Later that evening, after dressing for the planned dinner with her family at a local colored eating house called Gray’s to celebrate the company’s incorporation, Sarah stepped into the long hallway outside of her bedroom and saw C.J. and Lelia standing at the far end of the hall. They were nearly hidden in the shadows, but Sarah could tell there was something adversarial about their stance as they faced each other, so much so that she was startled. She ducked back into the doorway. The nervous feeling was back; her stomach felt tight.
“Well, it’s done now,” Sarah heard Lelia say. But she didn’t sound happy.
“Yep, it’s done.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, C.J. Walker,” Lelia said in a hard voice Sarah had almost never heard from her daughter, “you may be on the board of directors, because that’s what Mama wanted, but you wouldn’t have been if it was up to me.” The brashness of her words took Sarah aback.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss A’Lelia. But I don’t suppose it’d do much good for me to care too much ’bout what a spoiled li’l gal like you thinks of me. ’Specially since you don’t mind none what the rest of the folks in this town think of you.”
What in the world … ? Sarah thought. She knew C.J. and Lelia weren’t close, but she hadn’t realized so much open animosity had grown between them. It was as if she’d stepped backstage at a play production, catching a glimpse of actors who had taken off their costumes.
“If you keep trying to do the same mess like before, you better be concerned,” Lelia said. “If I were you, I’d be real concerned. And you can take that exactly the way it sounds.”
“Is that so?” The ugly sarcasm Sarah hated had returned to C.J.’s voice. “Yeah, maybe I should be downright scared of you, huh, A’Lelia? John Robinson must’ve been plenty scared of you, too, the way he lit out so quick. I figger he was just scared you’d shame him by drinkin’ him under the ta—”
C.J. was cut off by a sharp snapping sound, flesh on flesh. Sarah knew her daughter must have just slapped C.J.’s face, and she didn’t blame her. Shocked, Sarah raised both hands to her mouth, but she couldn’t move otherwise. Her heart was thudding against her chest with something like real horror. What would make them say such hurtful things to each other? Sarah was outraged for both of them, and mortified. Lelia must be trying to protect her from something, or she would have confided what was troubling her about C.J. But what?
“You’re one to talk about drinking,” Lelia hissed, barely audible to Sarah. “And I wouldn’t worry so much about my marriage if I were you. You best start worrying about yours. If something goes wrong with you and Mama, you just wait and see. The only time you’ll set foot in a house like this again will be if someone hires you to come take out the trash.”
Go out there right now and put a stop to this, Sarah told herself, her heart withering inside her. Ask them to tell you what you don’t know. Tears of frustration and disgust welled in Sarah’s eyes, but she couldn’t make herself move from her hiding place.
If you keep trying to do that same mess like before, Lelia had said to C.J. Did that mean whatever she was talking about was over? Yes, it had to be! Maybe C.J. had taken a mistress in the months they’d been apart. Well, he was a man, wasn’t he? Had she expected him to be a monk all the time she was away? She and C.J. were finally together, and with all they had to share now, what more could any man want? And once Lelia was away from her unseemly crowd in Indianapolis, with new responsibilities in Pittsburgh, she’d be forced to go back to her sober ways. She’d have to!
Sarah repeated those words to herself over and over, until she thought she believed them.
Chapter Twenty-eight
TUSKEGEE, ALABAMA
JANUARY 1912
(FOUR MONTHS LATER)
To Sarah, the new year was off to an unforgettable and promising start.
She’d heard wonderful things about Dr. Booker T. Washington’s Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute since he became principal of the Negro school in the 1880s; only six years back, in 1906, she’d read that President Roosevelt himself had attended the school’s twenty-fifth anniversary celebration. Now, she, C.J., and Lottie were walking on the very grounds of the campus in Alabama’s nippy winter air, past hilly acres of school buildings and majestic halls. Compared to the worn-down mansions nearby and the faded, bedraggled little town that shared its name, the school looked like a bustling city. There must be more than a hundred buildings, or even twice that! Sarah had decided to attend Tuskegee’s annual Farmers’ Conference to do hair demonstrations and recruit agents, and she was sorry she’d never come before now. Hundreds of farmers, ministers, teachers, and other tradesmen came to the conference each year to discuss practical ways to elevate the race, and Sarah planned to let everyone know colored women could elevate themselves by learning a wellpaying trade as hair culturists.
