The Black Rose (42 page)

C.J. wrapped his arm around Sarah, kissing her cheek. “Guess not,” he said, resigned.

The two of them stayed half awake nearly all night, unable to sleep, unable to talk, with nothing left to do except wait for the morning light.

Chapter Twenty-four

OUTSIDE MERIDIAN, MISSISSIPPI

MAY 1907

(EIGHT MONTHS LATER)

My Dearest Sarah,

I have done nothing but worry since we parted in New York. I hope this
letter finds you safely with your sister in Vicksburg and I hope your journey
through Mississippi goes well. As you know I did not think you should want
to travel through there now when I am called away, but my opinions are no
secret. You will be happy to know A’Lelia has risen to the ocasion and had
the crisis well in hand by the time I returned. The orders finally went out
after delay and she has printed dozens of letters of apology to our anxious
customers. She has already hired more help, a woman you do not know
who is very reliable for mixing and cleaning both. I hope this is the end of
Anjetta’s complaints!

A’Lelia is awful good with figures, which I am glad because they
vex me so. You will be very pleased with the new numbers. We have
seen many orders from Oklahoma and New York already, so the visits
are paying off! Our weekly orders are now at $35 and I have no doubt
they will keep rising through the month. At least I hope so because we
are spending it all on train tickets and boarding! Letters are coming
asking when you will open the college you keep talking about. Maybe it
isn’t smart to make promises we cannot afford to keep? You know how
your speeches cause a stir
.

That is all I will say about business. We all miss you madly, but
I miss you in a more special way because we have had so little time
as husband and wife. It must be true that absence makes the heart
grow fonder because I can hardly think of anything except how much
I wish I could be with you to keep you safe. We must finish your
plans for next month so I will know where to join you again. A man’s
place is at his wife’s side, my Rose. I would be lost if Fate took you
from me
.

A’Lelia sends her love and of course you have

All my love,

C.J.

Sarah had read the letter in C.J.’s jagged-edged handwriting at least a dozen times in the week since Lou picked it up for her at the post office in Vicksburg, but she took it from her handbag, unfolded it, and read it again in the dim twilight as the train bounced and groaned along the tracks. The waning daylight glowing through the train’s dusty windows worried Sarah; that meant the train was running late, and she would arrive in Meridian well after dark. The church that had invited her had promised to send a driver to meet her at the station, but she knew that her delay might force a change of plans. And she needed help more than ever, with the crates of supplies that had been mailed to her in Vicksburg in the train’s cargo car. How would she fare alone in a strange Mississippi town? If only C.J. were here with her!

A sudden blast of the whistle made Sarah’s shoulders tense with nervousness. To keep her mind calm, she forced herself to concentrate on the letter in her hands.
A man’s place is at his wife’s side, my Rose
. She could almost hear C.J.’s lulling voice in her imagination, and when she closed her eyes she could remember her joyful dance with him at the ball. Things had been going so well between them… . She should have listened to him this time, she thought.

Or, at the very least, she wished she hadn’t quarreled with Lou. Sarah had planned to treat her sister to a trip through Mississippi with her, but a week in Vicksburg with Lou had been more than enough for her, so she’d left Lou behind. She’d forgotten how much that woman could test her nerves! Lou was set in her ways, so slow to accept new ideas. Complete strangers gave Sarah encouragement and praise, but her own sister usually offered only complaints or belittlement, as if Sarah were still a child:
Why
you got us standin’ out in this hot sun, Sarah? Ain’t nobody interested in washin’
they heads in no vegetable soap. How come you puttin’ on so many airs when
you talk now? Look to me like you jus’ burnin’ up folks’ heads with that comb
.

