Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  A few times, Sarah had been able to catch a glimpse into the finer Pullman cars available to white travelers, and she felt angrier with each peek. The seats had fine upholstery, the floors were carpeted, and she even felt drifts of cool air when the doors drifted open. Some of the cars looked like elegant parlors, not like train cars at all. And the dining cars! Through the windows, Sarah had seen row upon row of little tables in fine white tablecloths, decorated as if they were part of an exclusive restaurant. Diners sat drinking from glasses of wine and sipping from their soupspoons, gazing peacefully at the scenery through their windows. Meanwhile, Sarah was sick to death of soda crackers, dried pork, fried chicken, and apples, the foods she always bought in grocery stores when she was hungry because they kept longer in her basket during the long, hot rides. Most restaurants along the train routes would not serve colored patrons, and now that she was back in the South, she’d learned better than to even inquire.

  And the train rides won’t be better for you anytime soon, either, no matter how much money you make, she reminded herself. Race, not money, separated her from the comfort afforded to the white passengers in the South. Obviously, judging from the pillows, fresh linens, and blankets Sarah saw porters loading into the more favored cars, the train company wanted to make the white customers feel special; if anything, she guessed, they must want colored passengers to feel like a nuisance, as if they were lucky to have their money taken from them.

  Sarah hated to dwell on the differences long, or her temples throbbed with rage. She had hoped this sort of racial nonsense would have ended by the time Lelia was a grown woman, but instead it seemed to be getting worse. This was the twentieth century! And now that she was in Mississippi, some of the dignities she’d begun taking for granted in Denver—like enjoying an ice-cream drink at a soda fountain or trying on clothes in the shops—seemed like a distant fantasy. She could expect one inconvenience after another, she knew.

  Lord, please let my ride be waitin’ on me, Sarah thought. They likely won’t even have no place for a colored woman to sleep in this li’l ol’ town.

  The train whistled again, lurching her into the night.

  In Meridian, it was raining in driving sheets that clamored across the roof of the train car. Sarah must have dozed to sleep, because the rain awakened her even before the train whined to a stop, bucking her forward. Her knees banged against the hard seat in front of her, and she cursed to herself. But she was glad she’d finally arrived. She couldn’t wait to climb into a bed! She was scheduled to do demonstrations at the church after the sermon tomorrow morning, and then she would take another train early Monday to Tupelo. As usual, she had little time for resting.

  Sarah traveled in clothes appropriate for her work, because she had to present herself well at all times. Despite the grime she’d picked up during the long ride, she was wearing a white shirtwaist and long blue skirt, and she brushed her hair to make sure it was still presentable. She sure wouldn’t sell too much Wonderful Hair Grower if she turned up with a head of wild-looking hair, would she? Sarah had misplaced her umbrella on her last train, which had been so crowded that she’d been lucky to find a seat at all, so she had only her overcoat and a scarf to protect her from the rain as she climbed off the train to collect her supplies. She carried her clothes and personal items in a bag she kept with her at all times, but she’d had to entrust her crates to the train’s crew. The train depot in Meridian was tiny and uncovered, just a wooden platform alongside a web of rails, built close to the sidewalk on a dreary, sleepy-looking street. The only shelter was the small ticket office, which was dark and had apparently closed for the day. Quickly, Sarah glanced around for anyone who might be looking for her. There were two buggies waiting in the rain, but white men climbed out and walked toward other passengers with grins of recognition. No colored driver in sight. No one came toward her.

  “These yours, Auntie?” the train conductor said to her, gesturing toward a crate in the baggage car. The crate was stamped WALKER MFG.

  “Yessir,” Sarah said. “And three more like it.”

  “Oh, Jesus Almighty.” The conductor groaned as he and a young colored porter heaved the crates, pulling them out to the platform. “There’s only two more,” the conductor called to her over his shoulder.

  “Well, are you sure you looked—”

  “I looked as much as I aim to,” the conductor said, dropping the third crate unceremoniously to the ground. “This train’s runnin’ late, an’ I don’t have all night to be searchin’ after a darkie lady’s box of God-knows-what.”

