she didn’t say the words aloud. Lelia was right; Charles Walker had no reason to believe in her the way Lelia, Sadie, and Rosetta did. He didn’t know her. He had no idea where she’d come from or what she’d been through. But what did he want with her, then?

  “Just don’t forget yourself, Mama,” Lelia said, her tone softening. She wrapped her arms around Sarah in a hug. “There’s some men who leave heartbreak behind them.”

  “Did someone do that to you, Lelia?” Sarah asked her, still afraid to know.

  Lelia shrugged. “Maybe once, but that’s all over for me,” she breathed close to Sarah’s ear. “In fact, Mama, I have something to tell you. . . .” Sarah felt her insides clench as tight as a fist, bracing for terrible news while Lelia put her at arm’s length so she could gaze down into her eyes. “With my friends, I’ve been using a new name I made up for myself. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d think it was an insult to you and Daddy.”

  “A new name?” Sarah said, confused.

  “It’s like Lelia, but it’s different,” she said. “It’s A’Lelia. I put an ‘A’ in front. I’ll write it down for you so you can see how I like it. But don’t get mad, Mama. Please?”

  Sarah’s heart leaped with relief. Compared to the unthinkable events she’d been afraid of, Lelia’s news was so mild that Sarah almost smiled.

  A’Lelia. The new name was close to Lelia’s birth name, yet it was more suited to the tall, mysterious woman that Lelia had become. Sarah was honestly impressed that her daughter had enough creativity and confidence to want to choose her own name—just like Mrs. Brown, when she’d begun calling herself America—but it also saddened her. Her little girl was gone. The woman she’d become was fascinating company, changing so quickly and saying anything that popped into her mind, but Sarah was sure as hell going to miss her child.

  “A’Lelia,” Sarah said, trying the name on with her mouth. Her eyes smarted.

  “Isn’t it pretty, Mama?”

  This time Sarah did manage to smile. Lelia sounded so eager, so pleased, and Sarah didn’t want to ruin her joy. “It’s pretty, all right,” she said, meaning it. “I just hope you ain’t expectin’ me to remember to call you by that. You’ll always be Lelia to me.”

  Lelia shook her head, smiling with gratitude. “I’m just happy you’re not mad,” she said, and hugged her again. “I’m miserable when you get mad at me.”

  But Sarah already knew that. For all Lelia’s faults, she really did try hard to please her. She always had, from the time she’d stayed up late studying as a child to the way she still spent so many long hours helping Sarah experiment with her hair formula long after Sadie and Rosetta had gone home. Lelia had subjected herself to so many hair treatments, it was a wonder the poor girl’s hair hadn’t fallen out. And Sarah couldn’t think of one time her daughter had complained.

  “I know, baby,” Sarah said, squeezing Lelia as she kissed her long neck. “Now leave me be, child. I’ve still got to get dressed for supper.”

  Lelia scowled. “You didn’t hear a word I said just now, did you, Mama?”

  “Oh, Lelia, stop. You don’t got to worry ’bout me like I’m a schoolgirl. I’ve been a long, long way from that just about my whole life.”

  But in a corner of her soul where she could be honest with herself, Sarah wondered if she was only trying to fool them both.

  A two-passenger black buggy arrived in front of Sarah’s house at six o’clock, and the sight of it froze Sarah in her doorway. The stylish buggy looked nearly new, its paint gleaming, and it was canopied with a buffed black leather top. Two pretty lamps hung from its sides, and the seat was cushioned with leather. Even the steel spokes of the tires glistened. A quality buggy like this one might have cost two hundred dollars or more, Sarah thought. Mr. Walker sure had borrowed a handsome vehicle!

  Mr. Walker reined the spotted white horse to a stop, grinning at her from where he sat on the shaded, cushioned seat. He pulled the hand brake in place, then leaped down. “Evenin’, Mrs. McWilliams,” he said, half bowing as he tipped his flat white hat.

  “Evenin’, sir,” Sarah answered stiffly. Lelia was right; she hadn’t courted in her whole life, not really, and suddenly she felt like a visitor to a strange land where she didn’t know the first thing about the customs. We jus’ goin’ to supper to talk about business, Sarah told herself, repeating the reminder several times so she could gather the nerve to face Mr. Walker. “I may be back late, Lelia,” Sarah told her daughter, and closed the door behind her before Lelia could mutter anything she might not want Mr. Walker to hear.

  “Hope you like ragtime, Mrs. McWilliams, ’cause I’ve got a treat in store,” Mr. Walker said, taking her hand to help her climb into the buggy, which sank slightly beneath her weight. The horse huffed and shifted its hooves on the cobblestones, but the buggy didn’t move.