“You’ll find this hard to believe, Madam,” Lottie said as they walked past a large building marked Andrew Carnegie Hall, “but I understand that Mr. Carnegie gave Dr. Washington a $600,000 contribution in oh three. Mr. Carnegie called Dr. Washington a ‘modern Moses.’ ”
“Moses, huh? Does that mean Carnegie thinks he’s God?” C.J. muttered.
“No, it sounds more like he thinks he’s a good friend, C.J.,” Sarah said, thinking to herself, And that’s the kind of friend I’d like to be someday. She’d donated $1,000 to the building fund for Indianapolis’s colored YMCA in October—if only there were an association for colored girls, too!—which had caused a stir in the press because no one could imagine that a colored woman could afford such a grand contribution. She would keep her word and make the payments, of course, but she’d had to measure them out; her company was worth $25,000, but she didn’t yet have so much money that she could write out a thousand-dollar check without a blink. C.J. and Mr. Ransom thought the YMCA publicity was good for the company, but other “begging letters,” as Sarah called them, were already pouring in. So many people in need!
What would she do if she could give money to anyone she chose?
Gazing at the Tuskegee campus, Sarah saw male and female students who were younger than Lelia wandering on the pathways, and others who were much older. They were studying subjects they could use to support their families, like mattress making, typesetting, horticulture, farming, masonry, blacksmithing, and sick care. Tuskegee students, she had learned, built furniture, carriages, and structures on the campus. And the students weren’t all American Negroes, she noticed; some looked Chinese, others were East Indian, and the colorful costumes on some of the Negroes made Sarah think they must be from Africa. Students sought out this school from all over the world! Lottie had told Sarah that Up from Slavery had been translated into Zulu, Chinese, and other languages, so Dr. Washington’s story was inspiring people worldwide.
Looking at them, Sarah vowed she’d give money toward education whenever she could. Lottie was a godsend in her life, but Sarah was fortyfour years old, and learning was so much more of a chore than it would have been when she was younger. If only she and her parents could have gone to a school like Tuskegee …
As they walked into the Farmers’ Conference meeting hall, Sarah was no less excited than she had been in St. Louis eight years before, when she’d gone to hear Dr. Washington at the World’s Fair. But there was a difference this time, she noticed; the atmosphere was much more informal, and Dr. Washington was already greeting people in his simple gray wool suit and black bow tie as they walked through the door. Sarah couldn’t believe how close she was standing to him. He was much more pale-skinned than she’d remembered, his skin a fainter brown than C.J.’s, and he wasn’t much taller than she was. But she could already hear the rumbling of his voice and see his exuberant smile. Suddenly his eyes were on her. “Welcome to Tuskegee, ma’am,” he said.
Sarah nearly forgot her words, but she thrust her hand out to him. “D-Dr. Washington, my husband and I are here representing the Madam C.J. Walker Manufacturing Company of Indianapolis, a
nd we’re here to do hair demonstrations—”
Sarah thought she recognized a slight flicker of impatience cross the educator’s face, but his smile didn’t waver. “God bless,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Thank you so much.”
There were many others waiting behind her, and Sarah felt the crowd surging forward slightly; others had come a long way for a chance to talk to Dr. Washington, too. Before Sarah knew it, he had stepped aside to greet someone else.
“You talked to him, Madam!” Lottie whispered, excited.
Yes, she had talked to him, but Sarah felt disappointment along with her giddiness. She’d wanted him to know what she was doing, that she’d come from meager beginnings just as he had, that she shared his passion for education. To him, she was just a stranger’s face in a crowd.
