Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  Finally Sarah met John R. Robinson, the boy Lelia was planning to marry. He was Lelia’s age, nearly handsome, with brown skin, clean teeth, and a slight build. She had seen him once before, when Lelia pointed him out at church. Now, as before, Sarah could find nothing remarkable about him. “Pleasure to meet you, Madam Walker,” the boy said. “You, too, sir.”

  Despite her best efforts, Sarah couldn’t even force a smile. As John Robinson stood alongside Lelia, the only thing that struck Sarah about this boy was how much shorter he was than Lelia. Sarah was about to ask how tall he was when his mother tugged gently at her arm.

  “John was playing some Chopin for us a moment ago,” his mother said, her pride apparent in her voice. “He prefers rags, like all the young people, but we raised him to be well rounded.”

  You didn’t raise him to know the proper way to ask for a young lady’s hand, and you sure didn’t raise him tall, Sarah thought, annoyed. Sarah didn’t know any Chopin, and since she wasn’t in the mood to try to impress anyone, she only nodded politely.

  “What sort of piano do you prefer, Madam Walker?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

  Sarah gave her a level, disinterested stare. “We don’t have a piano.”

  Mrs. Robinson looked surprised, an expression that clearly said But I thought everyone had a piano, but she didn’t answer. When she excused herself to look after the caterer’s work in the kitchen, Sarah was happy to see her go. If this woman had insisted on trying to compare the attributes of their households, Sarah was afraid she might be mean enough tonight to point out that the Robinsons’ wall coverings looked shabby and faded enough to have withstood three presidential administrations. Lelia would never have forgiven her for that.

  “So we’ve heard you’re in the beauty business, Madam,” Dr. Ward said. He was a round-faced man with a friendly twinkle in his eye that had a calming effect on Sarah. Somehow she knew already that he would not try to belittle her the way so many other “society” Negroes did, treating her as if she were inferior because she had come from humble beginnings. In some circles, she’d learned, just mentioning that she’d bought her home on Wylie Avenue was enough to wrinkle noses. “Madam C.J. Walker’s Wonderful Hair Grower! We’ll have to buy some, won’t we, Zella?”

  Dr. Ward’s wife nodded eagerly. “Who wouldn’t like to grow more hair?”

  Mr. Parks, who was a large, blustering man with long gray sideburns, slapped C.J. on the back. “So how do you like being Mister Madam C.J. Walker, son?” he said, and Sarah thought C.J. would swallow his own tongue. His face burned red, the color of a brick.

  Quickly Sarah took C.J.’s hand. “Oh, my husband has his own ventures. He’s the company advertising director, and he’s working right now on—”

  “I can speak for myself, thank you, my darling,” C.J. said sweetly enough, although Sarah knew how annoyed he must be. “I’ll be selling C.J. Walker’s Blood and Rheumatic Cure ’fore too long. Feeds the blood, makes you good as new. You’ll see it soon enough.”

  “Well, if I can be of any assistance, Mr. Walker, you just let me know,” Dr. Ward said. “I have a sanitorium and nursing school in Indianapolis, and I’m in support of any products to benefit the public health. So long as they’re sound.”

  “Thank you kindly, Doctor, but I have years of training in pharmacy and such, so that won’t be necessary,” C.J. said, and Sarah’s hand went cold inside her husband’s. Such an outrageous lie! C.J. didn’t know any more about pharmacy than she did. What was wrong with him? She’d been glad to hear Dr. Ward offer his help, since C.J. had been struggling to concoct a blood formula. A man like that could be of real service to both of them, and C.J. was feeding him nonsense like he was an ignorant customer being hustled on the street.

  Sarah couldn’t tell from the physician’s expression, but she hoped he wasn’t offended. She would talk to him later, she decided, to let him know they would be grateful for any help.

  “Mr. Walker, I must say, now, that’s a colorful suit you’re wearing,” Mr. Parks said, noticing C.J.’s cobalt blue pencil-striped linen suit. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.”

  C.J. stuck out his chest, hooking his thumbs behind his suspenders. “It’s something else, huh? I had it made special, what they call Palm Beach style. Cost me twenty-five dollars. I know that’s a lot to spend on a suit, but nothing’s too much if you want it right. And this necktie is pure silk, you see. That alone was a good dollar.”

