Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  Next, the library. The Robinsons thought Sarah should have a piano? Well, now she did—the Chickering baby grand piano that had just arrived was so new it shined, the library’s showpiece. And Lottie had delighted in helping her fill the shelves of the library with books, along with etchings of poets Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and John Greenleaf Whittier she’d hung on the walls. An ebony bust of William Shakespeare was displayed in a corner. This was the room where Sarah took her lessons from Lottie in reading, history, French, and elocution for at least an hour every single day, even if her only free time was late at night or before dawn. Sarah savored the spirit of learning in her majestic library.

  Oh, and the plans she had for the rest! She was ordering furnishings for all the guest and sleeping rooms, and Haviland china, special wall coverings, an oversize table with a Battenburg covering, and silver punch bowls and mugs for the dining room. Soon she planned to begin hosting eight- and ten-course dinners that would have tongues wagging for weeks.

  The master bedroom was no less than sprawling, closer to the size of a living room than any bedroom she’d ever seen, but it was not yet furnished, except for her cherished photograph of her father and a massive canopied bed so high off the ground that she and C.J. needed foot ladders to climb onto it. Like Miss Brown’s bed, she thought fondly, even though she knew the bed she had now was far more expensive than anything Miss Brown could have afforded.

  Finally C.J. was here to share the bed with her. That was all that mattered. From now on, everything between them would be different, she’d decided. She would try to learn from what had happened to poor Lelia, and she would be more the wife C.J. wanted. We have more supervisors and office help here, C.J., she’d told him, so there won’t be any reason we can’t both travel together. When I have to go away, I want you with me.

  That was one of her wishes, in fact. In addition to newspaper articles about successful Negroes, Sarah had posted three new wishes on neat scraps of paper: Five-thousand agents, one said. Larger manufacturing plant, said another. The last read: A happy Walker home.

  Sarah stared at the wishes each morning before she left the bedroom, until she could see her handwriting even with her eyes closed. And every time they reached or surpassed one of their goals, she and C.J. took the wish down and replaced it with another—but only after a special evening together, either a hot bubble bath or a private picnic or a long drive through the city.

  So far, so good. C.J. had been more cheerful since his arrival in Indianapolis than he had been in months, and he’d taken a renewed interest in his role with the company. He was selling his Blood and Rheumatic Cure—which was prominently displayed on the company stationery—and he was calling himself a “scalp specialist,” traveling on his own occasionally to consult with potential agents and customers. He seemed content, not so itchy and ill-tempered all the time.

  Once again, C.J. was the man she’d had dinner with in St. Louis, full of ideas and dreams. And laughs! Sarah loved to hear C.J. laugh, that sound of warm honey.

  When Sarah finally brought her car to a bucking stop at the curb in front of their house, C.J. was feigning a heart attack, clutching at his chest as he breathed hard. “Let me out of this monster!” he cried, scratching at the window. “I need to be drunk to ride with you, Sarah.”

  Sarah hated to hear him make a reference to drinking, since he was drinking much more whiskey now than he had when she first met him. But she didn’t want to ruin their good mood. “I’m not that bad and you know it,” she said, playfully slapping his shoulder.

  As they climbed out of the motorcar, still laughing, Sarah noticed a young colored man in a slightly wrinkled suit and derby walking toward them on the sidewalk. He had been about to climb up their walkway to the front door, but he changed his course when he saw them.

  “Madam Walker? Mr. Walker?” the man said, taking off his derby.

  Once he was closer, Sarah recognized his clean-shaven face instantly; he’d aged in the two or three years since she’d seen him last, but this was Freeman Ransom, the porter! He looked so sober and sophisticated in a suit and tie, it was hard for her to imagine he’d been a porter at all.

  Sarah invited him into the parlor, calling into the kitchen that she needed the new cook she’d hired to bring out cups of tea for her, C.J., and Freeman Ransom. “You sure I can’t interest you in somethin’ stronger than tea?” she heard C.J. ask the young man.

  “Oh, no, sir. I don’t drink,” Mr. Ransom said pertly. “I took a vow when I was eighteen not to drink, dance, or gamble when I joined the YMCA. My vows are important to me, sir.”

