Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  The woman had not yet let go of Sarah’s hand, and she squeezed more urgently. “This will hardly matter to you, but my name is Charlotte Ransaw. I’m also called Lottie.”

  “Where . . . are you from?” Sarah asked.

  The woman’s smile widened; she was obviously thrilled Sarah had asked. Finally she remembered to release Sarah’s hand. “I was born in the South like you, Madam, in Selma. But I was fortunate, as a child, to be sent to live with a well-off uncle in Boston, where I attended preparatory schools that led me to Dartmouth College. That is where I took my degree.”

  Ordinarily Sarah would have felt defensive because she would have assumed this woman was being boastful, since so many elite folk in Denver and Pittsburgh trotted out their degrees to point out Sarah’s deficiencies. But Charlotte Ransaw’s eyes were genuine, and there was nothing at all boastful in her voice.

  “I’ve had all the requisite classical training, Madam—I can read Greek and Latin, and I speak French quite well. I planned to teach, because that is my great love. But I must tell you, when it comes to Negroes, I think there is such a thing as too much preparation . . . because like my dear friend in Philadelphia, I have found few institutions to appreciate someone of my training. Presently I have taken up secretarial work.” She stopped, taking a quick breath.

  “Please forgive me if this inquiry is inappropriate, Madam, but I have to ask if you have any need for a personal secretary. I already have employment, but I am so taken with your work that I believe I could find a much greater sense of purpose working for you than anywhere else. You are building a Queendom, Madam Walker, and I could be of great help to you. I would take dictation, write out speeches, see to your needs while you travel, and the like. I have no family, so I am not bound to any geographical region. Are you familiar with Dr. Booker T. Washington’s secretary, Mr. Emmett Scott . . . ?”

  Again, Sarah’s attention had drifted because she was so excited by this woman’s careful speech patterns. There was a stodginess to her, no doubt, but words came to her with such ease and precision! Wonder how long it would take me to learn to talk like that, Sarah thought.

  Then she realized the woman’s glorious talking had stopped, and she was waiting for an answer to something. What had she just asked? Was she looking for some kind of job?

  “I’ve never thought one way or the other about a personal secretary, Mrs. Ransaw,” Sarah told her, recalling her words. “What would I do with one? We have a girl in Pittsburgh who writes letters on typing machines from time to time, but that’s hardly any kind of work for you.”

  Mrs. Ransaw’s face fell, and her lip sagged so low that Sarah feared she might cry. “Madam, there is never any work appropriate for me! I’m willing to start at the lowest office, if that’s necessary, and I will prove my dedication to you.”

  Then an idea hit Sarah with such power that she literally felt as if she’d been tapped with a hammer between her eyes; her headache worsened, but her heart came to life. If this plan worked, she thought with wonder, it might be the most valuable purchase she could ever make.

  “You say you wanted to teach, Mrs. Ransaw?”

  “Yes, Madam. And it would give me great satisfaction if you simply called me Lottie.”

  “You know history and music, too, Lottie? An’ you keep up with the magazines and papers, white and colored?”

  “Yes, Madam, of course,” she said, tilting her head curiously. “I take in The Crisis and the Colored People’s Magazine from Atlanta, as well as—”

  “Then you may have just got yourself a student,” Sarah said. “But it’s no regular job, Lottie. There’s no set teaching hours, just whenever I have a minute to breathe. Maybe you can do some of that other stuff, too, the dictation and whatnot, but I really want a tutor. I didn’t get but to the third-grade level in my schooling. I’m proud of where I’ve gotten to, but I want more. I want someone to read with me like my daughter used to, and teach me things I don’t know. I want to learn French, too, hear? And I want to learn how to talk like you do.”

  Lottie’s face was frozen. At first Sarah was afraid she’d insulted her. Then the woman’s bottom lip began to quiver, and she lunged forward to give Sarah a hug.

  “Oh, my goodness . . .” Sarah heard her murmuring, stunned. “My goodness gracious . . .”