  What was in the missing crate? Combs? Pomade? Something she would sorely miss, she knew. Quickly, Sarah began to rummage through her handbag to see if she could find a little extra money to entice him. “Sir, please, if you just look real good back there, I’ll give you—”

  “Auntie, you ain’t got nothin’ I want. Come on, boy,” the conductor said, waving to the porter as he slammed the cargo door closed. The young porter looked at Sarah apologetically.

  Don’t get riled, Sarah, she told herself. That crate’s the least of your problems tonight.

  As the train chugged away and the buggies drove off with their claimed passengers, Sarah realized she was standing alone at a train depot without the first idea of what to do. She had a telephone number for the Reverend Jacob Pearson, who had invited her to the church, but as she glanced up and down the rain-drenched streets, she didn’t see anywhere she could find a telephone exchange. The only buildings on this street, which were also dark and no doubt locked up, were a feed store, a grocer, a lumber-yard, and a farming supply store. No homes in sight. And even if there were homes, what chance did she have of finding someone willing to direct her?

  Sarah barely noticed that she was getting drenched in the relentless rain. With low spirits, she began gathering her crates together, making a stack. There was nothing to do but wait. She just hoped the driver would come soon. Sarah was frustrated, angry, and lonesome, but she didn’t actually begin to feel worried until she heard the echo of glass breaking somewhere many yards down the street, followed by the low laughter of two or three young men. Her heartbeat began to quicken. Were they colored? She prayed so, but something in their tones and cadences told her that the approaching men were white. And they were probably drinking spirits, she thought.

  Sarah saw three men appear from the darkness twenty-five yards from her, walking lazily as they enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe they’d pay her no mind, she thought. She longed to ask them to direct her to Reverend Pearson, but that would be downright foolish, she knew. The less a colored woman had to do with a pack of liquored-up white men, the better.

  As the men’s laughter and voices grew louder, Sarah felt her heart tremble.

  Suddenly one man hushed the others in a slur. “Shhhhh. We got a lady standin’ there.”

  “Shit, that ain’t no lady, that’s a goddamn nigger!” one of them shouted, and they stumbled into each other as they laughed. The men wrestled each other to the muddy ground, all three of them rolling around in the muck like schoolchildren, whooping. To Sarah, those whoops were a bloodcurdling sound. Leave here, Sarah, a voice inside her urged. Leave here right now.

  But even as Sarah contemplated slipping into hiding while the men wrestled each other, she gazed with disdain at her stack of crates. The crates were conspicuous, and the men would probably either steal or destroy them. If she lost her remaining supplies, it might take weeks to receive new ones, and she couldn’t do any demonstrations or make sales without them. Her common sense told her she needed to leave, but she could not. She couldn’t abandon her crates.

  “Hey, what you doin’ out here on this street?” one of the men called to her. “You sellin’ some o’ that coon snatch?” Sarah’s ears burned from the vulgarity, and the men laughed again.

  Don’t even look their way, Sarah. Just ignore them.

  She should have vanished while she had the chance, she thought. If she tried to run now, instinct a
lone would entice them to chase her. She might outrun one of them, but not all three.

  “Hey, Auntie Jane, you ain’t heard what we asked you?”

  They were still ten yards away from her, but they had fanned out, forming a loose half circle. Their faces were mud-spattered and their shoulders were broad, but Sarah could tell they were very young men. Twenty-one, maybe, and a wiry one looked younger than that.

  “Y’all boys git on,” Sarah said, surprising herself with the authority in her voice. She could hear a slight shaking beneath her words, but she doubted they could. “Ain’t nobody botherin’ you. Your mamas wouldn’t cotton to y’all out here makin’ this ruckus.” She’d lapsed back into her country-bred way of speaking, because she knew there was no surer way to rile poor white folks than to sound too superior.

  The boys glanced at each other, as if each of them hoped to find a hint of what to do. Finally the biggest one spit out a wad of chewing tobacco, staring at Sarah askance. His fingers were twitching. “You tryin’ to boss us, darkie?” he said. It was a challenge.

