Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  C.J. leaned over her, kissing her forehead, her nose, and then her lips. He met her eyes. “My only old habits are a little whiskey and a cigar now and again. If I’d expected I’d need all my old habits, I wouldn’t have taken you for my wife. So you just put that thought to rest.”

  Sarah smiled. If she’d had one lingering doubt about the new plans that had been formulating themselves in her mind for the past few days, it had been the question of how her marriage might fare under the strain of long absences. She couldn’t stand it if she thought C.J. would take someone else to his bed. There was no room for lies between them.

  “Why so quiet?” C.J. asked, still gazing at her.

  “I’ve got some ideas for the company, C.J., but I don’t think you’ll like them.”

  “You know I love your ideas, Sarah.”

  “You might not now.”

  Sarah was silent for a moment, and C.J. waited. Then, slowly, she began to tell him about her conversation with Lizette. As she talked in a hush, recounting how Lizette had said she was working for her own self, Sarah felt her heartbeat quickening. “Sure, Sarah,” C.J. said when she was finished. “What you expect? That girl’s been sellin’ Hair Grower for us like blazes ever since you taught her how to use that comb.”

  Sarah bounced on the mattress beside him, her mind on fire. She’d made the mistake of drinking a Coca-Cola earlier that evening; she loved the sugary soda drink, but she knew it would keep her wide awake a good part of the night. Relieves Fatigue was the truth! “Well, C.J. . . . don’t you see? How many women like Lizette you think are out there wishin’ they could up and quit?”

  “A whole lot. You included, ’til now,” C.J. said.

  “That’s right.” Sarah felt a surge of adrenaline, and her voice rose. “That’s how I figured out what we need to be doin’. We need to be trainin’ women on how to use that comb. We need to let them sell the Wonderful Hair Grower and Glossine on their own. All the ads in the world won’t do what I’m thinking about, C.J. If colored women start doing the hair themselves, they’ll sell it for us just like Lizette. We’ll make a profit, but at the same time we’ll be givin’ these women something they’ve never had before. We’ll be givin’ them freedom.”

  “Wait, wait, wait . . .” C.J. said, shifting until he was sitting up. He sighed. “Sarah, hold up. Now, I agree with you. But you’re putting the cart before the horse. You’d need to open up—”

  “A school!” Sarah said. “That’s right. I open a school, and then I charge a price to take the course to fix the hair. And I’d teach it right, too, not just any ol’ slipshod way. When they’re done, they get some kind of paper from me and they’re in business.”

  Patiently, C.J. reached over to hold Sarah’s shoulders so he could look into her eyes. “You been drinkin’ that Coca-Cola again, ain’t you?” he said. “I told you about that at bedtime.”

  “That’s not it,” Sarah said. “I’m just seein’ something, C.J. I’m seein’ how Walker Manufacturing Company is about more than selling Hair Grower. If you’d seen Lizette’s face, the way she told me she was out from under that boss man’s thumb . . .”

  “Shoot, you don’t think my mama cleaned and cooked, too? I do see it, Sarah. But I also see how everything has to be in time. You need to make a name for yourself first.”

  At that, Sarah sighed. She knew C.J. was right. But she had already decided she couldn’t make a name the way she wanted to in Denver. It was fine to base the manufacturing office here, but the city didn’t have enough Negroes to support her. There weren’t nearly as many Negroes in Denver as she had hoped, not like there had been in St. Louis.

  “C.J., remember what you said to me at the ball? How I make a hullabaloo? Well, I don’t need to go around a bunch of biggity balls doin’ that. I need to go out and talk to folks—you know, beat ’em out the bushes. I need to find the ladies who cook and clean and wash, folks that don’t read the papers and don’t dance the waltz. And I need to get it so they’re either using our products or else selling them. Now, that’s how you build up a name, C.J. When people see you in person, they remember who you are.”

  “You’re talkin’ about bein’ a drummer,” C.J. said. “That’s not for you, Sarah. I’ve done it myself, and a drummer’s life is no kind of life for a man, much less a woman. Livin’ on trains, folks slamming doors in your face, runnin’ you off with a shotgun sometimes. Come on, now. The ads are going fine. It’s better to let people come to you.”

