The Black Rose (37 page)

“Why don’t you let me show you instead?” Sarah said.

Sarah traveled to a new church with C.J. on Sundays as often as she could; each week, as his testimony sounded more and more repentant, the crowds around Sarah grew. Soon she had to keep an appointment book for all the ladies who wanted her to press their hair, and she and her nieces had to work diligently in the kitchen to keep up with the orders for her Wonderful Hair Grower. Most of her new churchgoing customers confessed they’d been intrigued not only because of Sarah’s lovely hair, but because the formula had come to her in a dream.

Remembering her long-ago dream about the African man who gave her a black rose, Sarah began to wonder if there was any chance she might have really dreamed her formula, just like C.J. said. She’d woken up from a dead sleep when she got the idea to use sulfur, hadn’t she? She often got her best ideas when she was trying to sleep, or when she first woke up in the mornings. Maybe the sulfur had been part of a dream, too.

The longer Sarah heard herself repeating the story about God’s whispers in her ear, the more she believed it herself.

Chapter Twenty-one

As she slapped a cooling carrot cake with the last of her homemade cream-cheese icing, Sarah saw a shadow stretch across the table in the bright light from the electric lamps in the Scholtzes’ roomy kitchen. Sarah’s mind had been firing off lists of things she needed to do when she finished her hair appointment immediately after work, but she brought her full attention back to the cake when she realized someone was watching her. She was being too sloppy. She was so tired, she’d hardly been able to keep her eyes open while she waited for the cake to finish baking in the gas-powered oven.

“What’s this? Cake again?” Mr. Scholtz’s voice grumbled from behind her. “I’m convinced of it now, Sarah: You’re on a mission to make me outgrow my entire suit of clothes.” Then he laughed ruefully and sat down at the kitchen table near Sarah, opening his
Denver Post
.

“I guess you’ve found me out at last, Mr. Scholtz.”

He ruffled the newspaper page as he read. “This Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity … the more I hear about it, the less I know what to make of it,” Mr. Scholtz said. “The man’s either a genius or a fool, and I’m not qualified to say which. What’s the use of it? But I suppose it’s all progress, like the Curies, or the Wright brothers and their flying machines.”

“You wouldn’t get me up in one o’ them heavier-than-air planes,” Sarah said.

“Yes, it’s hardly natural, men flying in the air,” Mr. Scholtz said, and went on reading. “Ah … now, look at all this talk about immigration! You know what, Sarah? I don’t give a hoot if there
were
more than a million immigrants to this country last year, or how many more are coming. Don’t we all come here from immigrants?”

“In a way of speakin’,” Sarah said, although she would have liked to point out that Negro slaves could hardly be called immigrants. “Wasn’t anybody here at first but the Indians.”

“Exactly! So why shouldn’t new immigrants have the same chances our parents did? This is a big country, with room enough for everyone. One thing’s certain, without immigrant labor, big business would …” He stopped and sighed. “Ah, well, that’s just business talk. I won’t bore you with that, Sarah.”

Mr. Scholtz spent long hours with his brother at their pharmacy and often came home too late to eat dinner with the rest of his family, so Sarah saw him only rarely. But every so often, whenever he did speak to her, she was grateful that he didn’t lord himself over her the way some of her other employers had, both white and colored. It was as though Mr. Scholtz did not see skin color, like the French woman in St. Louis who had given her the steel comb.

“I like to know what’s goin’ on in the world, Mr. Scholtz,” Sarah said.

Mr. Scholtz gazed at her over the top of his reading spectacles. “You’re not fooling anyone, I hope you know. Least of all me.” His voice, this time, was more somber. “You’re no cook, Sarah McWilliams. That’s for certain.”

“Sir … ?” Sarah said, troubled.

Mr. Scholtz waved his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve no complaints. But what I said is true just the same. You’re no cook. Now tell me the truth. Who are you really?”

Relief floated inside Sarah’s chest. Sarah knew from experience that, in time, long-term domestics often became woven inside the families of their employers, but their own personal lives were considered irrelevant, as if they existed only to serve the people they worked for. Their own families, their church involvement, and their troubles were a secret life, and whites seemed to like that just fine. Sarah had worked for people for years who knew no more about her than the Man in the Moon. Mr. Scholtz seemed to want to know more.

“I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Scholtz,” Sarah said. She’d been waiting for the right time to talk to the respected pharmacist about her hair formula, and maybe she’d found it at last.

