The Black Rose

by Tananarive Due

  “Dr. Kennedy … will be good for Lelia, won’t he?” Sarah said.

  “Oh, yes. He’s a very accomplished young man.”

  “And … you and Mr. Ransom will keep her out of trouble, won’t you?”

  “You know we’ll always do our best, Madam.” Lottie’s eyes shone.

  Sarah nodded, testing her emotions. She’d expected to feel more afraid when she came right out and admitted she was dying. But instead, since there was nothing else to do or change, the idea filled her with a strange calm. She relaxed, letting her head sink back into the pillow. As soon as she did, the bedroom door burst open, startling her because everyone usually trod so gently and quietly in her presence now. She looked up and saw the blurry figure of Lou lumbering toward her.

  “Sarah, those nieces we got are ’bout the dullest bunch of folk anyone could stand,” Lou said, exasperated. “Girl, I’m goin’ out my head in this place, an’ I git lost jus’ goin’ to my room an’ the kitchen an’ back—not that you got any food I like to eat. I know why you’re sick, Sarah, ’cause you’re bored. Now, let’s get Nettie in here and all of us play some whist.”

  Lottie’s mouth dropped open. “Whist! Most certainly not, Mrs. Powell. You—”

  But Sarah laughed softly. Lou was contrary as always, but she had a point. If Lelia had been here, she might have said the same thing.

  “She’s right, Lottie,” Sarah rasped. “I may not make it to Paris, but I still know how to play me some cards. Go make sure Dr. Kennedy is comfortable in his room, and tell him I’ll talk to him more about Lelia tomorrow. Don’t let on we’re in here playing, and please don’t say anything to Dr. Ward. Now hurry up and bring Nettie in here. You’ll have to be on my team, Lottie, because I won’t be able to see a single card face.”

  Lottie stood stock-still for a moment. Then, only vaguely, Sarah saw her grin. “Yes, Madam!” Lottie said, sounding happy for the first time since Sarah’s collapse.

  With the bedroom door firmly closed to keep out intruders and physicians, and the window open to let in the spring breeze, the four women played cards all afternoon at Sarah’s bedside between fits of irreverent laughter. The organ downstairs played without a flaw, and none of them paid any mind to the ringing telephone.

  Sarah figured if she didn’t live another day, she was having one last day worth living for.

  Epilogue

  MAY 30, 1919

  Madam C.J. Walker’s life was the clearest demonstration I know of a Negro woman’s ability recorded in history. She has gone, but her work still lives and shall live as an inspiration to not only her race, but to the world.

  —MARY MCLEOD BETHUNE

  There was so much traffic, the Irvington village police chief himself was posted in the middle of the road on Broadway, outside stately Villa Lewaro. He directed the cavalcade of cars and large autobuses while birds chirped merrily in the trees on that sunny afternoon, but the birdsong was the only merriment as perfectly groomed men and women in muted mourning colors filed past him for the funeral of Madam C.J. Walker. The police chief was keeping a tally of people in his head with mounting disbelief: First there had been two hundred, then three hundred, then four hundred. And that had been an hour ago. Now, he realized, the number of arrivals must have reached one thousand, and most of them were Negroes. He had never seen so many Negroes in his life, and certainly not like this: erect, self-possessed, dignified. Although lines of sadness creased their faces, their manner bespoke a roiling sense of purpose. As long as he lived, he never forgot the sight of them.

  It was Friday, and Sarah had died on Sunday after spending three days in a coma. Her nurse said that Sarah’s final coherent words had been that she wanted to live to help her race.

  Inside the grand mansion, the grief was so pervasive it seemed to have its own breath, despite the explosion of springtime colors in the flower arrangements lining every inch of the living room walls. Women clad in white, representing the Motor Corps of America, helped usher the attendees as the crowd inside swelled. Where so recently the halls had been filled with laughter and celebration, Villa Lewaro had become a cheerless shrine, suddenly robbed of its hostess. The guests greeted each other with heartfelt handshakes and lingering, silent hugs. They passed their hushed recollections back and forth like precious trinkets.

  “I was just here for her Christmas party, and I never imagined I’d be back like this… .”

  “I saw her not even a month ago, over in Indianapolis… .”

  “We had dinner in March, and I knew she wasn’t well, but she was so lively… . .”