  Sarah laughed, patting the woman’s back. What a gentle creature Lottie was, to have her talents so wasted! Sarah had heard of many Negroes from colleges like Dartmouth, Howard, Amherst, and Oberlin who had gone on to excel in law and education in their communities, but perhaps Lottie had been too fragile to fight the way she needed to. Perhaps one or two heartaches had made her give up and curse her skin color. Sarah knew plenty of folks who’d suffered that fate, too. Like Etta, Sarah thought sadly.

  “You come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk some more, Lottie,” Sarah said. “My head’s ailing me tonight. But I think we just found you a job you’ve got perfect trainin’ for.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lottie said, dabbing at her eyes. “Madam, you just don’t know . . . Th-thank you so much. I’ll be back tomorrow, Madam.”

  She was gazing at Sarah as if she had just saved her life.

  Sarah hadn’t asked him to examine her, but his wife had told him how often she got headaches. Dr. Ward had finally insisted she sit down and let him be a physician instead of just a friend. He had a small examining room in back of his house in case patients came to his residence instead of his office, just a table, two chairs, a desk with a lamp, and shelves of medical books. On his wall, he had his framed degree from the Physiomedical College of Indiana, which he’d received in 1900.

  “When’s the last time you saw a doctor, Madam Walker?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “Well, since I’m a guest in your home, Dr. Ward, I see you most every day.”

  The doctor didn’t smile at her joke. He didn’t seem to like whatever his instrument reading was telling him. He gazed up at her and sighed. “You don’t tend to your health, do you?” he said. “You probably haven’t set foot in a doctor’s office in years.”

  Shoot, maybe not ever, except to see after Lelia’s burn that time, Sarah thought, but she kept that admission silent. She felt healthy, except for occasional bladder infections, headaches, and stomach cramps from her monthlies. But the problems never lasted long, and by the time she thought she might be able to fit in a doctor’s appointment, her ailments were usually gone.

  “What’s this device telling you?” Sarah said.

  “It’s telling me your blood pressure. It’s worth knowing, and I’m afraid it’s not good.”

  Dr. Ward explained that the numbers he was reading were much higher than normal. Over time, he said, high blood pressure could be a serious ailment. Dr. Ward’s eyes were no-nonsense as he told her the condition could lead to a stroke, a heart attack, or failure of her kidneys.

  “I see the way you run around here, Madam Walker. You don’t take any exercise, and I hardly see when you even have time to sleep. You need to take better care of yourself.”

  “Oh, Lord, now you sound like my husband. . . .”

  “I’m glad someone is looking after you, then. You may be able to oversee a manufacturing business, Madam Walker, but I suspect you’re not very good at looking after you. We’d like to have you with us a bit longer. George Knox would have a fit if you suffered a stroke now, you know. He’s bent on having you move to Indianapolis.”

  “Who’s George Knox again . . . ?” Sarah had met so many people during her visit that she was having trouble keeping the names straight in her mind.

  “Publisher of the Indianapolis Freeman newspaper. The white-haired fellow you met the other day,” Dr. Ward said.

  Of course! She’d met him only once, but George Knox was quite a character; he’d been born a slave in Tennessee, run away during the Civil War, and learned the barbering trade. Now, in addition to the newspaper, he had fifty employees and barbershops all over town. He’d been insistent that Sarah move her
plant to Indianapolis, and he’d promised to keep hounding her until she was convinced.

  “Well, it’s a nice change to have folks tryin’ to bring me in instead of hopin’ they can run me off,” Sarah said, smiling. “I do appreciate all this kindness, Dr. Ward, and I appreciate your warning, too. But I don’t think you need to worry about me having a stroke or moving here, neither. C.J. would have a bigger fit if we moved, and I have enough strife in my life already.”

  “Strife is your blood pressure’s worst enemy,” Dr. Ward said, wagging a finger at her.

  “If that’s true, then Lelia must have made those numbers go so high all by herself.”

