Tananarive Due

by The Black Rose

  According to a handsome grandfather clock, it was ten minutes to noon when they reached a fair-size room they were told was the executive waiting room, with plush antique chairs and a small conference table. All of them took their seats in thoughtful silence. The room also doubled as a library, apparently, with glass-enclosed shelves of books with worn spines. Had Thomas Jefferson read any of these books? Or Abraham Lincoln?

  At noon, when the silence of the room was broken by the resounding bells of the grandfather clock, the double doors opened. Instinctively, they all rose to their feet, but the man who entered the room was not the president. He was a mousy, dark-haired man with tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a nervous smile. “Ah, Mr. Du Bois,” the man said, reaching out to shake their leader’s hand. “I’m Joseph Tumulty, the president’s secretary. After so much correspondence, it’s good to meet you in person. We appreciate your making this journey.”

  They all nodded and shook his hand as they were introduced, then found themselves in the midst of an awkward silence. Mr. Tumulty cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I bring bad news, which isn’t unusual during these times, as you might imagine. We’re happy to read your petition and give it utmost consideration, but the president is unable to meet with you.”

  Sarah’s breath died in her throat. Glancing at the eyes of the other men in her group, she saw them exchange knowing gazes. They looked disappointed, but not surprised.

  “It would only take a moment,” Mr. Du Bois said calmly. “He needs to know—”

  Mr. Tumulty shrugged, his voice becoming curt. “I’m sorry. A meeting is impossible.”

  “War business?” Reverend Powell said, his hands behind his back.

  At that, Mr. Tumulty’s face began to flush red. “No . . . not that . . . but he’s signing an important bill. It has to do with . . . farming. The animal feed supply . . .” His voice trailed off.

  None of them said a word. If the president was more concerned about animal feed than lynching, they knew there were no words they could utter that could possibly matter to his ears.

  Only two weeks later, Sarah was able to shake off the growing sense of frustration she’d felt in the wake of the East St. Louis riot and her disappointing visit to the White House. That feeling had grown worse a week after the visit, when she heard dreadful news about Negro soldiers rioting and shooting white residents in Houston. The incident was apparently sparked by a Negro soldier’s beating after he complained to a police officer who slapped a Negro woman, but it was still a horrible mark against Negro enlisted men.

  But now, if anything, Sarah felt a sense of rebirth.

  Sarah had created the Madam C.J. Walker Hair Culturists Union of America in April of 1916, hoping to contribute to good causes and protect her agents from competitors who might infringe on their prices. The union’s first convention was scheduled to be held in Philadelphia beginning August 30. As much as Sarah wanted to look forward to the first national gathering of her agents, she arrived in the city with a nagging dread about the event. The local organizers had assured her and Mr. Ransom that the convention would be a rousing success, but Sarah wasn’t so sure. As the ranks of her agents had swelled in the past few years, so had countless incidents of mismanagement, misrepresentation, and all sorts of petty complaints. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about with shipping and suppliers, every time she turned around, she seemed to hear reports about agents removing labels from her products to sell as their own, performing poorly, or criticizing her publicly. And these were the same people who owed their livelihoods to her! Philadelphia’s branch of the union was growing quickly, but Sarah recently had learned from the organization’s president that Walker agents were supplying white drugstores in Philadelphia that were not authorized to carry her products. The agents knew Sarah’s rules and standards, and yet too many were willing to ignore both. Didn’t people have any loyalty? What was wrong with these Negroes? You can lead a horse to water, Sarah often thought, shaking her head, but Lord knows you can’t make some of ’em drink.

  Growing pains, Lottie called it. All the nonsense put Sarah in a foul mood, so she was braced for controversy when she went to Philadelphia.