“You talked to him, all right. You were ’bout to talk his ear off, Sarah,” C.J. told her. “Shoot, the man was just sayin’ hello. You can’t expect to stand and have a conversation.”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder, and Dr. Washington vanished inside the crowd of farmers dressed in drab suits and hats, probably the best they owned. For the first time in a long time, Sarah felt overdressed in her white, lacy shirtwaist and blue skirt. Here was a man who had dined with President Roosevelt and was consulted by President Taft on matters of race—though neither man was a true friend to the Negro, as far as Sarah was concerned, Taft even less than Roosevelt—and he apparently felt right at home in the midst of poor farmers.
But Sarah didn’t know how much Dr. Washington felt at home until he walked to the podium. As he stood there before them, instead of opening the meeting with grand words as he had at the World’s Fair, he simply began to hum. His throaty humming was the only sound in the hall, and the melody surrounded them, filling up the room.
Then Sarah recognized the song. She hadn’t heard it since her parents sang it in the cotton fields, moving slowly through the rows. Sarah could almost hear her papa’s voice:
There is a balm in Gilead,
To make the wounded whole,
There is a balm in Gilead,
To heal the sin-sick soul.
Sometimes I feel discouraged,
And think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again!
Soon other people in the room began to sing, and the hall became a chorus of rough, happy voices. Suddenly, her toes tingling, Sarah had never felt more at home herself.
Mrs. Dora Larrie. The woman had introduced herself to Sarah personally before the demonstration began, but it hadn’t been necessary. Sarah would have noticed her regardless, the way she always noticed the most promising women who came to her. Fire, that was what Mrs. Larrie had. Sarah had seen it in Lottie, too; these women were so eager to change their lives, nearly desperate, that they would take up their new trade with the enthusiasm of converts to a religion. Mrs. Dora Larrie had that fire.
She was a tall young woman, about thirty, and Sarah liked the way she presented herself; her hair was neatly pinned, her clothes were modest despite her ample bustline, and she had a naturally pretty face, angular and bright-eyed. She looked exactly like one of those high-yellow women at the church picnic in St. Louis who’d turned their noses up at her, and Sarah couldn’t help feeling a small glow of satisfaction that she’d come to her to learn.
The room assigned to Sarah was a cooking classroom, apparently, because it had a wood-burning cooking stove that she guessed was also used for heating. C.J. had lit a fire for her while Sarah selected one of the twenty-five women in the classroom to demonstrate her pressing comb. Dutifully, Lottie passed out yellow advertisements they had printed up about the company for their trip to the South, with testimonials from hair customers and agents from all over the country.
“As you’ll see,” Sarah said to the women, holding up her steel comb, “it’s best to use two combs. In this way, one will heat while the other is in use, which will save you and your customers time. Efficiency is another watchword of the Walker method.”
The women nodded, watching closely while Sarah parted her subject’s hair; the woman was the wife of a farmer who had come to the demonstration purely out of curiosity, and Sarah had chosen her because she liked the natural length of her hair, which had been tied into two big braids. Sarah had already washed her hair and dried it carefully with towels, and now it was time to press. The results would be impressive, Sarah thought.
“Madam C.J. Walker’s Glossine is a very important part of this process,” Sarah said, as C.J. helpfully handed her an open jar of the pressing oil. “I’ve been told that some Walker culturists are substituting Vaseline and other products, but while that may save a few pennies, it is not in the best interests of your customer. Now, you place a small amount of Glossine with the index or middle finger of the right hand, using the fingertip along the part. You must apply the Glossine to both sides of the part… .”
Then Sarah asked the women to stand up and gather around her the best they could, because she wanted them to have a closer view of her work. The woman in her chair smiled, glad to be the center of so much attention. “You hold the comb in the right hand, like so, and a small portion of the hair between the thumb and first two fingers of the left hand. The teeth of the comb should be placed as close to the scalp as possible without touching it, and then turned so that the teeth face straight up. Pull the comb toward you, feeding hair through the fingertips to the very end of each strand. Then you pick up the same hair, insert the comb from the other side, and press downward. It’s in this downward pressure, ladies, that you will get the desired result… .”
Mrs. Larrie raised her hand often, asking questions about the products. Sarah liked her persistence and her perceptiveness.