  Sarah glanced at Lelia in time to see her roll her eyes, and she understood why. How many times would they have to tell C.J. it wasn’t polite to boast about how much he spent on his clothes? Sure enough, there was no mistaking the discomfort and amusement in the faces of the other guests. Sarah wondered if C.J. had nipped once too often at his whiskey flask before they left home. Lelia gave her a pleading look, and Sarah actually felt sorry for her daughter. C.J. was embarrassing them both.

  As far as Sarah was concerned, the evening went worse than she’d feared. By the time she’d sat through dinner, bracing for inappropriate comments from C.J. or slights from her hosts, she had a headache and felt sick to her stomach. Dr. Ward and his wife had been wonderful, exchanging calling cards with her and C.J. so they could keep in touch, but Sarah thought it had been obvious that the Robinsons actually looked down on their family. And based on what? Sarah knew without asking that she earned far more than the Robinsons could dream of—the man was only a clerk, after all—so how dare they feel superior!

  It was only as she prepared to leave that Sarah thought she discovered the true source of the family’s pride: She saw rows of family photographs displayed on the foyer walls. The photographs pictured colored men and women of all complexions, from very dark to nearly white, all of them posing in fine, antiquated dress and stern expressions. Some of the photographs looked so old that they might date from before the Civil War, Sarah thought. The Robinsons had history, and that was more important than money to them. They had been free for generations, and they were proud of it.

  No matter how much money she made, Sarah realized, she would never have that.

  “You sure put on a show tonight,” Sarah complained, climbing into bed beside C.J. He had disappeared beneath the bedsheets almost as soon as they got home, with his back turned away from her. She remembered a time when they used to cling to each other before going to sleep, especially during the months when they spent most of their time apart. Each night together had been a reunion of sorts. But no more.

  “Thank you. I aim to please,” C.J. muttered, more of his sarcasm. He always accused her of having an ugly side, but he had one, too. She’d never noticed his sarcasm when they were courting, or right after they were married. That, apparently, was his hidden weapon.

  Sarah sighed. She was tempted to go on criticizing C.J., to ask him how much whiskey he’d had to drink before dinner, but what purpose would that serve? She was tired of arguments. All right, so she didn’t like John Robinson or his family much. So what? Tomorrow morning, she decided, she would sit down to breakfast with Lelia and tell her, from her heart, that she wished her all the happiness in the world with her new husband.

  And she wanted to make things right with C.J., too. Sarah gently rubbed C.J.’s bare shoulder. “You ain’t been yourself, C.J. I can see it plain as day. What’s wrong?”

  C.J. half laughed, still not looking at her. “Now, what could be troubling Mr. Madam C.J. Walker? Not a thing I can think of, Sarah.”

  Sarah sighed again, curling up behind him, fitting herself to the shape of his body. She wrapped her arm around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “That man was just rude, C.J.”

  “No . . .” C.J. said, and this time the sarcasm had left his voice bare. “He was tellin’ the truth. I know I don’t get no respect here.”

  “Oh, C.J., these OP Negroes don’t—”

  “It ain’t just that,” C.J. said. He paused, then rolled over to scoop her into his arms until their faces were nearly touching. At that instant
she realized it had been a long time since C.J. had really held her. Too long. Their breathing rose and fell in unison as he pressed their chests together. “You wouldn’t understand it, Sarah.”

  “Tell me,” Sarah said softly, holding his eyes with hers. This close to him, she could smell the remnants of spirits on his breath.

  “You know, I almost didn’t leave Denver. I swear to God, I didn’t want to lose you, but I didn’t think I could go. Do you remember who I was in Denver? There wasn’t no place C.J. Walker couldn’t get an invitation. I was Johnny-on-the-spot. I’m nothing here, Sarah. I went and tried to join that Leondi Club I keep hearing about, thought I’d play some billiards with the fellas, but they didn’t want to be bothered with me. To them, I’m just a man living off his wife’s name. And I guess they’re right at that.”