  Sarah shared a look with C.J., and she had to struggle not to chuckle out loud. Shoot, remind me not to join no damn YMCA, Sarah knew her husband was thinking. But the young man’s response impressed her. Once they were all sitting with cups of imported Japanese green tea, Lottie’s newest discovery, Sarah asked Mr. Ransom how his schooling was going.

  “I just received my law degree from Columbia University in New York,” he said modestly. “And I’ve decided to make Indianapolis my home. I heard you had moved here, Madam Walker, and this city has so many opportunities for Negroes. Has your company hired a lawyer?”

  “We used Robert L. Brokenburr once or twice. You know that name?” C.J. said. Sarah sensed her husband was trying to intimidate Mr. Ransom, testing him.

  “Oh, yessir. Mr. Brokenburr is very well known. I’ve seen his name in the Recorder.” Mr. Ransom looked disappointed. “Is he . . . er . . . is he your legal counsel, then?”

  Sarah smiled at him. “We just use him now and again,” she said. “We can always use more legal counsel, Mr. Ransom. I remember telling you I would keep my eye on you, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, but I wouldn’t hold you to a promise so informal,” Mr. Ransom said, his face earnest. “I have some ideas for you, and I hope you’ll think I could be an asset to your corporation. I take it that Walker Manufacturing is a state-recognized corporation . . . ?”

  Again Sarah glanced at C.J.; they’d talked about incorporating, but they’d never initiated the procedure. With so many details, it had just been left undone.

  Mr. Ransom looked concerned at their silence. “Oh, my! Well, that’s a piece of business you’ll want to take care of, Madam and Mr. Walker, whether you decide to use my services or not. You’ll want to establish a board of directors, a list of holdings. . . .”

  Sarah’s smile widened, and she experienced the same rush of warmth she’d felt for Mr. Ransom when she’d first seen him reading at Union Station in St. Louis. Such a serious young man! He was the sort of man who was a stickler for details, just like she was. She found herself wondering if he was married. He would be a much better husband for Lelia!

  “How old are you, Mr. Ransom?” Sarah asked, out of curiosity. C.J. had fallen silent, as he usually did during these sorts of transactions lately, unless Sarah asked his opinion.

  “I turned twenty-nine in July, Madam.” Three years Lelia’s senior. Good, Sarah thought.

  “And if we were to decide that we’d be interested in your legal services . . . how much would that cost us?” Sarah said.

  At that, Mr. Ransom looked uncomfortable for the first time. “Well, Madam . . . I’ve heard you take boarders here . . . and I’m new in town, you see, so”—he raised his eyebrows hopefully—“might I offer legal services in exchange for room and board?”

  Sarah and C.J. glanced at each other, grinning. Free was their favorite price.

  It was five-thirty A.M., nearly an hour before Lottie would be ready to begin tutoring her, but Sarah was already awake and fully dressed as she sat in the padded rocking chair on the front veranda of her house. She hadn’t been able to sleep, so she’d risen early to mix ingredients in the warehouse in back of her home; she had women she’d hired who mixed portions and packaged the final product, but none of them knew all of the ingredients. That secret belonged to her, Lelia, and C.J., and Sarah wanted to keep it that way. She was terrified some
one might steal her secret formula. Guess this is how poor Annie Malone felt when I came along, Sarah thought.

  She’d heard from Sadie that some folks at the Poro Company had been saying she’d stolen Annie Malone’s formula, which made Sarah angry, but she’d already decided not to answer those charges. C.J. had warned her long ago that she would become a target for jealousy. You got to take the bad with the good, Sarah, he’d said.

  To seize her thoughts away from business, Sarah gazed at her peaceful, darkened street. Light was only beginning to creep at the edges of the sky, so the birds weren’t even up yet; all she heard was the whirring and chirping of crickets.

  But, no. In the distance Sarah made out the chugging and rattling of a motorcar, and soon she could see two glowing lamplights driving toward her on North West Street. The wooden-bodied Model T was driving at a fast clip until it neared Sarah’s house, when it slowed and finally came to a stop. It was too dark for Sarah to see inside the car because the canopy was up, but she heard at least four men and women laughing softly.