Sarah was grateful Lou had allowed her to stay at her home in Vicksburg, but she’d been happy to get away. The hair demonstrations had gone better than she’d hoped, drawing large crowds to Lou’s porch, but Sarah was almost sorry she’d gone back to Vicksburg. So few of her memories there were good ones, and all the faces had changed, making her a stranger there now. Even poor Miss Brown was dead and gone. And little Willie still in prison! How could Lou’s sweet little boy, who used to dance to Moses’ fiddle, have gone so wrong in so little time? And while Delta had beckoned her from right across the river—Lou even told Sarah she’d heard that the Longs still lived in their old house, and that their childhood cabin still stood—Sarah hadn’t had the heart to venture there and visit her parents’ resting place. Someday, but not yet.

Feeling a stab of sadness, Sarah again sought solace in the lines of C.J.’s letter. She read his words again and again, until there was too little light to see them clearly even with the gas lamp hanging in the rear of the car casting shadows all around her.

It was getting late. Sarah opened the sterling silver watch case C.J. had given her right before they first set out on the trip in September, which was hand-engraved with the image of two roses. The face of the watch told her it was already after eight o’clock, which meant she could expect to arrive in Meridian by nine. After spending so many months on the trains, Sarah was good at guessing times and distances.

Sarah sighed. Even with the daylight gone, the colored train car was so hot that her arm ached from her constant fanning as she tried to cool herself off. During winter, the train cars had been so frigid she had to wear every piece of clothing she’d brought just to keep warm, but now it was the constant baking heat in the car that bothered Sarah. She could feel the film of damp perspiration across her face and under her clothes, especially gathering where she sat against the hard wooden bench. It was almost as if she’d wet herself.

An’ I’d almost rather wet myself than visit that toilet again,
she thought. Sarah was grateful for shorter journeys, because her visits to squat over the two-handled rusting tin bucket behind the curtain at the rear of the car were an adventure that too often ended in humiliation. She’d spotted her clothes with urine more than once from the constant jouncing, and she’d prefer any backwater outhouse to that bucket’s foul stench. But Sarah had learned the hard way that holding in her water had bad consequences; she’d begun suffering from bladder infections when she traveled, which gave her a painful stream. One had been so bad that she let out a whimpering cry when she felt the burning between her legs. Have mercy! She’d been scared to death of the toilet for a whole week, until the diet of cranberries a woman in New York recommended finally gave her some relief. That sprawling northeastern city had almost been too marvelous to be real, especially with C.J. at her side, but the long train rides to get to and from New York had nearly blotted out her good memories.

To make it worse, no matter how many hours she spent traveling, Sarah was afraid to shut her eyes to take some rest when she was on the trains. Too many thieves. Once, early in their trip, she and C.J. had awakened from a night’s fitful sleep to discover that someone had stolen a box of samples right from under their feet. Thank goodness their money had been safely tucked away, or their trip would have been finished from the start. Sarah saw families on the trains from time to time and enjoyed watching the antics of children, but the other passengers were usually men who seemed to forget she was present, smoking and telling each other bawdy stories to pass the time. Worst of all were the whites who visited the colored car occasionally to harass passengers or simply be rowdy. They were usually harmless, but Sarah could never be sure of their character. Sarah’s favorite place to sit was the back corner, where she hoped to be inconspicuous.

As much money as she was spending on train fare, Sarah felt more like cargo than a passenger. The seats were rickety, without padding, the air was stale, and the colored porters in white coats she saw in armies at the train stations seemed to make little attempt to keep the colored car clean of discarded papers or food. Maybe they were just too busy with the white passengers, she thought. And the ash! Her rides usually left Sarah dusted with fine, acrid ash she tried desperately to brush from her clothes. The only time Sarah felt the least bit looked after was when she ran across the young colored porter she’d met in St. Louis, Freeman Ransom, on the western train routes; he told her about how his studies were going and sneaked her pillows to make her seat more comfortable.