  Sarah forced herself to ignore the soft warmth of Mr. Walker’s hand around hers. It was easy to tell he was a man who worked behind a desk instead of a plow. Suddenly she felt self-conscious as she realized her own hand might not feel nearly as soft to him. “I thought we was goin’ to supper, Mr. Walker.”

  “Well, I don’t know ’bout you,” Mr. Walker said, walking around the buggy to take his own seat, “but to my experience, a little good music helps me digest my food better.”

  With a snap of the reins, Mr. Walker began the thirty-minute drive through St. Louis’s maj
or thoroughfares, where he had to patiently wait his turn behind stopped streetcars, slow down for pedestrians darting across the street with packages or baskets of fruit, and take his place behind the other carriages, surreys, and automobiles that shared the road with them. The ride was smooth on the freshly paved road, and Sarah enjoyed the brisk pace of their journey as the early evening breeze kissed her face. Electric signs lit up brightly all around them in the waning daylight, proclaiming banks, markets, and casinos. Sarah was usually in such a hurry to finish tasks and chores, she realized, that she almost never visited the city at night to appreciate its liveliness, even when she rode the streetcars. A leisurely carriage ride was an entirely different experience! All she had to do was sit back against her soft seat, her feet nestled atop the carpeting, and watch people and buildings fly past her. She didn’t have to worry about sore feet, strangers’ leers, or unexpected heaps of horse manure in her path. In Mr. Walker’s buggy, she felt as though she didn’t have to worry about a thing.

  He took her to a Market Street supper club called the Rosebud Bar, which had lightbulbs flashing in the window to proclaim that it was open all night. Before Sarah would climb out of the carriage, she ventured glances up and down the street to try to guess the character of this neighborhood. There were no children or families in sight, mostly men in business attire and a few women whose manner of dress, frankly, reminded her of Etta’s.

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. Walker asked, waiting for her with his hand held out.

  “You sure this is a proper place for a lady, Mr. Walker?”

  “Well, it is in my book,” Mr. Walker said, shrugging. “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t smoking, dancing, and drinking inside, but there’s no danger to a lady with an escort. Course, there’s some ladies who think there ain’t no proper place for them except a church sanctuary or their husband’s kitchen. But you don’t strike me as that sort, Mrs. McWilliams.”

  Mr. Walker’s response hadn’t done much to relieve Sarah’s doubts, but she also burned with curiosity. She had never been to a supper club like this one, even though she’d heard so much about the performances of singers, musicians, and dancers in the newspaper. Besides, Mr. Walker was right; she had an escort, and that made all the difference.

  “Seems like a funny place to do business,” Sarah said as she took his hand.

  “I do business in all sorts of funny places,” Mr. Walker said, his oddly colored eyes flitting away. He left it at that, and Sarah was glad. She felt Lelia’s warnings trying to surface in her mind, but she ignored them. She was going to have supper with the man, that was all, and she didn’t expect anything else. For once, she was going to have a good time! Didn’t she deserve it?

  Inside, the large bar was a world of its own, crowded with men engaged in boisterous conversation, sitting at spare tables facing a piano player on a small stage. The broad-backed musician was playing the keys furiously, filling the room with quick-paced melodies. But C.J. took her to an adjoining room that was much quieter, decorated in gaily colored wall coverings that looked like linked roses. There were at least three dozen candlelit tables fanned across the floor, and Mr. Walker navigated his way through the room just as he had on the road.

  “C.J. Walker!” a long-haired octoroon woman in a red dress squealed from a table, and Mr. Walker laughed with recognition, leaning over to kiss the back of her hand. Sarah felt a twinge and forced herself to look away.

  “Hey, hey, Scotty,” Mr. Walker said, stopping at the next table to shake the hand of a modest-looking young man sitting alone with papers spread across his table. Looking at the papers more closely, Sarah noticed that they were filled with the same squiggles and symbols from her church hymn books; the man was writing music. “What you doin’ in this barrelhouse?”

  “I promised Tom Turpin I’d pay a visit. Better not let him hear those aspersions, C.J.”

  “Oh, hey, I’m just makin’ a little joke, now. Tom knows I love this place, or I wouldn’t have helped him with his ads in the Palladium. Scott, meet Sarah McWilliams. Mrs. McWilliams, this is Scott Joplin.”

  The man, who was dark-skinned with closely cropped hair, kissed Sarah’s hand and gave her a gracious smile. There was something absurdly familiar about his name, she thought in an instant of excited recognition, but she just couldn’t quite . . .

  “Tom started it with Harlem Rag, but when you came out with that Maple Leaf Rag, boy, ragtime took over the whole world,” Mr. Walker congratulated him, and then Sarah remembered why she knew Scott Joplin’s name. She had heard about his music, of course!