“Do you live right here in Tuskegee, Mrs. Larrie?”
“Yes, Madam,” the woman said. “I’m from Indianapolis, but I live here now.”
“Well, it sounds to me like you should be my first Tuskegee agent.”
“Oh, yes, Madam, I sure would like that!” the woman said, her face flushed with excitement.
Some time later, Sarah noticed a regally dressed woman standing in her doorway, and she nearly lost her train of thought. It was Margaret Murray Washington, Dr. Washington’s wife! Mrs. Washington smiled at her and nodded, and Sarah returned the gesture, feeling a rush of pleasure. Discreetly, Mrs. Washington motioned for Lottie to come to her. Sarah watched the two women talking quietly in the doorway. Lottie nodding as she listened, smiling widely. Then, just as quickly as she’d appeared, Mrs. Washington was gone.
Lottie walked up to Sarah and whispered the message: “She’s having tea with a few ladies in a few minutes, and she would like you to come. One of Tuskegee’s instructors, Dr. George Washington Carver, may also be there… .”
Sarah’s heart leaped. She’d been invited to tea with Mrs. Washington! But how could she leave? Even though she’d nearly finished pressing her subject’s head, she still needed time to talk to Dora Larrie about everything she would need to know about becoming a Walker agent. Sarah might need another half hour or more before she could even think of leaving.
C.J., who was standing close enough to have heard Lottie’s words, also knew exactly what Sarah was thinking. He scribbled a note to her: Go have your tea. That’s not my liking, as you know. I’ll see to the agent’s needs.
Sarah smiled at C.J., believing this must be one of the luckiest days of her life.
Chapter Twenty-nine
CHICAGO
AUGUST 1912
(SEVEN MONTHS LATER)
Sarah sweltered in the hard wooden pew of Dearborn Street’s Institutional Church, which was a challenge to her stiff back. The National Negro Business League Convention had rolled on for two days of meetings, lectures, and debates. If C.J. were here, she thought, he would lean over and whisper his old joke, Well, you know heat gathers wherever there’s colored folks in numbers.
She started to smile, but the smile itself bro
ught discomfort. C.J. wasn’t here, and she wasn’t in the mood to consider the whys and wherefores of that. Not now.
It wasn’t yet ten in the morning, and even this airy, grand structure with seating for hundreds was no sanctuary from the weight of the August sun outside. The room flurried with hand fans as the delegates tried to cool themselves. Sarah already felt the first prickles of moisture beneath her armpits, and she hoped she’d dusted her body with enough talcum powder under her velvet floor-length suit. The suit was businesslike, but too heavy for this oppressive weather. Still, heat or no heat, she wasn’t going to take off her waist-length jacket or loosen the lace collar around her neck. Today was a special day. She would endure.
Sarah had attended the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs in Virginia last month, where she’d met Madam Mary McLeod Bethune, a dynamic and fiercely intelligent woman Sarah was quite certain would become a friend; Sarah had been so impressed with her that she’d vowed to lead a fund-raising campaign for Madam Bethune’s school in Daytona. But this was the first time Sarah had attended a national meeting dedicated entirely to Negroes in business. Sarah’s ears were filled with the hum of activity she’d come to expect at this NNBL event as delegates exchanged anecdotes, strategies, and solutions. These men were from all over the country, and Sarah could feel their expertise crackling in the air.
“Tell you what, though, if you start out with enough capital …”
“If I could find someone to map me out an advertising plan …”
“… already seen what motorcars might mean to the future of blacksmithing …”
But Sarah felt slightly wistful: thus far, she was only a spectator. This was a club she didn’t belong to—not yet, anyway. The only delegate she knew was George L. Knox from the Indianapolis Freeman, who had promised to introduce her today, and he had yet to arrive for this morning’s session. As they had for the past two days, she and Lottie sat alone near the back of the church, simply listening to what was going on around them. Lottie had discreetly distributed yellow Walker Company advertisements throughout the pews on the session’s opening day, but for once Sarah didn’t have her demonstration kit with her; she was here to learn, not sell. Today she would be invisible until it was her time to speak.
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