A few times, Sarah had been able to catch a glimpse into the finer Pullman cars available to white travelers, and she felt angrier with each peek. The seats had fine upholstery, the floors were carpeted, and she even felt drifts of cool air when the doors drifted open. Some of the cars looked like elegant parlors, not like train cars at all. And the dining cars! Through the windows, Sarah had seen row upon row of little tables in fine white tablecloths, decorated as if they were part of an exclusive restaurant. Diners sat drinking from glasses of wine and sipping from their soupspoons, gazing peacefully at the scenery through their windows. Meanwhile, Sarah was sick to death of soda crackers, dried pork, fried chicken, and apples, the foods she always bought in grocery stores when she was hungry because they kept longer in her basket during the long, hot rides. Most restaurants along the train routes would not serve colored patrons, and now that she was back in the South, she’d learned better than to even inquire.

And the train rides won’t be better for you anytime soon, either, no matter
how much money you make,
she reminded herself. Race, not money, separated her from the comfort afforded to the white passengers in the South. Obviously, judging from the pillows, fresh linens, and blankets Sarah saw porters loading into the more favored cars, the train company wanted to make the white customers feel special; if anything, she guessed, they must want colored passengers to feel like a nuisance, as if they were
lucky
to have their money taken from them.

Sarah hated to dwell on the differences long, or her temples throbbed with rage. She had hoped this sort of racial nonsense would have ended by the time Lelia was a grown woman, but instead it seemed to be getting worse. This was the twentieth century! And now that she was in Mississippi, some of the dignities she’d begun taking for granted in Denver—like enjoying an ice-cream drink at a soda fountain or trying on clothes in the shops—seemed like a distant fantasy. She could expect one inconvenience after another, she knew.

Lord, please let my ride be waitin’ on me
, Sarah thought.
They likely won’t
even have no place for a colored woman to sleep in this li’l ol’ town
.

The train whistled again, lurching her into the night.

In Meridian, it was raining in driving sheets that clamored across the roof of the train car. Sarah must have dozed to sleep, because the rain awakened her even before the train whined to a stop, bucking her forward. Her knees banged against the hard seat in front of her, and she cursed to herself. But she was glad she’d finally arrived. She couldn’t wait to climb into a bed! She was scheduled to do demonstrations at the church after the sermon tomorrow morning, and then she would take another train early Monday to Tupelo. As usual, she had little time for resting.

Sarah traveled in clothes appropriate for her work, because she had to present herself well at all times. Despite the grime she’d picked up during the long ride, she was wearing a white shirtwaist and long blue skirt, and she brushed her hair to make sure it was still presentable. She sure wouldn’t sell too much Wonderful Hair Grower if she turned up with a head of wild-looking hair, would she? Sarah had misplaced her umbrella on her last train, which had been so crowded that she’d been lucky to find a seat at all, so she had only her overcoat and a scarf to protect her from the rain as she climbed off the train to collect her supplies. She carried her clothes and personal items in a bag she kept with her at all times, but she’d had to entrust her crates to the train’s crew. The train depot in Meridian was tiny and uncovered, just a wooden platform alongside a web of rails, built close to the sidewalk on a dreary, sleepy-looking street. The only shelter was the small ticket office, which was dark and had apparently closed for the day. Quickly, Sarah glanced around for anyone who might be looking for her. There were two buggies waiting in the rain, but white men climbed out and walked toward other passengers with grins of recognition. No colored driver in sight. No one came toward her.

“These yours, Auntie?” the train conductor said to her, gesturing toward a crate in the baggage car. The crate was stamped
WALKER MFG
.

“Yessir,” Sarah said. “And three more like it.”

“Oh, Jesus Almighty.” The conductor groaned as he and a young colored porter heaved the crates, pulling them out to the platform. “There’s only two more,” the conductor called to her over his shoulder.

“Well, are you sure you looked—”

“I looked as much as I aim to,” the conductor said, dropping the third crate unceremoniously to the ground. “This train’s runnin’ late, an’ I don’t have all night to be searchin’ after a darkie lady’s box of God-knows-what.”