  “Taking over the world isn’t always the blessing you’d think,” Mr. Joplin said with a touch of weariness. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McWilliams. You two have a good night.” He lowered his head and went back to work, writing his markings with impossible speed, and Sarah noticed a nearly haunted expression on the young man’s face.

  “Some folks don’t know a good thing when they got it,” C.J. muttered to Sarah, and he guided her to the empty table where their escort was waiting. “They’re sayin’ he’s hell-bent on writing opera. Ain’t that something? A nigger tryin’ to write opera. Can’t be satisfied.”

  By the time she sat down, Sarah felt nearly dizzy. “Where do you know him from?” she asked, already imagining how surprised and jealous Lelia would be when she told her she’d met the King of Ragtime.

  “You meet lots of folks when you travel like I do.”

  Oh, I’m sure you do, all right, Sarah thought, remembering the woman in the red dress, but she vowed to control her reservations. By the time she’d put in her order for prime rib of beef and begun sipping a glass of red wine (C.J. had reminded her that even Jesus turned water to wine), Sarah felt at ease in the lively supper club. She tapped her foot under the table to the muffled sounds floating through the wall.

  “What do you want with me, Mr. Walker?” Sarah blurted, bolstered by the wine.

  Mr. Walker’s eyes widened with surprise as he sipped from his whiskey glass, then he laughed, nearly spilling his drink. “What do I want . . . ?”

  “That’s right. Why did you follow me from the picnic to my kitchen, and why are we sittin’ here tonight? It ain’t like you couldn’t find no other lady to put on your arm.”

  Slowly Mr. Walker’s smile faded and she saw earnestness creep into his eyes. “Well, all right, then. But first off, I wish you would call me C.J.”

  Sarah considered that, then shook her head. “I only call friends by their Christian names, and we ain’t friends, Mr. Walker.”

  Mr. Walker chuckled. “There it is again! Mrs. McWilliams, you’re ’bout one of the most direct women I ever did meet, besides my own mama. That’s why you sold so much of your hair product at the picnic, you know, and that’s why you’re gonna sell a whole lot more.”

  At that, Sarah relaxed. She’d been right! Mr. Walker did want to talk business with her. She felt both vindication and a flash of disappointment, though her disappointment soon gave way to relief. She might not know much about courting, but she did know about selling her formula.

  “I’m listenin’,” Sarah said.

  Mr. Walker folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward, his eyes boring into her. “Mrs. McWilliams, I’ve been in advertising a long time, and I’ll tell you what I know: You can shout what you’re selling from the rooftops, but in the end it won’t do you no good if what you’re selling ain’t worth a damn. So when I see somebody who’s selling something worth a damn, it gets my blood to boiling. Now, when you got up in front of all those folks at the picnic and let down your hair and said you had a miracle cure, you made me want to believe you. You have what’s called the gift of persuasion. And when I went to your kitchen and saw what you were doing with that comb, I knew you had somethin’ worth selling.”

  Sarah was pleased, but she tried to hold her face steady. Mr. Walker was probably about to try to ask her for something, and she couldn’t let his flattery blur her common sense. He had the gift of pers
uasion, too. “So what do you want?” Sarah asked him.

  This time Mr. Walker didn’t blink. “I want to tell you the truth, that’s all. Most folks don’t want to hear it, but in my heart I think you do. Do you want the truth, Mrs. McWilliams?”

  Sarah was confused, but she nodded.

  Mr. Walker began. “What I saw in your kitchen was a mess, so help me, like a Mississippi rib joint on a Friday night. Nothing but clutter every which way, so much smoke I could barely breathe, and y’all scooping that hair formula into cups and cans like it was bacon grease. I’ve seen all kinds of ways to run a business, Mrs. McWilliams, but that ain’t no kinda way.”

  Sarah’s mouth fell open, and she felt her body stiffen so rigid that it hurt. Her tear ducts smarted, but she wouldn’t allow any tears to come.

  “This is St. Louis, Mrs. McWilliams, and St. Louis belongs to Annie Malone and Poro. Everyone in this town knows her product. It’s bull-headed to try to compete with her in the first place, but what you’re doing ain’t no kind of competition at all.”

  “You done yet?” Sarah whispered, her voice raking her throat.

  “You asked for the truth.” Mr. Walker’s face didn’t soften.

  “Just ’cause you’re payin’ a few dimes for my supper don’t mean I expect you to insult me to my face. You don’t know how hard I been workin’—”

  “Mrs. McWilliams, folks who can’t hear the truth won’t succeed. That’s a fact.”

  Before she even realized what she was about to do, Sarah’s hand flew out and lashed across Mr. Walker’s cheek. She didn’t hit him hard, but she was shocked she had hit him at all. It had just suddenly felt as if Mr. Walker were ridiculing her child, her flesh and blood. Sarah’s anger gave way to mortification, and she crumpled back against her chair. “Oh, my—”