  “Good morrow to thee, A’Lelia,” she heard a man’s voice say in a mock English accent, and then the car filled with laughter again. Lelia was out this late?

  After climbing out of the car with her skirt raised indelicately, Lelia waved the car off with her handkerchief as she stood at the curb. She was giggling to herself, and Sarah knew before her daughter even began walking toward the veranda in slightly lurching steps that she must have been drinking. She hadn’t known Lelia to drink!

  Seeing Sarah suddenly, Lelia gasped, clinging to the railing. “Mama!” she said.

  “Hush, girl,” Sarah said angrily. “You’ll wake up the whole house.”

  “What ’chu doing out here so late?” Lelia said. Her words were slurred, though she had struggled to regain her composure by standing up straight without help from the railing.

  Sarah’s face felt hot. She’d been holding her temper in check, but her daughter’s obvious intoxication made her long for the days when Lelia was small enough for a switch. “It’s not late; it’s early. It’s morning, almost six A.M. Where have you been? Is this what you do at night? You stay out all hours like this, raisin’ a ruckus—”

  “Oh, Mama, nobody’s raisin’ a ruckus but you,” Lelia said, plopping herself down on the top step of the veranda, near Sarah’s feet. “I’ve just been out with some friends.”

  Sarah’s hands were wrapped tightly around the rocking-chair armrests. “Well, ain’t this is a sight! I’m hopin’ you’ll make some kind of impression on Mr. Ransom, and here you are—”

  “On who?” Lelia said, her voice rising too loud again.

  “On Mr. Freeman Briley Ransom. It should be plain to you he has a good future. It’s long past time you divorced Mr. Robinson and started thinking about a better husband.”

  “Mr. Ransom!” Lelia laughed. “Mama, he’s so stiff he must put starch in his drawers.”

  Sarah’s face hardened. “You just can’t rest until you’ve said at least one thing to try to shock me, can you? Like you were raised in an alley.”

  Lelia sighed, leaning back until her head rested against Sarah’s knees. Sarah almost pulled her knees away, but she decided not to. Suddenly she was reminded of a time long ago, when Lelia had sat between her knees to have her hair combed and greased, just like Sarah’s mama used to do to hers. Sarah suddenly felt sad, nearly lost, longing for something she couldn’t name.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Lelia said, all mirth gone from her voice. “I’ve been drinkin’, that’s all, just goin’ from house to house with some young folks. And playing some cards, too. They all like me. I feel like I’m having some fun for once, not just . . .” She didn’t finish, only sighing.

  Sarah stroked the top of Lelia’s head. “Baby, I know your heart is just aching. But what you’re doin’ now won’t bring us both nothin’ but shame, hear? I was so glad you wanted to spend the summer here, but not for this. And how come you haven’t said anything about going back to school? It’ll be fall before you know it.”

  “ ’Cause I don’t wanna go,” Lelia said, slurring again. She sounded younger now.

  Sarah had suspected as much, although Lelia had never admitted it before. Still, Sarah had even thought of a plan, and she decided to suggest it now: “How ’bout you go back to Pittsburgh and take over the office there?”

  Lelia didn’t speak at first. “I thought you were gonna get somebody—”

  “Who better than family? You know this business, Lelia—you grew up with it. If you don’t like school, so be it. I’ll give you Pittsburgh. My advice is yours for the asking, but do what you want with that office. The profits, everything. It’s yours.”

  Lelia turned around to gaze upward at Sarah, her face slack-jawed. She was blinking fast. “You mean that, Mama? You really think I can do that? You . . . trust me to . . . ?”

  Sarah squeezed her daughter’s shoulders, leaning over her. “Course I trust you! If you wanted it, baby, you just had to ask me. This company ain’t all mine and C.J.’s. It’s yours, too. You think I’ma be here forever?”

  “You better be!” Lelia said, smiling. She breathed sour liquor into Sarah’s face. “I’m gonna make you proud, Mama.”

