Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  The next time she looked toward their table, however, C.J. was gone.

  Just that quickly, Sarah’s cloud was back, and the room seemed to grow dark. Sarah lost her rhythm, nearly stumbling into Mr. Styles. She felt sick to her stomach. What had she done?

  Then, magically, C.J.’s voice was impossibly near. “Excuse me, Len,” his voice said from behind her, “but I need to cut in with this lovely lady of mine.”

  Sarah felt slightly dizzy and winded, so the sight of C.J. was dreamlike. There was something in his face she had not seen since her first night with him. He gave her an open, welcome smile, and she glided into his open arms. C.J. pulled her much closer to him than Mr. Styles had dared, until they were nearly touching. He slid back and forth to his own slow rhythm, as if he couldn’t hear the faster-paced music, and she followed his movement, swaying.

  “You’re gonna be a handful to the man who loves you, ain’t you, Sarah Breedlove McWilliams?” C.J. said. Their eyes locked.

  Sarah nodded, her heart roaring. “I hope that’s what you want, C.J.”

  “Guess it must be, or I’d know how to leave well enough alone. You sure you’ve got any use for a dandy, high-tone man like me?”

  Sarah hadn’t realized, until now, that C.J. had overheard the remarks she’d made about him to Lelia, Sadie, and Rosetta when he visited her kitchen in St. Louis, on the day she first met him. Embarrassed, she laughed. Then her eyes settled back into the sunlight in C.J.’s gaze.

  “Oh, yes, C.J.,” she said. “I’ve never been more sure in all my days.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  JANUARY 4, 1906

  Sarah had never felt so special as she did the day she married C.J. Walker, and she could hardly imagine that there might be a day she would feel so special again.

  From the time their engagement was first announced in the newspaper—the only time any of her doings had been announced publicly—Sarah had found herself doted upon and congratulated. A kindly couple from church, B.F. and Delilah Givens, insisted that they host the ceremony at their home. A young chambermaid and dressmaker who used Sarah’s hair grower, Lizette, begged for a chance to sew her a bridal dress, promising to replicate a design in the Elite Fashions catalog at a price Sarah could afford. The Scholtz family delivered a beautiful sterling silver tea set to the Breedloves’ as a wedding gift, and it shone so brightly that Sarah nearly screamed when she unwrapped the gift box.

  Then the letters began arriving. Sadie and Lelia had both written to say that they were going to come. Sarah was glad, but she felt a twinge of guilt because the trip would pose such a sacrifice to them. If she’d had the money, she would have gladly paid their fares from St. Louis herself, but she could not. Her Hair Grower was selling better than it ever had, but she was also spending more money on ingredients and the ointment jars C.J. had insisted she should use to package it. Guilt or no guilt, though, Sarah savored the words Lelia had written her, and she read her letter over and over after she received it: Mama, nothing in the world could keep me away.

  But the biggest surprise of all had come two days before the wedding, when Anjetta told Sarah that someone was waiting for her on the Breedloves’ front porch. There, a portly woman bundled in two mismatched overcoats and a scarf stood in the frigid air, a suitcase in her hand.

  “ ’Bout time you got yo’self a new man, Sarah! I’d ’bout given you up.”

  Sarah almost didn’t recognize her. At the mature age of forty-three, the woman had gained at least forty pounds, which had rounded the shape of her face, and her hair was streaked with lines of gray at her forehead. But her eyes hadn’t changed, and neither had her voice. When Sarah saw her, she shrieked. They hugged each other so hard they looked like they were wrestling, nearly toppling off the Breedloves’ porch.

  It was Lou! Alternately laughing and crying, the sisters hugged without making a coherent sentence. Nearly twenty years had passed since they had seen each other last, and Sarah felt time melting away as she sank into her older sister’s breast. She and Lou had started out together with only each other to rely on, and they’d been struggling far apart in all the years since. How could they put that feeling into words? Finally Sarah’s confusion broke through her wordlessness. She didn’t think Lou had left Mississippi once in all her life, and since her divorce from Mr. William Powell, Sarah couldn’t imagine how Lou could have afforded the train fare.

  “But Lou . . . how did you . . . I mean, who . . . ?”