Mr. Scholtz’s eyes glimmered with what might have been amusement. “A businesswoman, eh? An entrepreneur? What kind of business would you be in?”

“I make a hair formula for colored women that grows hair. I’ve used it on myself, an’ now me an’ my partner’s gonna expand to a mail-order business. We’re buildin’ up our customer base here in Denver, trying to get more exposure and recognition.” Sarah’s business class in St. Louis, along with C.J.’s coaching in business terms, flowed easily from her lips by now. “Until that happens, I’m a cook. Supplies cost money, you see, so I need the income.”

Mr. Scholtz couldn’t hide his surprise. His lips were pinched into an
O
, and he stared at Sarah as if he had never seen her before.
He prob’ly ain’t
heard no colored woman talk to him like that,
Sarah thought.
Maybe no
woman at all
.

Slowly the pharmacist took off his spectacles and rested them on the table. Then he ran his fingers through his tufts of graying hair. She wondered when he had started out, and how long it had taken him to build his company. She would ask him one day soon, she knew. She had a chance to learn about business from someone who might be one of the most successful entrepreneurs she would ever meet. “This invention … how did you—” Mr. Scholtz began.

“I dreamed some of it. The rest was trial and error.”

“And the formula … do you mind if I ask … ?”

Here, Sarah paused. She hadn’t discussed her secret ingredient with even C.J., and he had never pressured her to tell him. Should she trust this stranger?
He’s a chemist, girl! He can show you how to make it even better
, a voice inside her trilled. Then a glummer voice spoke up:
Yeah, or else he
could steal it
.

Mr. Scholtz noticed her hesitation. “You don’t have to say. I only thought I might …”

“Sulfur,” Sarah said, after taking a deep breath. “There’s other ingredients, too, but I think the one that works best is sulfur.” Her heart was pounding, and suddenly her fingers didn’t feel quite steady. Would a man of science think she was a fraud?

Mr. Scholtz gazed at her, blinking. “That’s good, Sarah,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair. The surprise had left his face, giving way to admiration. “Of course! Yes, with the poor nutrition and unhealthy scalps, sulfur could very well make the scalp healthier, encourage the hair to grow. I dispense sulfur soap for skin problems, and the powder is wonderful for injuries. And you sell this to grow hair! What else do you sell?”

So Sarah told him about her pressing comb and the lighter oil she was developing, made with petrolatum, to help the comb make hair less kinky. He listened with great interest, his palm flattened against his cheek as he sat with his elbow on the table. Occasionally, he nodded his head and said
yes, yes
, encouraging her thoughts, and sometimes his brow was furrowed in silence. Suddenly Sarah felt the strangest sense that she was no longer talking to her employer, but to a peer. The feeling came so unexpectedly, it made her temples throb.

“Those ads with the two photographs—wonderful! When you begin publishing them, they’ll bring in sales full chisel,” he said. “At the outset, you’ll have to spend more money than you’re making so your product and manufacturing line will be in place. If you don’t, you’ll have disappointed customers warning people away. You always want your customers to come for more. Repeat business is the key.”

“Yes, that’s what C.J.—” Sarah stopped herself, deciding that C.J. Walker’s nickname didn’t sound professional enough to use with Mr. Scholtz. “That’s what my partner says.”

“What about shampoo, Sarah? Everyone washes their hair. You should have a special shampoo with carefully selected ingredients, and tell your customers it’ll make the hair grower work better. They shouldn’t want to buy one without the other. Increased sales, you see?”

Sarah felt a jolt of adrenaline that made her toes tingle, the way she felt when she was exchanging ideas with C.J. and when her mind was racing late at night. “That’s true! And maybe … a skin cream, too. I should have a whole shelf of products from Madam Sarah.”

At that, Mr. Scholtz began to chuckle. His chuckle soon turned to a full-fledged laugh. “Sarah, I must tell you …” he said, shaking his head when he’d found his voice. “When I asked you who you really were a moment ago, I expected to hear ‘I’m a mother, I’m a wife, I’m an elder in my church. I sing, I sew, I nurse my aging parents.’ I didn’t expect this Madam Sarah and her whole shelf of products!”

“That’s all right, Mr. Scholtz,” Sarah said, smiling. “Nobody else is expecting it neither.”