  The meeting convened at Union Baptist Church on Fitzwater Street, and Sarah realized right away that her mood would improve drastically as she sat beside Mr. Ransom and the other union officers, including Sadie, at the pulpit. Sadie looked so good in her businesslike white linen suit and fashionable ostrich-feather hat; and Mr. Ransom looked proper as always in his gray suit, bow tie, and finely shined black leather shoes. All morning they watched women stream steadily into the church in growing numbers, their voices rising from soft murmurs to a powerful din. There were many faces she knew, of course—Sadie was there, and tireless little Lizette from Pittsburgh, and scores of others—but there were also many agents she did not know, women who had completed the correspondence course or had been trained by others. And, exactly as she had wanted to impart to them, these women were the perfect advertisement for the products and method they sold; some of the women were wearing hats, but she could see that their hair was shiny and healthy, and many of them sported tight, lovely curls. Walker Company truly had taken on its own life with a sisterhood of well-coiffed, dignified Negro women of all skin shades, educational levels, and ages who had come to take care of business. As the church filled, Sarah felt her heart rejoicing.

  “You’re a long way from lettin’ your hair down at the church picnic, huh, girl?” Sadie murmured to Sarah with a low, warm laugh during Sarah’s lengthy introduction. Sadie, like the other agents, usually called Sarah Madam now—and only half in jest—so Sarah felt a rush of affection for her longtime friend to hear her call her girl. She squeezed Sadie’s hand tightly. Nowadays Sadie owned a large Walker hair parlor in Pittsburgh and occasionally wrote Sarah about her headaches, but both of them had discovered that their new lives didn’t leave much time for old friends. Sarah missed Sadie terribly, but the only thing that mattered to her at that instant was knowing how far they had come. Together.

  “Yes, Lord,” Sarah answered softly, marveling at the church filled with women. Swept away by the sight, Sarah momentarily didn’t realize her name had been called.

  “Madam?” Mr. Ransom prompted her, smiling. “I think they’d like to hear you speak.”

  When Sarah stood up, applause exploded from the church’s pews.

  A few women near the front rose to their feet instantly, led by Lizette, and then the women stood in waves until the entire room was giving her a standing ovation with smiling faces. Their applause grew louder, until it was almost deafening to Sarah. They reminded her of the image she’d seen in her dream so long ago, the field of black roses. Her roses. Her children, almost.

  Sarah walked slowly to the pulpit, basking in their applause. Her face was shining with a large grin, her eyes moist. There were days when Sarah had forgotten what was at stake in her work, when she’d wondered why she was traveling so much that she barely had time to spend in her own home, but not today. Today she understood exactly what she’d been working toward all along—not just building a life for herself, but helping to build a nation of colored womanhood.

  “Good ladies,” Sarah said, her voice quavering with emotion once the applause had died. “There are no words for how proud I am as I stand before all of you. A good friend of mine, Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune, has agreed to begin teaching the Walker method at her school for girls in Daytona, Florida. She and her students have been using Walker products for four years, and she believes beauty culture will be a valuable course of study for those young ladies. Now, Dr. Bethune likes to say that the world better get used to seeing a black rose, and that is exactly what each of you is to me. Anyone who does not respect Negro womanhood has never seen Negro womanhood as I am seeing it now.”

  The group applauded again, and Sarah could see the pride in Lizette’s eyes.

  “We are more than hair culturists, ladies. And sales is much of what we do, but we are more t
han saleswomen. As women, we have duties to each other and our race. To my mind, it is a sacred duty, and that duty is to use our power. This is a time in our nation like no other. America is facing a terrible war overseas. I tremble with pride every time I think of my good friend from Indianapolis, Dr. Joseph H. Ward, who has enlisted in the army to serve his country. Ladies, we must remain loyal to our homes, our country, and our flag. This is the greatest country under the sun. But we must not let our love of country, our patriotic loyalty, cause us to abate one whit in our protest against wrong and injustice. We should protest until the American sense of justice is so aroused that such affairs as the East St. Louis riot be forever impossible.”

  Sarah’s voice had risen to a near shout, and her words were smothered by applause. She paused, inhaling. “Today we have a new challenge: We must learn the ways of politics. And if we believe lynching and discrimination are wrong, then we must raise all of our voices as one. We must become lobbyists to try to influence those who make our nation’s laws. We must never, ever be afraid to stand up. We cannot leave it to anyone else. If it is to be done, then it is to be done by us.”

