The Black Rose (45 page)

Sarah’s lips tightened with irritation, but she didn’t say anything. He would have the last word, then. This was an old argument between them they could choose to uncork at any time, but Sarah wasn’t up to it tonight. It was bad enough she would have to spend an evening socializing with the family of Lelia’s fiancé; she didn’t want to add strife with C.J. to her burdens.

C.J. had been more opposed to the move to Pittsburgh than he’d been to her long sales trip. In fact, it had taken him so long to sell his house and join her that some folks had begun whispering they were separated. She’d almost begun wondering if she still had a husband herself! Well, couldn’t he see now that both decisions had been smart? Pittsburgh had about 25,000 Negroes, five times the number in Denver, and business had flourished since their move. She just saw some things faster than he did, that was all.

“What’s the harm in marryin’ a musician, Sarah?” C.J. said after a long pause.

Sarah knew full well C.J. was trying to provoke her, but it still worked. “Musicians are never home. You know how they stay on the road. When would he see her? Most of ’em I’ve met, all they really care about is their mu—” Then she stopped, and she felt her face tingling with anger. As much as she wanted to avoid an argument, Sarah couldn’t keep silent: “Charles Walker, if you’ve got somethin’ to say to me, just say it. Don’t run me ’round the barn an’ back.”

C.J. shrugged, his eyebrows raised innocently. “What do you think I’m tryin’ to say, Sarah?” His tone was nearly mocking, and it infuriated her.

After giving him a glare in the mirror, Sarah pushed past C.J. to find the matching jacket to her skirt, which she had laid across the bed. The one curse to love, she told herself, was that loved ones could make you madder than anyone else. C.J., with his gentle sarcasm and probing, could set her off with merely a look.

“Don’t try to tell me you don’t care ’bout this company the same as me,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t tell me you don’t like that new jacket an’ those new shoes. Oh, an’ how ’bout that pretty buggy you just ran out and bought, and that black mare—”

“You’re right, Sarah,” he said, leaning over to kiss the back of her neck. His lips felt dry against her skin. “I’m yours. You’ve got me.”

But Sarah did not feel comforted.

The Robinsons were a middle-class family who lived in a suburb on the east end of Pittsburgh, and their pleasantly modest home was decorated with glowing green lamps for the dinner celebrating their son’s engagement. Sarah, Lelia, and C.J. had barely spoken throughout the long drive in the buggy, so the festive piano music they could hear through the open window as they pulled up to the curb did not match the family’s mood.

“That’s Johnny on the piano,” Lelia said, a tinge of excitement in her voice Sarah longed to share with her, but Sarah didn’t answer.
What’s the
harm in marryin’ a musician, Sarah?
C.J.’s words still irked her. She knew perfectly well what he’d meant: Lelia’s life married to a musician wouldn’t be the least bit different than C.J.’s life married to her. Was that the way he really felt? Sarah’s face was solemn as she wrapped herself in her stole and climbed out of the buggy.

Inside, they found a house full of warmth and smiles. The Robinsons had invited some friends to the occasion, so there were two other couples present. As handbags, wraps, and hats were taken out of the room, there was a round of introductions. Edith and Joseph Robinson were the boy’s parents, and they greeted Sarah and C.J. with cordial handshakes, even if their faces didn’t look any more pleased than Sarah’s. Next, Sarah met Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Ward, a pleasant couple who were visiting the Robinsons from Indianapolis. The third couple, slightly older than the rest, were Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Parks, longtime Pittsburgh residents—known as “OPs,” or “Old Pittsburghers,” part of the city’s colored elite—who had known the Robinsons for years. Joseph Robinson and Reginald Parks were both clerks in city government, Sarah was told, rare positions for Negroes.

Finally Sarah met John R. Robinson, the boy Lelia was planning to marry. He was Lelia’s age, nearly handsome, with brown skin, clean teeth, and a slight build. She had seen him once before, when Lelia pointed him out at church. Now, as before, Sarah could find nothing remarkable about him. “Pleasure to meet you, Madam Walker,” the boy said. “You, too, sir.”