  Then, finally, Sarah noticed C.J. standing on the sidewalk beside his wagon. He was watching them with satisfaction, his arms folded across his chest. He winked. C.J. must have brought Lou to surprise her! If Sarah hadn’t already been betrothed to marry C.J. Walker in forty-eight hours, she would have fallen in love with him on sight.

  So, on her wedding day, draped in the lovely dress of brocaded satin and lace sewn for her by her neighbor, Sarah realized that she was standing in a room filled with her closest friends and family, all of the people she loved, for the first time in her adult life. Lelia was there, tall and smiling; Sadie beamed at her with glistening eyes, hardly able to keep from squirming with excitement; Lou gazed at her with a combination of pride and what was no doubt envy (she knew Lou, after all); and her neatly dressed nieces and sister-in-law were there as well. There were only a dozen people in the Givenses’ bookshelf-lined parlor, but Sarah felt as if she were back in the Great Hall at the World’s Fair.

  Then there was C.J.

  C.J. had spoken to her in the gentlest tones since the night he’d admitted his love for her, keeping his eyes intensely upon her when they were together, and today his face was filled with utter softness as he watched Sarah walk toward him in her floor-length wedding dress. He had shed all reserve, all restraint. So much love burned in his eyes that Sarah wondered how he had managed to keep it a mystery for so long. She could wrap herself up in those eyes.

  Reverend Dyett, an elderly colored man, asked her questions she felt need not be asked, that she believed must be apparent in her face: “Do you, Sarah Breedlove McWilliams, take this child of God, Charles Joseph Walker, as your lawful-wed husband? In sickness and health, for better or worse, forsaking all others? To love, honor, and obey as long as you both shall live?”

  “Yes.” Sarah’s voice was a breath. She heard the fireplace crackling behind them.

  Next, it was C.J.’s turn. His face held a beatific smile as he nodded slowly to the pastor’s words. He seemed to repeat the vows in his mind while the pastor spoke, studying them. “Yes, Reverend, I do,” C.J. answered in a firm, clear voice. His eyes shimmered, unblinking.

  The pastor smiled. “Well, I do now pronounce you man and wife.”

  Man and wife. Mr. and Mrs. C.J. Walker, Sarah thought, virtually disbelieving. Then Sarah corrected herself: No . . . it’s Madam C.J. Walker.

  She would keep that name for the rest of her life.

  Sarah saw C.J. Walker’s house for the first time on their wedding night. As the hired carriage driver took them toward C.J.’s unfamiliar street, Sarah remembered her nervousness when she’d married Moses, and felt the first genuine stab of sorrow she’d experienced over Moses in a long time. What a day she’d just had! A wedding ceremony, and then a wonderful dinner of Cornish hens with her family, friends, and new husband. Sarah never questioned for a moment that Moses was watching over her, and that he was happy with her new union, but she was sorry her happiness today had been at the cost of a man who had been so good to her.

  “We’re here, Madam Walker,” C.J. said, gently nibbling her earlobe. His warm breath in her ear traveled up and down her frame, and she clasped his hand tight.

  C.J.’s bungalow-style house was compact, almost identical in size to the one she’d left behind in St. Louis, but she noticed some differences right away. First, he had electricity—he flipped a light switch on his parlor wall, and the whole room was brightened by a lamp on the ceiling above. And although there was a drabness to the room she’d imagined might be typical
of a bachelor, C.J. had indulged himself with a few niceties she had never been able to afford because she’d always saved her money so religiously. A large crimson rug covered nearly the entire wooden parlor floor, he had floor-length draperies, there were stylish lamps on his tables, and he even had a framed painting of a mountain landscape on his wall. He could definitely use a woman’s touch in terms of the cleaning, she noted when she saw the film of dust covering his table legs, but he had done well for himself. It was a far cry from the bare little home Moses had offered her on their wedding night.

  Still, though, C.J. sounded apologetic. “One day soon,” he said, “we’ll have the grandest house on this street. In the whole neighborhood.”