  Dr. Ward’s eyes shone with curiosity, but he was too polite to ask how Lelia was doing in her new marriage. Less than a year since her wedding in October, Lelia was already proclaiming to her mother that she had made a mistake. She traveled often, sometimes on Walker sales trips, but sometimes on expensive excursions with her St. Louis friend Hazel. Lelia complained to Sarah that her husband was too demanding, but Sarah was smart enough to figure out for herself that this boy probably only wanted a more traditional wife who would cook his meals and start a family. She supposed Lelia would not be carrying her husband’s child anytime soon. Mama, children are always underfoot! Lelia complained to her once when she’d asked. You’ve seen how horrible it is when families bring their babies on the trains and to moving pictures.

  And Sarah couldn’t discuss her concerns about her daughter’s marriage with C.J., because he only gave her a look that said, What did you expect, Sarah? Like mother, like daughter.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  The memory of C.J.’s silent accusations made Sarah’s face tense. C.J. better be glad I’m not home more, she thought. If I was, he couldn’t be spendin’ his nights runnin’ around them saloons doin’ God-knows-what.

  “Madam, I’m going to prescribe you some remedies, but the most important thing is this: From this day forth, you need to find ways to bring calm to your life,” Dr. Ward said.

  Sarah nearly laughed. With everything changing and growing so fast? He might as well have asked her to bring him the moon.

  The Black Rose

  There is no escape—

  man drags man down,

  or man lifts man up.

  —BOOKER T. WASHINGTON

  The seed waits for the garden where it will be sown.

  —ZULU PROVERB

  FEBRUARY 1919

  VILLA LEWARO

  The new house girl, Laura, brought in the tea service Sarah had asked for; with the apparent nervousness she always felt near Sarah, the girl set down a sterling silver set with a steaming pot of tea and an assortment of sugar cookies. “Madam . . . may I ask you . . . ?” Miss Long said when the girl had retreated from the library. “How many employees do you have here?”

  Sarah was amused by her curiosity, and she had to admit she felt pride at the staff she’d assembled at her villa. “I guess it’s eight, all told,” she said. “My butler, houseman, cook, chauffeur, gardener, secretary, nurse, and now Laura. They have rooms or apartments here.”

  “And . . . how many motorcars? You really don’t mind me asking, do you?”

  “No, that’s all right,” Sarah said. “I keep four. But my old electric Waverley seems to be making its last gasps, so I’ll be selling that one soon for another. I leave driving the big cars to Lewis, but I really love having a little coupe for short trips.”

  “Madam Walker, with all this . . .” Miss Long said, resting her hand on top of Sarah’s. “Do you have absolutely everything in the world you want?”

  From her pleading eyes, Sarah figured Miss Long was hoping someone did.

  Yes, Sarah could remember a time when she believed money solved everything, too. How much could Miss Long understand the things Sarah wanted that had nothing to do with money? “Oh, no, not everything, in some ways,” Sarah said. “But in other ways I’ve been given a gift I could hardly have dreamed up. Miss Long, God’s grace astonishes me every time it comes to mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  INDIANAPOLIS

  SUMMER 1911

  “Don’t forget your brake, Sarah,” C.J. said, holding his riding cap tight on his head.

  “I don’t need no brake yet,” Sarah insisted with a laugh, steering her tiny box-shaped Waverley electric coupe around a mound of feed bags that seemed to have appeared from nowhere in the middle of the cobblestone roadway. The motorcar was speeding at more than twenty miles per hour, according to Sarah’s gauge. The feeling of speed thrilled her, whisking her thoughts away from her troubles. Earlier, her afternoon drive with C.J. had been slow, subject to pedestrians, carriages, bicycles, streetcars, and uniformed traffic officers who clogged the business district near grand Monument Circle, with the towering Soldiers and Sailors Monument that stabbed the sky in the heart of the city. But now that she was closer to home, the street was much clearer, giving Sarah room to test her beloved car’s speed. If only more roads in the countryside were paved and safe enough for driving! But she’d already learned the hard way that motorcars and mud were a cumbersome combination.

  “Now I know why I keep hearin’ them jokes about lady drivers,” C.J. said as they sailed past a man on horseback, the car’s tires jouncing across the cobblestones. “Woman, you need to sign up for that Indianapolis motorcar race if they do it again next year.”