  Sarah sighed. “Yeah, but most folks out there don’t know the difference between Madam C.J. Walker and a whole bunch of other ads for hair growers, and most of ’em don’t work worth a lick. Why should they try mine?”

  “The ads,” C.J. said, sounding slightly irritated for the first time that night. “What have I been saying? We do a better ad, and it’s the advertising that brings them.”

  “It’s not enough,” Sarah said, believing it with all her heart. She and C.J. could advertise for years and never attract people the way she wanted, she thought. Besides, she would need more than ads to teach women how to use her combs.

  “Look, Sarah,” C.J. said, stroking her hand. “Think about what I told you ’bout Scott Joplin that first night. Remember? Look at him: He’s on top of the world with ragtime, but he can’t be satisfied. An’ I bet if he does do some opera, he’ll want somethin’ else next.”

  “What’s wrong with that? He just wants more,” Sarah said. She’d expected resistance from C.J., but she still felt rising disappointment as she realized she might not be able to convince him to share her vision for what the company could be. More and more, C.J. had been making satisfied noises, settling in, when Sarah just felt herself growing more impatient.

  “Folks like that can’t never be happy, that’s what’s wrong with it,” C.J. said. “You never look at what you’ve done, put your hands on your hips, and say with pride, ‘I did it.’ Shoot, Sarah, when I showed you that building I found cheap as dirt, you hardly gave me a smile.”

  At that, Sarah felt a twinge of guilt. C.J. had worked hard to find them an affordable rent, and she knew he’d felt hurt when she wasn’t more excited. When she was silent, C.J. went on. “And I know A’Lelia and me don’t always see eye to eye, but you just ask her. She would agree with me. You need to learn how to be satisfied.”

  Satisfied?

  Suddenly C.J.’s words sounded like a betrayal. What was the point of trying to build a company at all, if she was supposed to be satisfied from the very start? What if she’d just been satisfied washing clothes? Or satisfied to go bald?

  “I don’t believe this is C.J. Walker talking,” Sarah said. “Mister ‘Advertising Re-vo-lu-tion.’ Mister ‘I know how to sell a business better than anyone or anything.’ ”

  “Don’t mock my words,” C.J. said. She knew she’d stung him, because his voice was tight. “I do know how to sell a business, but I also know how to keep my senses. Woman, we just rented an office space we can barely pay for, and we’ve got orders to fill. We don’t have the money to send you or nobody else on a sales trip. And even if we did, we don’t have time. We need to be here. I don’t see why you’re gettin’ all excitable just when things are startin’ to work out right. You ever heard of bankruptcy, Sarah? That’s what happens when businesses run out of money. And what you’re saying sounds like bankruptcy to me, all right.”

  Frustrated, Sarah blinked fast. How could she make him understand?

  “C.J. . . .” she said, her tone gentler. “You know how you like me tellin’ folks I got my formula from a dream? Well, I think maybe I did at that. Maybe it’s dreams that keep me awake when I try to go to sleep, when I get all these ideas and I can’t stop thinkin’ about them. If that’s true, then maybe this idea is part of a dream, too. Some dreams come when you’re asleep, and some come when you’re awake. I can’t explain to you how I know it, but I know it just the same: The Walker Company will never be what it can be if I don’t go out and tell those ladies what I can give them. Th
ey need me, and I need them. Now, you may be right—maybe we can’t afford for us both to go—but one of us has to. And that one’s got to be me.”

  There was a long, strained silence in the room. After a while, Sarah began to wonder if C.J. might not say another word. Then, at last, his voice came in the darkness.

  “You don’t like to leave nobody with choices, do you, Sarah?” he said. “I could say, ‘Well, fine, Sarah, but let’s wait a year ’til we have more money.’ Or I could say, ‘No, Sarah, I think that’s pure crazy talk.’ But nothing I can say would matter to you. Once it’s in your head, it’s set, no matter what. That’s not right, in my book. Not when folks are partners.”