  Fifty-one years old. The mantra came from all their lips, adding further confusion to the sudden turn of events. Madam C.J. Walker, as most of them knew her—or Sarah Breedlove, as a select few of them did—had died when she should have had so many useful years ahead. Losing her was tragedy enough, but to lose her so soon … And there was another pained whisper, a pervasive hope that flowed through the mourners: Has A’Lelia made it back yet?

  A’Lelia and her daughter, Mae, were probably still at sea, they had been told. A’Lelia had learned of her mother’s death on an ocean liner on its way back to the United States from Panama, but there had been no more word of her arrival. Each time the massive doors opened to let in new mourners, heads swiveled in search of A’Lelia’s face. As more time passed, it grew more and more likely that A’Lelia would miss her own mother’s funeral.

  Another sadness, when there was already so much.

  Lottie Ransaw, in the same dreamy haze she’d been in since Madam first collapsed in St. Louis, wove her way through the mourners to go to the organ her employer had loved so much. She did not glance inside the open bronze casket gleaming in the center of the drawing room because she had already had too long to study the vacant face of the lifeless woman who now had a wreath of orchids across her still breast; she resembled Madam, but that was only her body, after all. Instead Lottie’s fingers settled across the organ’s keys, sure and ready. After a deep breath she began to play, and the music gave her relief. Lottie knew Madam must be watching her from above with a smile: She was playing Communion in G, one of Madam’s favorite pieces. Lottie smiled a little bit herself as the organ’s majestic notes flowed throughout the house. It was the first time she had smiled in days.

  Freeman Ransom heard the music, and he smiled a bittersweet smile, too, from where he stood on the marble staircase, holding his son Frankie’s hand. That music was worthy of a queen, he thought, and Sarah Walker had been just that. Gazing at the gathered mourners, he couldn’t help thinking of Booker T. Washington’s funeral four years ago, when dignitaries and simple folk alike had poured onto the Tuskegee campus to bury the great leader. That had been a sad day for him, but also a proud day; and his pride swelled even more today, outpacing his sadness. Death was never easy—the Wards, who were here, had lost their only son last year, and it rocked that poor family to its core—but losses forced such simple, powerful reflection on how valuable the life of the loved one had been.

  All Ransom had to do was look out at the faces here today to feel Madam C.J. Walker’s lasting value in a way he never had before. Just last night, consoling each other, he and Nettie had marveled at how lucky they had been to know her. She had been a true race woman, a woman who had had a role in delivering her people from slavery’s legacy as surely as Harriet Tubman or Sojourner Truth, and he hoped his children, and their children after that, would grow up to follow her example. God had seen fit to bring her into his life when he was a train porter, and now He had seen fit to set her free. The awfulness of losing her only made his luck, and his gratitude, feel that much more keen.

  “Daddy …” young Frankie whispered up to him. “Is Ma Walkie gone now?” He’d been very concerned about the moment when she would be buried, when her body would be gone.

  Slowly Ransom shook his head and gazed down at his son. “Not at all. There’s a piece of your godmother inside every person in this room.”

  The funeral h
ad begun with the reading of the twenty-third Psalm, and after Lottie finished playing Communion in G, the telegrams of well-wishers from all corners were read, including those from Mrs. Booker T. Washington; Robert Russa Moton, the new principal of Tuskegee Institute; and Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune. Then J. Rosamond Johnson graced the room with an original song he’d written on the occasion of Madam’s passing, “Since You Went Away,” and his sweet voice caused a flurry of white handkerchiefs as the mourners were brought to fresh tears. There was a long, reverent silence after he finished. Then Reverend Adam Clayton Powell walked forward to begin his scheduled remarks.

  Sadie Jackson was among the mourners, sitting near the rear, with a contingent of other Walker culturists and agents who had made the trip to the funeral. A woman named Lizette Simons, who had apparently known “Madam Sarah” since she lived in Denver, sat beside Sadie with a lanky young man she’d introduced as her son. They had briefly exchanged proud motherhood stories before the services began; Sadie’s sons had both graduated from college, and one was now a lawyer. And Lizette’s son was in his second year at Howard University, studying pharmacy. What was most obvious need not be stated between them: They had both financed their children’s education through money they’d made as Walker culturists. Sarah, in following her own dream, had helped them secure their families’ future generations.