  His attached bathroom, as far as Sarah was concerned, was an utter luxury. As she dressed herself in the special white muslin gown she’d bought for their wedding night, Sarah enjoyed the washbasin where she could easily wash her face from the faucets of running water. And she looked forward to reclining in his porcelain claw-foot bathtub, which was a delightful improvement over the cramped, uncomfortable tin tubs that had served her for bathing until now. And a flush toilet! No snakes, no lingering odors, no journey outside into the cold air just to do her business. All she had to do was sit and flush when she was done!

  So this is how the middle-class folks live, she thought.

  Her hair was brushed down, and the jet-black strands fanned across her neck and shoulders. For an instant, gazing at herself in the lacy collar of her elegant nightgown in the looking glass over C.J.’s washbasin, Sarah felt as if she’d stepped into someone else’s life. How had all of this happened so fast? Only yesterday, it seemed, she couldn’t get her hair to grow at all, and she’d had no real expectation that a man’s hands would touch her body again. Now, she was a new bride on her wedding night.

  “My, my, my . . .”

  When Sarah stepped into the doorway of C.J.’s dimly lighted bedroom, his voice was so low it was nearly a growl. C.J. was still clothed except for his shoes, but he was already lying back on his iron four-poster bed, his arms folded behind his head as he propped himself up against the rails of the headboard. Candlelight glowed against his wall coverings, but she could barely see the features on C.J.’s face, except his wide smile.

  Sarah clenched her fingers tight, hearing the earthy desire in C.J.’s voice. She knew that desire, too. There was a gentle rustling from C.J.’s window as snowflakes landed against the pane. She was warm in her gown, but her body felt rigid from eager waiting.

  “Tell you what, Sarah Walker . . .” C.J. said. “I knew I was in trouble with you from the first time we sat down to supper.”

  “When I hit you?” Sarah asked, teasing gently.

  C.J. laughed. “Naw, girl, it wasn’t that. I figger I had that coming. What I mean is, you’re the kind of woman a fellow figures he has to either marry or forget about. I didn’t think I was ready to be nobody’s husband, but I sure as hell didn’t know how I could forget you either. You’re a woman no man could forget if he lived to the next century.”

  His voice warmed her just like a roaring fireplace.

  “Know what I think?” she said, taking a step toward him. “I think sometimes folks meet, and it’s set from the start they should be together. There’s nothing they can do to change it.”

  Grinning, C.J. sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Close your eyes, Sarah. I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

  “But you’ve already done so much, C.J., bringin’ Lou out here and—”

  “Shhhhh,” C.J. said. “No back talk, woman.”

  Bowing her head slightly, Sarah closed her eyes as she’d been asked. She heard C.J. open a drawer, then his feet padded closer to her. She knew he was standing in front of her because she could smell his clean scent.

  “Okay. You can look now,” he said.

  Sarah opened her eyes, and she looked down at C.J.’s hands. He was holding a small figurine of shiny porcelain, a replica of a single flower in a vase. As he raised it closer to her, she could see that the petrified flower was a dark, open-budded rose. Its leaves, thorns, and petals were as lifelike as any real flower, if smaller.

  “C.J. . . .” she whispered, struck by its simple beauty.

  “Now, they didn’t have it exactly like I wanted it, so I had to have it painted special. I remember you told me ’bout that dream you had one time . . . you know, with the African man. . . .” At that, Sarah nearly gasped. The rose was not just dark, she realized; it was black. It shone up at her like a boundless night sky. “I figgered since I’m your man now, then I must be the one in your dream. And if he gave you a black rose, then I should, too.”

  Sarah couldn’t speak. C.J. stroked the side of her face with his warm, soft palm. “Yeah . . .” he said, nodding as if he liked the sound of it. “I’m the man in your dream, and you’re the black rose. My black rose.”

  At that, Sarah pulled C.J.’s head closer to hers and raised herself to her toes so she could kiss his mouth. This time there was none of the hesitation of the first night when their lips and tongues met; C.J. hugged her close to him as they kissed, and he rubbed his torso against her so she could feel the solidness of his waiting manhood. Sarah’s body seemed to seep through the fabric of her gown, cleaving itself to him. C.J. made small moaning noises, his hand roving across her backside, fumbling for the ties at the back of her gown. Sadie had told Sarah once that she’d never undressed in front of her husband in all the years they’d been married, except under their bedsheets when her husband was seized by the mood, but Sarah realized suddenly that she wanted to shed her gown and stand in front of C.J. Walker in all of her bold, womanly nakedness. So he could see every brown curve and inch of her.