  How could he say that? C.J.’s words lanced Sarah, and she tightened her grip around him. “We’re partners, C.J., just like you said you wanted. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be selling hair grease out of my kitchen in tin cups. You think I don’t know what you’ve done for me?”

  C.J. considered that a moment, then he moved a wisp of hair from her face with his index finger. “Maybe so, maybe not . ..” he said in a raw voice. “But I’ll tell you one thing: You don’t need me, woman. You’re like one o’ them Kentucky Derby thoroughbred horses. I just opened the gate, and out you went. I guess I thought you needed me, or maybe I just hoped you did . . . but a man can’t be a man if he don’t feel like he’s of some use, Sarah.”

  C.J.’s words had robbed her mouth of its moisture. Yes, she knew why C.J. felt this way; their business had grown so fast that C.J. had reached the end of his areas of knowledge, constantly being forced to research questions of shipping, supplies, billing, and credit. Snags were common and frustrating. And Sarah was being forced to learn herself, monitoring the seemingly endless details about the activities of the agents who were selling Walker products all over the country. Soon there would be more than hundreds of Walker agents, she knew. Hundreds! Sometimes she was afraid her business was growing faster than she could learn, and she thought C.J. must feel the same way.

  “I don’t expect you to be an expert in every part of this thing, C.J.,” Sarah said. “I know one day we’ll have to hire folks to do what we can’t. But I’ll always need you. You can’t see it, baby? I need you to watch over me. I need you to be my husband. And I need you to be proud of me wearing your name everyplace I go, because I’m sure proud to be wearin’ it.”

  Sarah saw that C.J.’s eyes were glistening like new pennies, threatening tears. “I am proud,” he said. “I’m proud every damn day, even when I’m too bullheaded to show it. You’re about to be somethin’, Sarah Walker. You hear me?” His voice became a hush, close to her ear. “I mean, you are about to be really somethin’ like folks ain’t never seen.”

  Then he kissed her with a hunger and urgency that Sarah had missed in C.J.’s kisses. We’re gonna make love tonight, she realized, happy and surprised. With renewed vigor, C.J. raised himself high enough to reach for Sarah’s wrists, pinning them on the mattress as he leaned over her and mashed his mouth over hers. His grip on her was so firm, and his mouth so intoxicating, that she couldn’t have moved an inch even if she’d wanted to.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  INDIANAPOLIS

  FEBRUARY 1910

  MME. C.J. WALKER, of Pittsburgh, Pa.

  THE NOTED HAIR CULTURIST

  is in this city, at the residence of

  Dr. J.H. Ward, 722 INDIANA AVENUE:

  where she will demonstrate the art of growing hair.

  Every woman of pride should see her during her stay in this city,

  which is for a few days only.

  DO NOT FAIL TO CALL AND SEE Mme. WALKER.

  IT DOES NOT COST ANYTHING FOR CONSULTATION

  Persons calling for treatment will kindly bring comb, brush, and two towels.

  “Why do I use the term ‘hair culturist’?” Sarah said.

  There was no answer from the half dozen ladies who sat in Dr. Ward’s parlor listening to her in the cozy heat from the physician’s brick fireplace. All of them were sipping hot cider, their eyes watching her closely. “Because the Madam C.J. Walker method is not just about slappin’ some grease on somebody’s head, and I want that notion forgot from the start. My course teaches the totalment of colored womanhood, so anyone who sees you will know right off you are a woman of pride. We’ve all heard folks say colored women are unclean and lacking in virtue, and some of our own women have fallen to that idea and ’based themselves. You know it’s true.”

  Entranced, the women nodded.

  “Even before your customer comes, you have shown them you are a serious person. Your space is clean and swept up of dirt and hair. You have seen to it you’re not carryin’ no body odors, which is very simple to do by applying some zinc oxide powder to the right areas. You have sweetened your breath with mints. You have presented yourself in a professional way in your dress. And you keep your combs and other materials clean and sanitary. See, maybe your customers know some lady down the street that does hair, but you are a cut above the rest. You are a hair culturist who’s studied the hair, the scalp, and the follicles, and who carries a proper attitude. And you are using only Walker products, which are science-proved and divinely inspired.”