  The words, spoken so plainly, sounded ugly to Sarah’s ears. She opened her mouth to deny his charge, but could she, really? What could C.J. say that would change her mind?

  “One thing could sway me,” Sarah said. “If you said you’d be gone when I came back.”

  She’d meant to let C.J. know she cared for him so much that her feelings were more important than her ideas, no matter how much she believed in her ideas. Instead her words had come out sounding like she expected an ultimatum. And what if he gave her one? What then?

  C.J. gave a sound that was a mingled sigh and chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s no kinda choice, woman,” he said. “Maybe you just don’t know nothin’ about giving choices.”

  “Maybe I don’t, then,” Sarah said quietly. “Nobody ever gave me none. You?”

  C.J. wrapped his arm around Sarah, kissing her cheek. “Guess not,” he said, resigned.

  The two of them stayed half awake nearly all night, unable to sleep, unable to talk, with nothing left to do except wait for the morning light.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  OUTSIDE MERIDIAN, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 1907

  (EIGHT MONTHS LATER)

  My Dearest Sarah,

  I have done nothing but worry since we parted in New York. I hope this letter finds you safely with your sister in Vicksburg and I hope your journey through Mississippi goes well. As you know I did not think you should want to travel through there now when I am called away, but my opinions are no secret. You will be happy to know A’Lelia has risen to the ocasion and had the crisis well in hand by the time I returned. The orders finally went out after delay and she has printed dozens of letters of apology to our anxious customers. She has already hired more help, a woman you do not know who is very reliable for mixing and cleaning both. I hope this is the end of Anjetta’s complaints!

  A’Lelia is awful good with figures, which I am glad because they vex me so. You will be very pleased with the new numbers. We have seen many orders from Oklahoma and New York already, so the visits are paying off! Our weekly orders are now at $35 and I have no doubt they will keep rising through the month. At least I hope so because we are spending it all on train tickets and boarding! Letters are coming asking when you will open the college you keep talking about. Maybe it isn’t smart to make promises we cannot afford to keep? You know how your speeches cause a stir.

  That is all I will say about business. We all miss you madly, but I miss you in a more special way because we have had so little time as husband and wife. It must be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder because I can hardly think of anything except how much I wish I could be with you to keep you safe. We must finish your plans for next month so I will know where to join you again. A man’s place is at his wife’s side, my Rose. I would be lost if Fate took you from me.

  A’Lelia sends her love and of course you have

  All my love,

  C.J.

  Sarah had read the letter in C.J.’s jagged-edged handwriting at least a dozen times in the week since Lou picked it up for her at the post office in Vicksburg, but she took it from her handbag, unfolded it, and read it again in the dim twilight as the train bounced and groaned along the tracks. The waning daylight glowing through the train’s dusty windows worried Sarah; that meant the train was running late, and she would arrive in Meridian well after dark. The church that had invited her had promised to send a driver to meet her at the station, but she knew that her delay might force a change of plans. And she needed help more than ever, with the crates of supplies that had been mailed to her in Vicksburg in the train’s cargo car. How would she fare alone in a strange Mississippi town? If only C.J. were here with her!

  A sudden blast of the whistle made Sarah’s shoulders tense with nervousness. To keep her mind calm, she forced herself to concentrate on the letter in her hands. A man’s place is at his wife’s side, my Rose. She could almost hear C.J.’s lulling voice in her imagination, and when she closed her eyes she could remember her joyful dance with him at the ball. Things had been going so well between them. . . . She should have listened to him this time, she thought.

  Or, at the very least, she wished she hadn’t quarreled with Lou. Sarah had planned to treat her sister to a trip through Mississippi with her, but a week in Vicksburg with Lou had been more than enough for her, so she’d left Lou behind. She’d forgotten how much that woman could test her nerves! Lou was set in her ways, so slow to accept new ideas. Complete strangers gave Sarah encouragement and praise, but her own sister usually offered only complaints or belittlement, as if Sarah were still a child: Why you got us standin’ out in this hot sun, Sarah? Ain’t nobody interested in washin’ they heads in no vegetable soap. How come you puttin’ on so many airs when you talk now? Look to me like you jus’ burnin’ up folks’ heads with that comb.