  Suddenly C.J. pulled his mouth away from hers, breathing slightly harder as he gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “You ain’t tired, are you, Sarah? I remember you sayin’ how you’ve got to get up early tomorrow for that demonstration over at—”

  “Well, then,” Sarah interrupted him, wrapping her arms around his midsection to anchor their hungry bodies together, “I guess we better get to bed, then, huh? It’s time for something else right now.”

  C.J. grinned, pleased, and he swallowed her with his mouth once again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  JULY 1906

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  “A colored man owned this?” Lelia asked with surprise, trailing behind Sarah and C.J. into the gaily decorated ballroom of the lovely hotel in the heart of Denver’s business district. Tired of her independence, Lelia had moved to Denver to live with Sarah and her new husband and help with their growing business. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting bright light down onto the revelers on the slickly polished ball-room floor below. The Summertime Grand Ball at the Inter-Ocean Hotel was being billed as one of the biggest colored affairs of the season, and C.J. had secured his family’s invitation through Mr. Joseph D.D. Rivers, who owned The Colorado Statesman and knew C.J. from his advertising work.

  “Yep, this hotel belonged to a man name of Barney Ford,” C.J. answered Lelia, steering them through the room. “He died four years back, but he had a little piece of everything in this town at one time or t’other. Way I hear it, colored men in Denver owe their vote to him and two other fellows, Henry Oscar Wagoner and Edward Sanderlein. They put up a fight.”

  “What about colored women?” Lelia said defiantly. “I don’t see why we can’t vote, too.”

  C.J. shrugged. “Tell you what, Lelia, the way some of you ladies hagride your men to get ’em to the polls to vote this way or that, it’s the ladies’ votes that really count.” Then he laughed in a way Sarah knew would annoy Lelia, who didn’t need much provocation. Lelia had confided to Sarah that she thought C.J. was crass and conceited. Sarah thought C.J.’s sense of humor could be low sometimes, but she didn’t see him the same way. C.J. just knew a lot, and he liked to share what he knew.

  “Call me A’Lelia, please,” Lelia told C.J. impatien
tly. She tolerated Sarah calling her Lelia, but not C.J. She was determined her new chosen name would stick.

  “Sorry, Miss A’Lelia. Slipped my mind.”

  “Women will vote soon enough,” Sarah said. “ ’Fore long, there won’t be a single thing men can do that women can’t. Just wait ’til we start proving ourselves in business, too. Now, C.J., tell me which of these folks I need to meet.”

  Sarah felt intimidated in the ballroom full of nattily dressed colored folk, many of whom looked like mulattoes and quadroons, but she didn’t want it to show. She was wearing her richly colored blue dress with the golden braid—still the nicest dress she owned, aside from her wedding dress—but it was obvious that many of the other women had spent fortunes on their summer costumes, and most of the men sported tuxedos and tails. C.J. looked dapper as usual, but tonight even he was outclassed. And Lelia’s modern-style suit was lovely on her, but it was plain compared to the intricate layers of fine fabrics draped on the women around them. Did these Negroes buy their clothes in France? Seems like we never look quite right, Sarah thought.

  But no matter. Part of C.J.’s plan was to create her mystique as Madam C.J. Walker, and she was here to meet people, so that was what she would do. “Over at that table by the stage, that’s Dr. P.E. Spratlin, who’s very high up in politics,” C.J. said, gesturing subtly across the room with a jerk of his chin. “There’s, uhm . . . the Hackleys beside them. Edwin Hackley is an attorney.” No matter what the event, if C.J. didn’t personally know most of the people in a room, he could at least name them. That was a talent Sarah wanted to learn for herself, she decided.

  A string quintet was seated on the stage, the Negro members sitting poised and ready with their violins on their chins and shoulders, and one had a towering string instrument between his knees that Sarah didn’t recognize; when the white-gloved conductor moved his baton, the musicians began to play a lively waltz. Their bows moved in unison, filling the room with a sweet, delicate music that delighted Sarah’s ear. Could Moses have played well enough to join a musical group like this if he’d ever had the chance?