  “Maybe I will, too!” When Sarah saw the street sign for Indiana Avenue, she made a sharp turn that tossed C.J. up against her in the tight body of the car as it veered around the corner. This time both of them laughed.

  The laughter, to Sarah, was a good sound. C.J. hadn’t wanted to move to Indianapolis from Pittsburgh, just as she’d thought, and she’d almost been sure the round of disagreements would destroy them. In some ways, their marriage for the past few months had been in name only, since C.J. had stayed behind to run the Pittsburgh office while she’d supervised the construction of the new Walker Manufacturing factory on North West Street.

  The past few months had been so hard, Sarah hadn’t thought she would have the inner strength to make it. Lelia’s husband had vanished without warning—she’d simply come home from a sales trip and found that John R. Robinson had packed his things and left—and Lelia had been nearly inconsolable. Sarah had suggested that her daughter go away to college to take her mind off her heartache, so Lelia had spent the last year as a freshman at Knoxville College. But as much as Sarah wanted her daughter to finally get her schooling, she was torn; Lelia’s absence meant it was that much harder to keep the operation running in Pittsburgh, especially with the Indianapolis move under way.

  And C.J. had thought she was plain crazy. How could they maintain offices in both cities? Wasn’t the expansion too quick? With the perpetual juggling act between accounts payable and accounts receivable—the money they were owed and the money coming in—was she trying to drive the company into the ground?

  And Sarah knew there were ways in which C.J. was absolutely right. The Walker Company was in a delicate time, growing so fast daily that it was no longer simply exhausting to keep up, it was maddening. The number of agents had more than doubled in only a year, and she’d had to hastily add employees to take charge of shipping, billing, and teaching. Her dear friend Sadie had opened her own beauty shop in St. Louis using the Walker method, but Sarah had convinced Sadie to move to Pittsburgh with her family so she could teach at Lelia College and work in the beauty shop there. That offered some relief, at least, and Sarah was glad to have someone else in Pittsburgh she could completely trust, but that was only the beginning of the company’s needs. The numbers in accounting never seemed to match up right, and she’d gone through three accountants in a year; they were always searching for the perfect supplier for the steel pressing combs, someone who was both good and reliable; and agents too often complained about receiving their supplies late. Since Walker products were sold only through the agents, not in drugstores, late shipments meant that custom
ers weren’t being satisfied and were probably turning to some other product, like Poro.

  And with all that going on, Sarah had been building a warehouse and home in another city. Either this is the end for us, or this is a beginning like nothing else, Sarah often thought after her arguments with C.J. That could be true about her marriage or Walker Manufacturing, or both. In fact, in her mind, they were one and the same. If the marriage could last, she told herself, the company could last, and vice versa.

  Now that C.J. had finally moved in with her in Indianapolis, she felt at ease with him again. She truly had a home for the first time since she’d begun living here.

  And what a home! Their bank account was bursting, thanks to generous bank loans and mounting business, so Sarah had decided to use only top-notch furnishings for their twelve-room home at 640 North West Street in Indianapolis, which had twice the space of the one they’d just left in Pittsburgh. With help from Lottie, who had a glorious eye for decorative detail and recommended designers and artists they were not familiar with, she and C.J. were building a home that, in her mind, felt suitable for royalty. The construction and renovation seemed endless, but she knew it would be worth it. This would be their place, their reward for a long, hard struggle.

  Sarah wanted long, airy walkways, so the hardwood floors seemed to stretch for miles. The drawing room was nearly finished—she called it the Gold Room—and its furniture was hued in old-rose and gold, with fine Oriental rugs across the floor and a golden curio cabinet that gleamed in the corner. She’d installed a Tiffany chandelier that reminded her of the one in the Denver ballroom, which cast the same ghostly, sparkling white light below. At the center of the room was a marvelous Mexican onyx table she’d found, its sides bound in gold. Sarah wanted Lottie to help her find the perfect Negro artist to display in this room; Lottie was investigating a young Indianapolis-born artist named William Edouard Scott she’d heard was making a sensation studying in Paris, and Sarah couldn’t wait to buy his pieces. That would be the perfect touch.