  Sarah was tired, but no matter how often she repeated her ideas to new groups of potential customers and agents, she felt her blood coursing in her veins as if she were saying the words for the first time. She felt rejuvenated by their unblinking eyes, their flushes of excitement, their inspired smiles. One woman in today’s group, a high-yellow woman in a very prim dress, was listening so eagerly that she was hunched forward, sitting so far at the edge of her seat that Sarah was afraid she would fall over. The woman’s face was pure rapture, and that gave Sarah new energy even though it was evening, and she’d already had a long day.

  So far the sales trip to Indianapolis was working out better than she and C.J. had hoped. After the Wards invited Sarah to the Midwestern city to sell her products, she and C.J. laid out plans for an advertising campaign in The Indianapolis Recorder, one of the city’s colored newspapers. Of course, the ads included the photographs taken before and after her hair cure that had worked so well before. But this time they also devised a letter from her supporters so she would have a rousing introduction in the local press. The letter attesting to her product had been signed by friends, pastors, and customers from Pittsburgh and other cities she had visited. And if the hair grower didn’t work after two months, they decided as part of their campaign, they would give any dissatisfied customer twenty-five dollars. That would catch people’s attention!

  And it had. Sarah had arrived in Indianapolis at the beginning of the month, and she’d already had a steady stream of customers for pressing, each willing to pay a dollar. And the hair grower, priced at fifty cents, was selling as fast as she could open new crates of it. This was a fertile town, all right! By the time the ad appeared saying she would be in Indianapolis only a few days, at the encouragement of Dr. and Mrs. Ward, Sarah had already decided to stay through the month, or perhaps longer. C.J. wouldn’t like it much, she knew, but he would certainly be excited about how well sales were going after he received her letter with the news.

  The women meeting with Sarah now were interested in being agents and beauty shop operators, hoping to take her beauty course. Like the students who came to Pittsburgh, these women were from every part of Negro society. One young girl here barely looked groomed, her gums caked with yellowish matter as if she hadn’t seen a toothbrush and tooth powder in at least a month, which Sarah hoped to advise her about privately; but the woman at the edge of her seat looked as impeccable as a schoolmarm, her face virtually shining with her intelligence.

  “I have heard it said by whites that Negro women in Africa mate with apes,” Sarah went on, and the women’s faces drew back with horror. “Now, we all know that’s no more tru
e of women in Africa than any of us here tonight, but the thinking about Negro women in America is not so different, in my book. And if the world sees us that way, ladies, then it is up to us to show different. We can do that through our beauty and the way we carry ourselves.”

  Sarah had a headache by the time she finished, although she ignored her discomfort as she graciously spoke to each woman privately, answering questions and accepting their praise. She stole a glance at the stately grandfather clock standing in the corner by the fireplace, and saw that it was already after nine o’clock. And she’d been pressing heads since eight that morning!

  The last woman to approach her was the one who looked like a schoolmarm. The pale-skinned woman was nearly as tall as Lelia but looked like she must be exactly Sarah’s age. She had piercing molasses-colored eyes that seemed to leap from her square-jawed face. Her hair, which was dark and fine-textured, was pinned into a bun on top of her head. An old maid, Sarah thought, noticing the woman’s lack of a wedding ring.

  But already there was something about this woman Sarah liked.

  “Madam Walker,” the woman said, squeezing Sarah’s hand hard. “To me, this is a pleasure almost beyond expression. I am so overwhelmed to make your acquaintance. A friend of mine I’ve known since I was a girl is a Walker hair culturist in Philadelphia. She’s a teacher by training, like myself, but there was so little work for her because Negroes cannot teach in those public schools, as you must know. Now she has her own shop, a good business, and her pride intact. To offer such a road of independence! You are a pillar of Negro womanhood, Madam.”

  Her speech! Sarah had almost stopped listening because she was savoring the lilt of this woman’s words, which seemed to glide from her tongue. She had a deep timbre and the oddest accent, one Sarah didn’t think she had ever heard before—not Southern, not Midwestern, and nothing like she would have expected from the lips of a Negro. The woman pronounced each word with loving care, making each sentence sound like a proclamation. Who could this woman be? This time it was Sarah who was spellbound.