Mr. Scholtz folded his newspaper under his arm and stood up. “Well, I’d be a fool to encourage you, wouldn’t I? I’ll lose my cook! My wife isn’t happy when she’s exiled to the kitchen even for a day, and I’ll confess I’m not too keen on it myself.”

“Now, I can’t lie ’bout that, Mr. Scholtz,” Sarah said. “I got a hair appointment waitin’ for me when I get home tonight. Before too much longer, I’ll have to leave this job or else faint.” Maybe it was a foolish thing to say, but Sarah said it anyway. He deserved the truth.

Mr. Scholtz considered that, then blew air from his lips in a silent whistle. He began to walk away. “As for your hair grower, I’m sure you know which oils you should use … ? Coconut, almond, rosemary, olive …” he said, as though he were speaking to himself. He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Sarah’s face. “Don’t you?”

“Coconut and … olive oil?” Sarah said, intrigued.

Mr. Scholtz once again made his way toward the doorway, his voice still sounding distant and distracted. “And if I were going to sell a shampoo, I wonder what ingredients I’d use besides glycerine, of course. And henna. Yes, I think henna would work nicely. But I’ll want to give that some thought… .” He was still talking, but his voice faded as he walked away.

“Mr. Scholtz!” Sarah called, following him. The halfway-iced carrot cake on the table was nowhere on her mind. “What’s that you said?”

“I said I wouldn’t quit my cook’s job quite yet if I were you,” Mr. Scholtz called back, giving her a coy glance. “There are some circumstances, I think, where a little patience can be very valuable. It gives a busy man time to think about all sorts of possibilities.”

Sarah put her hands on her hips. That sounded like blackmail to her, all right, but it might be worth the trade. A little more cooking for a few good ideas? Why not? She needed the money anyway, at least for now, and he clearly wasn’t eager to have his wife in the kitchen.

“So, Mr. Scholtz … You think that busy man would think better with a can of hair formula he could study?” she said. “I can bring one tomorrow.”

“Oh, I think he just might, Madam Sarah,” Mr. Scholtz said. With that, he vanished through the doorway, and she could hear him chortling as he walked down the hall.

“Well, you’re in a mood,” C.J. complained as they walked down the rainy street underneath his broad black umbrella. It was late; they had just left a formal meeting at a colored lodge, where Sarah had addressed more than a hundred women, telling her familiar story about her hair grower and her divine dream. She’d sold out of all the jars they brought with them, and her appointment book was so full that she’d had to tell some of the ladies they would have to wait at least two weeks to have their hair pressed. “It went well tonight, Sarah.”

Sarah hadn’t spoken a word to C.J. since they’d left the meeting hall. C.J. had advised her to buy at least one new dress, since he said it wasn’t becoming to wear the same clothes to every occasion, although Sarah hated to sacrifice to buy clothes when the two good dresses she had were perfectly neat. Still, she’d gone out the day before and bought a beautiful royal blue velvet dress decorated with rows of gold braid, one that even made her waist look slim because of the cut of the jacket. Her nieces had fawned over her, telling her they’d never seen her look so lovely, but when C.J. picked her up at the door, he hadn’t remarked on the dress. He’d only puffed his apologies about being late and rattled off things she should remember to say and do.

Whose hands to shake. Whose eyes to catch. Which people to avoid. All night long, she felt as if he’d led her around like a trained pony.

“I need to eat,” Sarah finally said. “Why don’t hinkty Negroes ever serve any real food? Those little wafers and whatnot just make me hungry. They act like they’re ashamed of fried chicken and pig meat.”

“Well, Jake’s is close, and they’ll have food this late. But it’s a bar… .”

“Fine by me, C.J. I just need food.”

With a small, frustrated sigh, C.J. gently steered her around the corner. Sarah knew he was dying to crow about how well the hair grower had sold, but she wasn’t in the mood. She and C.J. had visited meetings to talk about the Wonderful Hair Grower almost every night this week, thanks to C.J.’s knowledge of local social circles, and he grated on her nerves more each night. If he asked her, she wouldn’t even know how to explain
why
. Even his smile annoyed her. Now, as they walked, she was very conscious of how close they were as they both sought refuge under his umbrella from the pelting droplets. He had a protective arm around her, and her breast was crushed against his side. His lady friend would feel scandalized if she saw them now, she thought. Sarah had seen them together at a nickelodeon two weeks before, and the sight of them together had made her stomach go sour.