  But that wasn’t the real reason Sadie had come to the funeral. She’d come because of the letter she still carried in her hand, and she glanced at it every few moments so she could feel a sense of communion with her friend. Please come say a few words about me when I’m gone, Sarah had written her in a letter, which had arrived the same day her death was announced in the newspapers. You may know me best of all.

  Now, after watching the pomp and circumstance of this opulent funeral, Sadie knew exactly what her friend had meant in her letter. She and Sarah had grown so far apart in the last few years, Sadie could barely remember when they’d last shared a quiet evening together, but theirs wasn’t the sort of friendship that needed constant tending. Their friendship had been sealed long ago, and nothing in the past few years could have faded it.

  A man named Reverend Brooks was delivering a sweeping eulogy, but Sadie barely heard it because of the pounding of her heart. She’d done very well for herself in business—she owned two Walker beauty parlors in Pittsburgh, and she was thinking about opening a third—but she had never cared for the social circles that seemed to accompany success. She hadn’t come up that way, and she’d never yearned for acceptance in those circles the way Sarah always had. She’d congratulated Sarah when she moved into her mansion, but she would have felt out of place at its official opening, and she’d declined Sarah’s invitation. So today Sadie felt pangs of discomfort as she realized she was about to be called on to address this impressive roomful of folks. She hadn’t been able to think of a speech to put on paper, and what could she add to so much praise about how important Sarah had been to the race?

  Sadie decided just to stand up and speak whatever came to her mind. That was what Sarah would want, she thought. In fact, she knew that was exactly what Sarah would do.

  Sadie’s heart thumped when she heard her name called. Lizette squeezed her hand, and Sadie began to walk to the head of the room as all of the faces watched her, wondering who she was. She wasn’t wearing any finery today; instead, she was dressed exactly as Sarah had always urged her representatives, in a white blouse and simple skirt, a uniform she was proud of.

  “Afternoon, y’all,” Sadie greeted the group nervously. “My name is Sadie Jackson, and I’m nobody special. I knew Sarah Breedlove McWilliams Walker before she was special to anybody except her friends. We used to wash clothes together in St. Louis, right in her yard, back when she used to count her little pennies in a mason jar.” Sadie took a deep breath, fighting a stone in her throat from the sudden vivid memory of her friend’s face.

  “In some ways, it hardly seems real for me to be standing here in Sarah’s big grand house with all the newspapers talking about her passing, and with all you folks come to honor her. But then I guess I just always expected it somehow. Sarah had a belief all along, you see, that she could do whatever she put a mind to. And if you knew Sarah like I did, you know she had a strong mind—not just smart, which she was, but ornery, too. It could be raining buckets outside, but if Sarah thought it was sunny, you couldn’t say a word to change her mind.”

  At that many people in the room laughed aloud, even as they dabbed their eyes.

  “Sarah liked what she liked, too. She liked that pork, one thing. No matter how much money Sarah had, she was never too proud to find some pigs’ feet. And she loved to work. She didn’t always love the work she was doing, I can tell you that, but she had something inside of her that made her want to do her best. And that was all she ever tried to give anybody—her best. When she gave her best, it made you want to give your best. That was all her company was supposed to stand for, to my thinking; she was giving her best, and she expected the same from all of us. She cared about how we looked to the outside world, because she saw something beautiful in us. She told me once she had a dream about a field of black roses—and I think Sarah was really just a gardener. That’s how she saw herself. She was trying to get those roses to grow.”

  Sadie paused, rocking on her heels. She felt a growing sense of serenity as she spoke about her friend. “Do I think Sarah would have wanted to live a few more years? Well, I guess we all would. But even though I wasn’t here at the end, I think I know what was in Sarah’s mind. There was one day back in St. Louis, we were all sitting around the kitchen table, reading the newspaper—I think, in fact, Sarah had just put on a pot of coffee—and we came across an article about Plessy versus Ferguson and separate but equal, and we all talked about how there didn’t seem to be a good future ahead for Negroes. It’s the only time I ever saw Sarah look scared a day in her life. But I can tell you one thing… .”

  Sadie paused, gazing at Lizette in her white hat and lovely dress, and her tall son beside her, and F.B. Ransom on the stairs with his young son on his arm, and the scores of other women who represented Sarah’s company, as well as the dignitaries who had come to honor her. Somewhere a baby was crying—and Sadie guessed it was the infant she’d seen that someone told her was named A’Lelia. So A’Lelia was here today after all, wasn’t she?