  “No, sir,” Sarah said, forcing herself to look away from his eyes as a sign of respect. “All I’m sayin’ is, I know your mamas is fine women who raised y’all better’n to be messin’ after a nigger woman like me.” Even while she spoke, Sarah wished she had the strength to knock all three of these little fools flat on their backsides. If they did try to grab her and take liberties, she thought angrily, they’d wear scars to remind them of it the rest of their lives. Without realizing it, Sarah had clenched her fists tight.

  Again, there was an uncomfortable silence between the boys.

  Sarah, taking a chance, opened her mouth again. “Now, if y’all would be so kind, I need somebody to tell me how I can find Reverend Pearson?”

  The men looked startled. Then the youngest man’s eyes drifted behind her, and she saw his expression shift. “Here he comes now,” he said, raising his hand to point.

  Cautiously, Sarah turned around to follow his finger. Sure enough, at the end of the road a buggy was in sight, drawing closer. The driver was a tall colored man in a black coat and hat. Only after Sarah saw him did she realize that she could hear the welcome sound of his horse’s clopping on the road, the splashing of wheels in the mud. The driver snapped the whip, and the buggy’s approach quickened. Before Sarah could turn back to the boys again, she heard them walking away, jostling each other. “I was sure ready to take me some of that snatch,” one of them said, and Sarah felt fingers of ice crawl against the back of her neck.

  Seeing the boys walking away, Sarah felt her heart unwrap itself in her chest, and she could breathe again. Her knees went weak, and she balanced herself against the crates. Thank you, Jesus. She’d never been happier to see a preacher in her life.

  Reverend Pearson was a dark man wearing rain-spotted spectacles, with generous splotches of gray in his hair and mustache. Was she all right? Had those men been bothering her? He apologized profusely for the delay, blaming an unreliable youth who waited nearly an hour for her train before leaving his post. By the time the minister heard she no longer had a ride, his only alternative was to pick her up himself. He had a towel in the buggy so she could wipe her face dry, and he loaded her crates and bag safely beside her.

  But just as Sarah was beginning to feel good again, the minister’s voice turned more solemn as he leaned in through the door before returning to his driver’s berth. “Madam Walker, I don’t know how best to say this, so I’d better just come out with it direct. I’m ’fraid you’ve made this here trip to Meridian for nothing.”

  Sarah couldn’t make a response. She was sure she’d heard the man wrong.

  The minister sighed. “Now, some church ladies heard ’bout you from folks down in Vicksburg, an’ they thought we could bring you in. But it’s caused a fuss, you see. The thing is, my wife and some others . . . well, they don’t look kind on folks tryin’ to make their hair straight.”

  “I don’t straighten hair, sir, I—”

  “Say it how you want, Madam, but folks is callin’ them combs you got straightenin’ combs, and you an’ me both know what sells ’em is ladies thinkin’ they can get straight hair. So a bunch of folks had a meetin’ at the church last night, an’ they voted not to let you do no demonstrations after service tomorrow. Mayhap you can find another place, but—”

  “I have a train on Monday!” Sarah said. She didn’t dare cuss out a minister, but that was exactly what she felt like doing. How dare this church invite her and then turn her away! “You knew I was comin’, Reverend. Least you could’ve done is wait to have that meetin’ an’ give me a chance to say my piece—”

  The minister’s eyes looked sad. “Madam, I sure am sorry, but it’s all been decided. I wish I’d never said you should come all this way. I’ma see to it we pay your room and board while you’re in Meridian—we’re goin’ to the boardin’house now, an’ it’s a right nice place, best breakfast biscuits in this whole town—but we got too many ladies thinkin’ it’s a sin to mess with the hair God gave ’em. An’ I guess I figger they got a point. I’m sorry.”

  From his voice, at the edge of politeness, Sarah knew that was the end of it.

  In the solitude of the buggy while the minister drove her toward the boardinghouse, Sarah felt tears creeping from the corners of her eyes for the first time all day. She could tell she was damp through and through from the rain, she was sore from sitting on the train’s hard bench for so long, she’d lost one of her precious crates, and she’d very nearly been raped. And for what?

