“Ah, that’s the new Vienna Blood waltz Strauss wrote right before he died,” Sarah overheard a man behind her say. “I heard it performed in New York. You need a full orchestra to do it justice.”
“It still doesn’t measure up to Blue Danube. That was his heyday,” another voice added.
Sarah had to restrain herself from whipping her head around to see who was speaking. Who were these men criticizing the beautiful music? And how often had they heard it, that they could know a piece as soon as they heard the first strains? She felt lucky that the music sounded fresh and wonderful to her unlearned ear, but she wondered how much more music was as foreign to her as the piece the musicians were playing now.
“There’s another attorney, John Stuart …” C.J. was saying, but Sarah’s thoughts had become lost in the music. She gazed out at the dance floor, where a dozen couples had begun to dance the waltz, twirling in regimented steps as if they had practiced for hours on end. The women’s skirts flared around their ankles as they whirled. They looked so elegant, Sarah was transfixed. They have their own world, Sarah thought. But for one night, at least, this was her world, too.
Sarah walked in careful, dainty steps, imitating the other women around her, and she was painfully careful with her diction and grammar, speaking in short sentences. Soon, after Lelia discovered a young woman her own age and C.J. wandered off in search of refreshments, Sarah found herself surrounded by a group of women who seemed genuinely glad to meet her. They asked her how long she had lived in Denver, whether she planned to stay, and how she liked the city. For the first time all night, Sarah felt at ease.
“Do you have a taste for literature, Madam Walker?” one of the women said brightly. She was very fair, her hair closer to red than brown, and she wore small, ladylike spectacles. “We’re all members of the Eureka Literary Club. You and your husband should join!”
Sarah felt the nervousness creeping back into her stomach. She’d never seen C.J. read anything except business books, and reading was still such a struggle for her that it had taken her months to fight through the text of Booker T. Washington’s Up from Slavery. She read newspapers, letters, and Bible verses, but whole books were still too much of a challenge for her.
“I thought Up from Slavery was one of the great works of our time,” Sarah said with more confidence than she felt, and she was gratified when the women echoed her feelings.
“Oh, yes, of course we’ve read that,” the redheaded woman said. “Have you read The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois?”
Another woman joined in. “Oh, don’t you just love Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poems! His death in February was so sad … such a young man …”
“Do you admire Anna Julia Cooper, Madam Walker?”
The women were speaking quickly, and all Sarah could do was nod her head as they penned her in with their eager questions, their love of books burning in their eyes. How could she admit she had read none of these other writers, that she had so little schooling?
“But you shouldn’t think we read only Negro writers, Madam Walker. You’ve read Jane Eyre, of course?” The question came from a woman slightly younger than Sarah who seemed to be disguising a Deep South country accent; despite her elegant royal blue silk dress, Sarah didn’t think this woman had been born to manners any more than she had. And the woman’s gaze was not entirely kind. The other women had fallen silent, their eyes on Sarah as they waited for her answer. This group was ready to accept her, if only she could say the right things!
“Oh, yes. Jane Eyre is a very fine author,” Sarah answered, nodding, but she knew instantly that she’d made a mistake. The women’s faces turned from expectant to puzzled, and they glanced away one by one, embarrassed for her. The young woman who’d posed the question could barely conceal her smile.
Finally, gently, the redheaded woman spoke. “Jane Eyre is a novel, Madam Walker. The author is Charlotte Brontë.”
Hot blood rushed to Sarah’s face, but she struggled to keep her composure. “My mistake,” she murmured. “I guess y’all can see I don’t read as much as I’d like.”
By now, the gracious smile on the lips of the woman in the blue dress looked distinctly false. “I think I remember where I’ve seen you now, Madam Walker,” she said. “Isn’t your photograph always in the newspaper ads? You sell some kind of hair grease.”
“Oh, my goodness, that’s right! The ‘Before’ and ‘After’ photographs,” the redheaded woman said, recognizing her. “I must be blind not to have noticed. What an ad!”