  Sarah stroked the side of her daughter’s face. “You go on to bed, and try not to wake Mr. Ransom. Maybe there’s hope for you two yet.”

  “No, he’s not for me,” Lelia said, shaking her head. “I’m a married woman, Mama.”

  Everybody’s got to believe in somethin’, Sarah thought, and gave her daughter a squeeze.

  On the morning of September 19, five people stood over a desk in the office of Walker Manufacturing as a single electric lamp glowed bright above their heads. All of them were dressed smartly, so the occasion felt more like a ceremony than a business formality. Sarah thought Lelia looked breathtaking with her newly bobbed hair, neat turban, and matching tailored floor-length green suit. Lelia was a princess, she thought.

  “These are the articles of incorporation for the Madam C.J. Walker Manufacturing Company of Indiana, which will manufacture and sell a hair-growing, beautifying, and scalp disease–curing preparation and clean scalps with the same,” Mr. Ransom said, reading from the document on the desk before them. “The capital stock is ten thousand dollars, et cetera, with one thousand shares at ten dollars per share. The three members of the board of directors are Lelia McWilliams Robinson, Charles J. Walker, and Madam C.J. Walker, or Sarah B. Walker.”

  Sarah felt excitement trip up her spine, and she squeezed C.J.’s hand in one palm and Lelia’s in the other. Lelia smiled at her, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “You did it, Mama,” Lelia whispered to her. Sarah glanced at C.J., whose eyes were closed as he listened, which reminded Sarah of his serious concentration on their wedding day. No, we did it, Sarah thought, squeezing C.J.’s hand again. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, nodding. They knew each other’s thoughts.

  “All that’s left, then, is for the new board of directors to sign,” added Robert Brokenburr, who had assisted Mr. Ransom with the paperwork. “And we’ll go file and make it official.”

  One by one, Lelia, C.J., and Sarah took turns writing their signatures with the fountain pen.

  Sarah was surprised to notice that her hand was trembling slightly as she wrote. Damn! Her penmanship was poor enough already—that was one of the things Lottie had vowed to help her improve—but her signature looked worse than usual, and on such an important document!

  She was afraid, she realized. Her heart’s pounding had felt like exhilaration at first, but now there was no mistaking the nervousness she felt. What was she afraid of?

  I don’t want to lose this, she thought. They had made this company, and now she was daring to raise her hopes that she, of all people, could help build a company all Negroes in the country could be proud of. That was what Mr. Ransom said. But what if that wasn’t what happened at all? What if they failed? Observers might say, Well, what do you expect from Negroes? Sometime
s it all seemed to be held together by such a fragile thread.

  “Once this is filed, I’ll turn my attention to that other matter, Madam Walker,” Mr. Ransom said quietly as he walked past Sarah, being ever so discreet. Sarah appreciated the young man’s discretion. The other matter was her nephew, Willie Powell.

  A month ago, Sarah had sent a train ticket and shipping money to Lou so she could move from Mississippi to Indianapolis and take a job with her company. Finally, after so many years, Sarah was ready to fully repay her sister for taking care of her all of those years after their parents died. She and Lou had their differences, all right, but that had nothing to do with the debt Sarah felt she owed her older sister.

  Since neither of them thought it was a good idea to live in the same house—Sarah, this ain’t a house; it’s a museum, girl, Lou had complained. I can’t live someplace I have to stay so hushed an’ be skeered I’ll break somethin’ on the floor—Lou had found a suitable apartment nearby, which Sarah paid for. Lou also worked in the factory packaging hair grower, although early reports were coming to Sarah that her sister was far from industrious; she often arrived late and wanted to leave early. Frankly, Sarah thought, there were probably other problems her staff was afraid to report to her. Still, she decided, Lou would receive ten dollars a month from her regardless. She was going to take care of her sister.

  And now that she had lawyers, she was going to try to get Willie out of prison. It was just too bad neither she nor Lou had been able to look into it properly before now, fifteen long years later. But better late than never, Sarah thought. What good’s money if you can’t use it to make life better for your own family?