  “Sarah wasn’t scared anymore,” Sadie went on. “We may still be in some dark days, but the future is right in this room, and she knew it. I think if she was standing here, she’d see all these sad faces and say, ‘Y’all just hush. There ain’t nothin’ to be cryin’ about. This room was built for dancing, not cryin’. I’ve worked hard, and my work is done. I saw my roses grow.’ ”

  For years afterward, those who heard Sadie speak that day would tell her she’d looked and sounded so much like Sarah at the funeral that they had wondered in their hearts if it wasn’t possible that Madam C.J. Walker had come back to life.

  Sadie never believed her friend had left at all.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Historical note: A’Lelia Walker Robinson reached home the day after her mother’s funeral; she privately visited the Woodlawn Cemetery vault where her mother’s casket had been kept for her. Almost immediately, A’Lelia married not Dr. Kennedy, but Dr. Wiley Wilson. She soon divorced Dr. Wilson and married Dr. Kennedy, but they, too, divorced in a short time.

  A’Lelia, who was instrumental in the construction of the historic Walker Theatre, still located in Indianapolis, became one of the most visible personalities of the Harlem Renaissance. She was known for her literary salon, called Dark Tower, where she entertained figures such as poets Countee Cullen and Langston Hughes. Hughes wrote a poem for her, “To A’Lelia.” She died at the age of forty-six in 1931. There were 11,000 mourners at her funeral.

  Soon after Madam C.J. Walker died, her former husband, C.J., wrote to F.B. Ransom to ask whether or not he was listed in her will. Mr. Ransom told C.J. he recalled heari
ng Madam say that she intended to include C.J. in the will—but apparently she did not. F.B. Ransom’s parting line to C.J.: “You, I think, will admit, however, that whatever you lost, you have no one to blame but yourself for it.”

  The Madam C.J. Walker Manufacturing Company thrived for decades after her death, celebrating its sixtieth anniversary in 1960. F.B. Ransom was general manager until his death in 1947. Madam Walker’s adopted granddaughter, Mae Bryant Perry, eventually served as company president, as did F.B. Ransom’s daughter, A’Lelia Emma Ransom Nelson.

  I have tried to be faithful to the spirit of Madam C.J. Walker in this book, but The Black Rose is a work of fiction. Aspects of Madam’s life have been presented slightly out of sequence or fictionalized, including the creation of composite characters like Lottie Ransaw. Ultimately, no one knows how Madam devised her modification of the steel comb or created her hair formula. She consistently said in interviews and advertisements that the formula came in a dream, which might well be true. One source interviewed for this book believed that a St. Louis physician had given her the formula, and that could also be true. In fact, her secret was so well kept that I do not even know what her hair formula was, except that it probably contained sulfur.

  The interviews, documents, and publications included in the boxes of research I received from the Alex Haley Estate are too numerous to mention, but they were invaluable in the writing of this book. Here are a few additional titles I discovered that were helpful:

  Madam C.J. Walker, by A’Lelia Perry Bundles; Slave Songs of the United States, edited by William Francis Allen, Charles Pickard Ware, and Lucy McKim Garrison; Booker T. Washington: The Wizard of Tuskegee, 1901–1915, by Louis R. Harlan; Aristocrats of Color: The Black Elite, 1880–1920, by Willard B. Gatewood; To ’Joy My Freedom: Southern Black Women’s Lives and Labors After the Civil War, by Tera W. Hunter; Stolen Childhood: Slave Youth in Nineteenth-Century America, by Wilma King; Ain’t but a Place: An Anthology of African American Writings About St. Louis, edited by Gerald Early; When Harlem Was in Vogue, by David Levering Lewis; The Great Cyclone at St. Louis and East St. Louis, May 27, 1896, compiled and edited by Julian Curzon; The World Came to St. Louis: A Visit to the 1904 World’s Fair, by Dorothy Daniels Birk; Paths of Resistance: Tradition and Dignity in Industrializing Missouri, by David P. Thelen; Victorian America: Transformations in Everyday Life, 1876–1915, by Thomas J. Schlereth; and Africana: The Encyclopedia of the African and African American Experience, edited by Kwame Anthony Appiah and Henry Louis Gates Jr.