“I don’t use those sorts of products myself, of course,” the woman in the blue dress went on. “My hair’s too fine to muss with grease. But the girl who cleans for me and my husband would love it. If it works like you say, that is.”
For the first time, Sarah wondered if this woman in blue might not have purposely tried to make Jane Eyre sound like an author’s name, laying a trap to humiliate her. The woman had probably seen through her ignorance right away. But Sarah could see through her, too. “It’s a hair grower, not grease,” she said evenly. “It has science-proved ingredients, and it works like I say, or I wouldn’t say it.”
The woman’s lips parted. “Oh, well, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Sarah told her, fixing a gaze on her that spoke her mind: You don’t fool me. You prob’bly cleaned somebody’s house or took in laundry, too, one time or another, before you married yourself a rich man some way. You’re one o’ them folks who’s ashamed to be colored, who can’t feel good except by tryin’ to make other folks feel bad. But don’t try it on me unless you wanna be shamed in front of your friends. I can be niggerish, too.
The woman’s eyes dropped away, as if she’d heard every unspoken word.
Minutes later, Sarah only mumbled a thank-you when C.J. brought her a glass of iced tea at a secluded table she’d found. The ballroom felt too warm by now, the music had lost its dazzle on her, and Sarah was ready to leave. When C.J. asked her what had changed her mood, she told him about her encounter. “I ain’t in the mood for no more mixing, thank you,” Sarah said.
C.J. chuckled, shaking his head. “Aw, girl, come on. Where’s that tough skin?”
“These kinda folks make me sick, always thinkin’ they’re better than somebody.”
“I know what you need,” C.J. said, pointing. “Look at A’Lelia.”
Sarah followed C.J.’s gesture toward the ballroom floor, and she smiled instantly. Lelia was dancing a waltz with a handsome young man who, surprisingly, stood a full inch taller than her statuesque daughter. Lelia had a wide smile on her face, one of the few times Sarah had seen Lelia look happy since she came to Denver. Lelia’s biggest complaint was that she didn’t know anyone except her cousins, and it was hard to make friends.
“Who’s that boy?”
“Can’t recall his name for once, but he’s a college boy. I’ve seen him at the Church of the Redeemer, where all the monied folks go. His father might be a new doctor come to town.”
Sarah felt a strong sense of contentment as she watched her daughter dancing in the sure arms of a young man who looked accomplished and well mannered. Sarah still often feared Lelia wasn’t mature enough to make a good life for herself, but what if Lelia ended up matched with a man of education and intelligence who could provide for her and their children? This young man was a far cry from the crude musician who’d been kissing and sweet-talking her behind the bushes years ago. The bushes! The mere memory of that day made Sarah shiver with distaste.
The musicians ended their waltz, and the ballroom filled with applause. Then, almost without pause, a new waltz began. Sarah recognized this piece vaguely, she thought. Blue Danube, she heard guests murmuring, and a steady stream of new dancers made their way toward the ballroom floor as the music grew toward a gay crescendo. Blue Danube. She would commit the melody to memory so she would know it if she heard it again, she vowed.
C.J. extended his arm with a half bow. “Shall we, Madam? I apologize i
t’s a mite more proper than dancing in a barrelhouse,” he teased. “I know you like it better at Jake’s, out there shakin’ it with no shame. Shoot, looked to me like it wasn’t your first time, neither—”
“You hush, C.J. Walker, before someone hears you,” Sarah hissed. But she was smiling.
As C.J. led her to the dance floor, though, Sarah had second thoughts. What did she know about waltzing? And in front of all these people? But C.J. patiently guided Sarah’s arms to their proper position, clasped her hand, and began to lead her in the one-two-three step of the waltz. He danced very slowly at first, and she felt his hand pressing the small of her back, guiding her. Although she was terrified of stumbling, Sarah followed him the best she could, holding herself stiff. One-two-three, one-two-three. Soon, while C.J. nodded to the beat, they began to dance faster, drawn into the music’s flow. He seemed to lift her into flight. She was waltzing!