  Again the agents were on their feet and Sarah fell silent. She had nearly lost her voice with the strain she experienced more and more when she spoke, but her heart was booming loudly in her chest, her blood hot and excited in her veins. She was holding tightly to the pulpit as she leaned forward to speak, clinging so tightly that it hurt, almost as if some part of her believed she was in danger of floating away from joy.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  NOVEMBER 1917

  (THREE MONTHS LATER)

  “How long have you been in practice, Dr. Kennedy?” Sarah asked her handsome young guest as they wound their way through the 136th Street salon, past pleated velvet curtains and shiny parquet floors. The protégé of Dr. Ward’s was visiting from Chicago, and he had asked to give Sarah a medical examination as part of his promise to Dr. Ward that he would help keep an eye on her while his mentor was in the service. As it turned out, this young man had just enlisted himself and would be leaving soon for his basic training down South. Sarah liked the young physician’s manner so much that she’d insisted on giving him a personal tour of her salon. She also hoped he would have a chance to meet Lelia. Dr. Jack Kennedy was dark and well built, and something about him told Sarah that he was of solid character. He would be such an improvement over the men her daughter kept company with!

  “Not very long, to be honest, Madam. I only opened my practice in Chicago this year. But wartime makes no accommodations for the plans of one man.”

  “That’s the truth, all right,” Sarah said. American soldiers had yet to suffer any major losses in the war, but she was fearful of what would happen to the enlisted men when they met up with those horrible German gas canisters. People like Dr. Ward and Dr. Kennedy would be very valuable overseas, and they could show their superiors that Negroes could be heroes, too.

  Dr. Kennedy glanced around the plushly decorated parlor, which was bustling with activity. The decor was matching pearl gray, from the walls to the cushioned seats for waiting customers, and the room smelled of brewing coffee, since customers were free to sip tea and coffee while they waited. There were at least six women in chairs having their hair treated, all attended by solemn-faced culturists in standard white dresses and aprons who were no doubt nervous to have Sarah standing over them.

  And with good reason, Sarah realized as she glanced at the tiled floor. What was the name of this broad-shouldered girl again . . . ? “What’s your name? Miss Sneed?”

  “Miss Reed, Madam,” the girl said. Her comb froze in her customer’s head.

  “Miss Reed, I’m sure you’ve heard me tell you ladies time and again to sweep up the floor after each customer. Why is there so much hair under this chair? This is our showcase parlor, and this floor looks like a barnyard.”

  Miss Reed glanced at the other women, who were all gazing at her dolefully, as if to say, Why are you making us look bad? Nervously, the woman put down her comb and wiped her hands on her apron. Sarah thought she might be about to burst into tears. “I’m s-sorry, Madam, I’ll sweep up right away.”

  “It doesn’t look like a barnyard to me, Madam Walker,” Dr. Kennedy said as Sarah steered him out of the room. “Far from it.”

  “I just don’t have patience for it,” Sarah said. “People come here to feel special, and that’s exactly what I aim to provide. Too many of our people are just accustomed to any old thing. Sometimes we forget to have higher standards.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  At that, Lelia appeared in the doorway in front of them. Although it was still only late afternoon, Lelia was dressed in a black silk dress and a black-and-gold turban with a single feather above her forehead. Lelia grinned. “Mother!” she said, eagerly taking Sarah’s arm and giving her a whiff of flowery toilet water. “There’s someone you must meet.”

  Sarah was ready to scold Lelia for ignoring Dr. Kennedy’s presence, but she kept quiet when she saw a robust white man standing just behind Lelia in a tuxedo, top hat, and full-length black coat. Seeing Sarah, the man extended one arm with a flair and gave a low bow. “Ah! Madam Walker,” the man said, taking Sarah’s hand to kiss. “This pleasure is all mine, you see.” The middle-aged man’s accent was so thick that Sarah could barely understand his words. Was he Spanish? Italian?

  “Mother, you’ll never guess who this is.” Lelia always called Sarah Mama in private, but she used the more formal Mother in public and in her letters. “Who is the most famous opera singer in the entire world?”