  Thunder growled above her, and she saw the sky outside flash with streaks of lightning. What was C.J. doing tonight? Was he keeping his vow to be true to her, or was he seeking a woman’s comfort elsewhere? Was Lelia at a nickelodeon laughing at the moving pictures? In that instant, Sarah missed them both so much that her sight blurred. The company was making thirty-five dollars a week, plenty to live on and more money than she’d ever hoped for, and she was still out here living between trains and boardinghouses. C.J. was right. This was no life!

  “You’re a fool, Sarah Breedlove Walker,” she whispered. “A damn fool.”

  Maybe it was time to go home, she thought.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Sarah was deposited at a neat, two-story brick boardinghouse on a dark residential street. She could hear the fussing and clucking of a neighbor’s chickens as she climbed out of the buggy and the minister hurriedly took her crates inside. While the smiling, elderly proprietor in a kitchen apron looked on, Reverend Pearson apologized again and put an envelope in Sarah’s hand. “For your trouble,” he said.

  Sarah used her last bit of that day’s civility to smile sourly at him instead of snapping that he didn’t have enough money to pay for her troubles today. She’d go to her room, close her door, and get to sleep. At least she’d have a bed tonight, she thought. And those goddamn biscuits better be good in the morning, too. . . .

  “You poor child, you’re all soaked,” the proprietor said, taking off Sarah’s coat. “I better sit you in front of the stove before you catch your death out here. You want some coffee?”

  The woman looked to be in her sixties, slightly bent over, but she had one of the most cheerful faces Sarah had ever seen. The woman’s kind face helped improve Sarah’s mood. “Yes, ma’am, some coffee would suit me fine,” Sarah said.

  Everything happens for a reason, Sarah reminded herself. Maybe she’d been stuck in this town because she needed to rest. C.J. was always telling her she pushed herself too hard, and Sarah knew he was right. Was it really so awful to have a day off?

  The old woman’s eyes glittered as she led Sarah down a hallway, toward a swinging door Sarah guessed led to the kitchen. She spoke in a hush. “Madam Walker, I know you’re bushed, and I hate to ask you for anything as late as it is . . . but you know how word gets out in a small town. We’ve got some ladies so upset ’bout that ruckus with the church, an’ they heard you’d be stayin’ here tonight. . . . You see, they wer
e afraid they wouldn’t have a chance to see you. . . . I hope you don’t mind, but you don’t know what it would mean to them. . . .”

  When the kitchen door swung upon, Sarah’s heart caught in her throat. There were more than thirty women crowded inside the large kitchen, waiting for her with eager faces in the light from kerosene lamps. Most of them were standing because there weren’t enough chairs, and their clothes and hair were damp from the rain, clinging limply to their skin. A stout woman missing one of her front teeth gave Sarah a broad grin, and a girl who looked only fourteen clasped her hands in front of her face with excitement as soon as Sarah was in sight. They looked like a classroom full of students waiting for their revered teacher to arrive.

  And they were waiting for her, Sarah thought with disbelief.

  “Evenin’, Madam Walker . . .” the women mumbled shyly in waves, standing erect.

  The proprietor stroked Sarah’s arm gently. “You think you might feel up to one little demonstration tonight, Madam? We’ve heard so much about your comb, an’ we sure are hopin’ us citizens of Meridian can use that Wonderful Hair Grower, too. Is it too much trouble?”

  Sarah shook her head. Gazing at the eager faces of the women who had come out to see her so late on a dreadful night, she sucked in a deep breath that sounded almost like a sob. Her long journey had been worth the sacrifices, after all.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  LELIA COLLEGE

  PITTSBURGHl

  SUMMER 1909

  (TWO YEARS LATER)

  “First, the hair must be clean. You shouldn’t want to treat dirty hair any more than you’d want to set your food upon dirty dishes.” Lelia’s voice rang through the small classroom as she instructed from memory, standing with her back straight and her hands clasped behind her. She was wearing a white instructional dress that made her look as crisp as a scientist. The sun shone brightly through the large windows, spilling across the room’s neatly polished floor. A Walker employee sat in a salon chair near the classroom’s sink, draped with plastic across her shoulders so she would not get wet.