“You’re doin’ so good, Sarah,” C.J. said close to her ear, and at first she thought he was complimenting her dancing. “You sure do make a hullabaloo. I’ve been listening to folks, and they’re all talkin’ about Madam C.J. Walker. You just wait and see what happens.”
One-two-three, one-two-three. All the stiffness had vanished from Sarah’s limbs, leaving her buoyant as C.J. guided her first one way and then the other, the room spinning around her in a dizzying blur. Sarah’s body felt limber and light as she and C.J. danced amidst the wash of beautiful music beneath the grand ballroom’s glistening chandeliers.
She hoped the violins would never stop, because she could dance all night.
As a hidden sparrow whistled its morning song from a telephone pole above her, Sarah paused before walking into a nondescript one-story brick building sandwiched between a small five-and-dime and a buggy repair shop a few blocks’ walk from the Breedloves’ house. Automobiles and commercial wagons loaded with crates rumbled past Sarah as she stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the building with the same sense of mingled astonishment and disappointment she’d felt since the day she first saw it.
I’ve got a surprise for you, Sarah, C.J. had said two months before.
It had been a surprise, all right. Only a small, hand-painted sign in the corner of the window identified the building’s new occupants: WALKER MFG., it said. The sign was overshadowed by the much larger advertisement painted on the west wall of the building in bright red, with white script declaring COCA-COLA—“RELIEVES FATIGUE.” Still, if a passerby was looking carefully enough, the Walker Company sign in the window was plain as day.
Her company finally had a home of its own.
Unfortunately, though, C.J. had been able to get the building for such a bargain only because it had been partially ravaged by a fire some months back. Although the interior had been cleaned out and repainted, the exterior was still an eyesore because portions were charred, streaked, and flaking. Besides, even the inside smelled like soot to Sarah. That was the first thing she’d noticed when C.J. proudly toured her the first day, and she noticed it again now.
As usual, Sarah was the first one to arrive this morning, so the room was deserted. She gave a frustrated sigh as she noticed the empty boxes strewn around the floor; she’d asked Anjetta and her sisters to put them neatly in a corner before she’d left them the day before. Their place might not be fancy, but there was no reason it shouldn’t look neat. At least the long countertop had been wiped clean of spilled ingredients, she noted. They knew she wouldn’t tolerate that kind of mess, and neither would C.J.
The space had served as a commercial laundry, so it was plumbed with running water and equipped with two large laundry stoves and the long countertop, which had all been spared by the fire. (If her hair business didn’t work, Sarah told herself wryly, it would be only a small step to go back to washing.) There was also just enough room for a row of mismatched chairs for her customers who wanted their hair pressed, and Sarah had assembled them neatly near a stove. It wasn’t a beauty salon by far, but it was better than running her business out of her kitchen.
Here, Lelia, C.J., and her nieces helped her mix the ingredients and scoop them into jars and bottles that could be mailed to their customers, who wrote from all parts of Colorado and as far east as St. Louis and Indianapolis. The ads C.J. had designed were running regularly in colored newspapers in Denver and elsewhere, and they were working. Mail orders for Madam C.J. Walker’s Wonderful Hair Grower, Glossine pressing oil, and Vegetable Shampoo were trickling in more each week, waiting for them daily at the post office. Even despite their rising costs in advertising and rent, the company was still earning nearly ten dollars a week, just as C.J. had predicted. There were so many orders, in fact, that Sarah had finally told Mr. Scholtz it was time for her to quit her cooking job. He’d kept his bargain with her: In exchange for the extra time she cooked for him, he’d given her valuable advice on her hair products, especially the Wonderful Hair Grower and her all-vegetable shampoo. He’d even given her ideas for skin products she might want to add to her line later. Mr. Scholtz hadn’t been happy to see her go, bless him, but he’d been very happy for the reason. We started out small, too, Sarah, he’d told her. There’s no grand mystery to it. You just don’t give yourself a moment’s rest until you have what you want.
Well, they were a long way from what she wanted, Sarah thought, surveying the dank room that still smelled bitterly like a doused fire. But at least she’d made a start.
“Madam Sarah?”