  Sarah was grateful Lou had allowed her to stay at her home in Vicksburg, but she’d been happy to get away. The hair demonstrations had gone better than she’d hoped, drawing large crowds to Lou’s porch, but Sarah was almost sorry she’d gone back to Vicksburg. So few of her memories there were good ones, and all the faces had changed, making her a stranger there now. Even poor Miss Brown was dead and gone. And little Willie still in prison! How could Lou’s sweet little boy, who used to dance to Moses’ fiddle, have gone so wrong in so little time? And while Delta had beckoned her from right across the river—Lou even told Sarah she’d heard that the Longs still lived in their old house, and that their childhood cabin still stood—Sarah hadn’t had the heart to venture there and visit her parents’ resting place. Someday, but not yet.

  Feeling a stab of sadness, Sarah again sought solace in the lines of C.J.’s letter. She read his words again and again, until there was too little light to see them clearly even with the gas lamp hanging in the rear of the car casting shadows all around her.

  It was getting late. Sarah opened the sterling silver watch case C.J. had given her right before they first set out on the trip in September, which was hand-engraved with the image of two roses. The face of the watch told her it was already after eight o’clock, which meant she could expect to arrive in Meridian by nine. After spending so many months on the trains, Sarah was good at guessing times and distances.

  Sarah sighed. Even with the daylight gone, the colored train car was so hot that her arm ached from her constant fanning as she tried to cool herself off. During winter, the train cars had been so frigid she had to wear every piece of clothing she’d brought just to keep warm, but now it was the constant baking heat in the car that bothered Sarah. She could feel the film of damp perspiration across her face and under her clothes, especially gathering where she sat against the hard wooden bench. It was almost as if she’d wet herself.

  An’ I’d almost rather wet myself than visit that toilet again, she thought. Sarah was grateful for shorter journeys, because her visits to squat over the two-handled rusting tin bucket behind the curtain at the rear of the car were an adventure that too often ended in humiliation. She’d spotted her clothes with urine more than once from the constant jouncing, and she’d prefer any backwater outhouse to that bucket’s foul stench. But Sarah had learned the hard way that holding in her water had bad consequences; she’d begun suffering from bladder infections when she traveled, which gave her a painful stream.
One had been so bad that she let out a whimpering cry when she felt the burning between her legs. Have mercy! She’d been scared to death of the toilet for a whole week, until the diet of cranberries a woman in New York recommended finally gave her some relief. That sprawling northeastern city had almost been too marvelous to be real, especially with C.J. at her side, but the long train rides to get to and from New York had nearly blotted out her good memories.

  To make it worse, no matter how many hours she spent traveling, Sarah was afraid to shut her eyes to take some rest when she was on the trains. Too many thieves. Once, early in their trip, she and C.J. had awakened from a night’s fitful sleep to discover that someone had stolen a box of samples right from under their feet. Thank goodness their money had been safely tucked away, or their trip would have been finished from the start. Sarah saw families on the trains from time to time and enjoyed watching the antics of children, but the other passengers were usually men who seemed to forget she was present, smoking and telling each other bawdy stories to pass the time. Worst of all were the whites who visited the colored car occasionally to harass passengers or simply be rowdy. They were usually harmless, but Sarah could never be sure of their character. Sarah’s favorite place to sit was the back corner, where she hoped to be inconspicuous.

  As much money as she was spending on train fare, Sarah felt more like cargo than a passenger. The seats were rickety, without padding, the air was stale, and the colored porters in white coats she saw in armies at the train stations seemed to make little attempt to keep the colored car clean of discarded papers or food. Maybe they were just too busy with the white passengers, she thought. And the ash! Her rides usually left Sarah dusted with fine, acrid ash she tried desperately to brush from her clothes. The only time Sarah felt the least bit looked after was when she ran across the young colored porter she’d met in St. Louis, Freeman Ransom, on the western train routes; he told her about how his studies were going and sneaked her pillows to make her seat more comfortable.