  Sarah knew that, of course, because Lottie had tutored her in opera by using the tenor’s recordings, which she played on the gold-leaf Victrola in her drawing room. But before she could give the name, the ruddy-faced man spoke: “Mi chiamo Enrico Caruso, Madam—and proud to make your acquaintance!” he boomed. “Everyone is talking of the famous Madam C.J. Walker.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Sarah said, smiling. “How very nice to meet you, sir.”

  The man made a dismissive gesture. “Ack! Me, I see every day. There is no joy to see this old face. The joy in this world is to meet beautiful women and make new friends. Especially when they have built a salon as fine as any in Rome.”

  Lelia spoke breathlessly. “Mr. Caruso performs at the Metropolitan Opera, and he and his wife have friends in common with me. I’ve invited him for tea, and then we’re all going to have drinks. I was telling him all about the mansion we’re building, Mother. If it fits his schedule, wouldn’t it be wonderful to invite him to give us a private concert once it’s finished?”

  Sarah’s eyes shined. She could only imagine Lottie’s face when she heard! She was also glad Mr. Caruso had a wife, because she didn’t like the familiar way Lelia had hooked her arm around the arm of this man who was old enough to be her father. “Well, that’s a fine idea—”

  “This villa you are building, what is it called?” Mr. Caruso asked.

  “Called . . . ?” Sarah said, puzzled.

  “Yes, yes. You see, a fine villa must have a name, just as a child. Remember this!”

  Sarah laughed. “Well, Mr. Caruso, we have a saying in this country—we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Suddenly Sarah remembered her manners. “Oh, this is Dr. Jack Kennedy. Dr. Ward is his mentor, Lelia, and he’s on his way to his military training.”

  Lelia’s grin widened. Somehow she looked energized despite the pronounced bags under her eyes. “Wonderful! Then you must join us, Dr. Kennedy. I would ask Mother to come, but I know she won’t want to stay out so late.”

  “Yes, Dr. Kennedy, you should go,” Sarah urged him.

  Dr. Kennedy shook his head, although his eyes lingered on Lelia. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m not staying long. I have to keep a promise to a friend, and then I have to go.”

  “A promise?” Lelia asked, curious.

  At that, Dr. Kennedy glanced at Sarah. “Yes. I promised Dr. Ward I would do my best to
keep your mother in good health.”

  “Good health! That blessed beast we all seek that eludes us,” Mr. Caruso said. “In that case, Doctor, your invitation is taken away. Ciao!” His hearty laugh rang throughout the salon.

  “You have a busy life, Madam Walker,” Dr. Kennedy said, once Sarah’s examination in her mahogany-furnished bedroom was complete. He spoke over the melodic strains of “Mighty Lak’ a Rose” bursting from the ceiling-high player organ in her main hallway. Dr. Kennedy had checked her heart rate, looked at her throat, and listened to her breathing. He had also asked her a series of questions: Did she suffer from thirst and a frequent need to pass water? Had her stream diminished? Did she have swelling of her hands or feet? Did she often suffer from a lack of appetite or fatigue? Had she noticed strange rashes or a fruity smell to her breath? The answer to most of his questions was yes. He hadn’t commented yet, but he looked very somber as he took notes.

  “Well, I guess you saw a piece of my life today,” Sarah said from where she sat on her canopied bed. “There’s always somebody coming through here. I’m home to rest, but . . .”

  At that, the doctor met her eyes. “But you don’t know how to rest, do you?”

  “You can tell that about me already? Usually folks need to know me longer.” As she said those words, Sarah thought sadly of C.J. She was still getting letters from him, asking her for either money or employment. She’d prayed he would have gotten his life on better track by now with nothing to do with her, but he seemed to have lost everything of the confident, creative man he’d been when she met him. My habits are better. My heart has changed, he’d written in his last letter. I am writing these lines with tears dripping from my eyes. There was a time she would have gloated over his words, but no more. Now, despite the wall she’d built around her own heart, she felt sorry for this pathetic man she had once loved.