A voice behind Sarah made her jump, since she hadn’t known anyone else had come in. It was Lizette, the woman who had made Sarah’s lovely wedding dress. The energetic little sprite of a woman, not even five feet tall, had also begged Sarah to teach her how to use the steel comb to treat hair; by now, besides Lelia, Lizette was Sarah’s most successful student. Lizette worked as a chambermaid several days a week, sweetening her income with her dressmaking and hair-pressing. Sarah admired the young woman’s drive, wishing Lelia would strike up a better friendship with her. Lizette was only a year older than Lelia, but since Lizette never had time to visit the nickelodeons or go roller-skating in Lincoln Park, Lelia thought she was a bore.
“Why are you out here so early, Lizette?” Sarah said. Sarah knew that Lizette cleaned hotel rooms in the mornings, so she didn’t expect her to help her with hair customers until the afternoons, when she brought her young son in tow. The four-year-old boy, Reed, was with her now, clinging to his mother’s hand as he gnawed on a half-eaten apple.
Lizette had almond-shaped eyes that reminded Sarah of Anjetta’s, and they were shining brightly this morning. “Madam, I just have to give you a big ol’ hug,” the woman said, wrapping her arms around Sarah. She was so spirited, she nearly knocked Sarah off balance.
“What’s into you, Lizette?”
“You ain’t never gonna guess what I just finished doing this very minute!” Lizette’s face beamed with a smile as she inhaled a deep, satisfying breath. “I walked right to that hotel that’s been running me silly, and I told my boss man I wasn’t going to clean nary a room in my whole life ’cept in my own house. You should’ve seen that man’s face!”
Sarah knew Lizette was unhappy at her job, and she had confided that her boss sometimes tried to grab her and kiss her, as he’d apparently done with many of the colored women who worked for him. Lizette was afraid to tell her husband about the man’s advances because she was sure her husband would try to retaliate, which would be a disaster for her family.
“I figured it out last night after church, Madam! I been pressing heads in my kitchen after I leave from here, right? Well, I been pressin’ so many heads ’til I can make up for that cleaning money an’ still have some left over. That job wasn’t giving me nothing but botherment! When I’m pressing heads at home, I can watch my boy, too. An’ I still have time to sew.”
Lizette had been free to find her own hair customers as long as she used the Glossine and recommended the other Walker products to her customers. Sarah knew Lizette was making good money
with hair, but how could she already be earning enough to quit her job?
“Lizette … are you sure, child? That’s a mighty big change—”
“Madam, I even did the figures on paper. Like I done told my husband, I’m workin’ for my own self now!” Lizette said, patting her breastbone with her palm.
“Mama’s own self!” the boy repeated, mimicking his mother.
There was a pride shining from Lizette’s face Sarah couldn’t get out of her mind.
C.J. fell away from Sarah beneath their bedsheets, his slick chest heaving with his rapid breaths. “Lord have mercy…” he managed to say between pants. “Damn, I’m ’bout wore out. I thought you said you wanted to drop right to sleep, Sarah.”
Sarah closed her eyes, savoring her body’s thrilling to the memory of C.J.’s warm weight on top of her. She quivered, catching her breath. She saw beads of perspiration glistening on her naked chest before she covered herself. “I thought I did, too,” Sarah said.
C.J. pulled her against him, and they lay in silence for a moment in their moonlit bedroom, listening to each other’s slowing breaths. Sarah’s appetite for C.J.’s touch shocked her. She had nearly forgotten what it was like to make love to a man, but it was also different somehow; the years seemed to have made her responses deeper, as if her passions had been steeping all these years like a pot of tea.
C.J. laughed, and to her his laugh sounded like warm honey being poured on her from head to foot. “I ain’t complainin’, though,” C.J. said. “I better count my blessings. It’s fine with me if we forget to drop right off to sleep every night of the week.”
“I’m just tryin’ to keep you busy so you’ll forget your old habits, that’s all,” Sarah said, only halfway joking. She couldn’t help wondering if C.J. missed the female company he’d always had in such abundance before now. She could still hardly believe he was really hers.
The Black Rose Page 31