Despite her best efforts, Sarah couldn’t even force a smile. As John Robinson stood alongside Lelia, the only thing that struck Sarah about this boy was how much shorter he was than Lelia. Sarah was about to ask how tall he was when his mother tugged gently at her arm.

“John was playing some Chopin for us a moment ago,” his mother said, her pride apparent in her voice. “He prefers rags, like all the young people, but we raised him to be well rounded.”

You didn’t raise him to know the proper way to ask for a young lady’s hand,
and you sure didn’t raise him tall
, Sarah thought, annoyed. Sarah didn’t know any Chopin, and since she wasn’t in the mood to try to impress anyone, she only nodded politely.

“What sort of piano do you prefer, Madam Walker?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

Sarah gave her a level, disinterested stare. “We don’t have a piano.”

Mrs. Robinson looked surprised, an expression that clearly said
But I
thought
everyone
had a piano
, but she didn’t answer. When she excused herself to look after the caterer’s work in the kitchen, Sarah was happy to see her go. If this woman had insisted on trying to compare the attributes of their households, Sarah was afraid she might be mean enough tonight to point out that the Robinsons’ wall coverings looked shabby and faded enough to have withstood three presidential administrations. Lelia would never have forgiven her for that.

“So we’ve heard you’re in the beauty business, Madam,” Dr. Ward said. He was a round-faced man with a friendly twinkle in his eye that had a calming effect on Sarah. Somehow she knew already that he would not try to belittle her the way so many other “society” Negroes did, treating her as if she were inferior because she had come from humble beginnings. In some circles, she’d learned, just mentioning that she’d bought her home on Wylie Avenue was enough to wrinkle noses. “Madam C.J. Walker’s Wonderful Hair Grower! We’ll have to buy some, won’t we, Zella?”

Dr. Ward’s wife nodded eagerly. “Who wouldn’t like to grow more hair?”

Mr. Parks, who was a large, blustering man with long gray sideburns, slapped C.J. on the back. “So how do you like being
Mister
Madam C.J. Walker, son?” he said, and Sarah thought C.J. would swallow his own tongue. His face burned red, the color of a brick.

Quickly Sarah took C.J.’s hand. “Oh, my husband has his own ventures. He’s the company advertising director, and he’s working right now on—”

“I can speak for myself, thank you, my darling,” C.J. said sweetly enough, although Sarah knew how annoyed he must be. “I’ll be selling C.J. Walker’s Blood and Rheumatic Cure ’fore too long. Feeds the blood, makes you good as new. You’ll see it soon enough.”

“Well, if I can be of any assistance, Mr. Walker, you just let me know,” Dr. Ward said. “I have a sanitorium and nursing school in Indianapolis, and I’m in support of any products to benefit the public health. So long as they’re sound.”

“Thank you kindly, Doctor, but I have years of training in pharmacy and such, so that won’t be necessary,” C.J. said, and Sarah’s hand went cold inside her husband’s. Such an outrageous lie! C.J. didn’t know any more about pharmacy than she did. What was wrong with him? She’d been glad to hear Dr. Ward offer his help, since C.J. had been struggling to concoct a blood formula. A man like that could be of real service to both of them, and C.J. was feeding him nonsense like he was an ignorant customer being hustled on the street.

Sarah couldn’t tell from the physician’s expression, but she hoped he wasn’t offended. She would talk to him later, she decided, to let him know they would be grateful for any help.

“Mr. Walker, I must say, now, that’s a colorful suit you’re wearing,” Mr. Parks said, noticing C.J.’s cobalt blue pencil-striped linen suit. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.”

C.J. stuck out his chest, hooking his thumbs behind his suspenders. “It’s something else, huh? I had it made special, what they call Palm Beach style. Cost me twenty-five dollars. I know that’s a lot to spend on a suit, but nothing’s too much if you want it right. And this necktie is pure silk, you see. That alone was a good dollar.”

Sarah glanced at Lelia in time to see her roll her eyes, and she understood why. How many times would they have to tell C.J. it wasn’t polite to boast about how much he spent on his clothes? Sure enough, there was no mistaking the discomfort and amusement in the faces of the other guests. Sarah wondered if C.J. had nipped once too often at his whiskey flask before they left home. Lelia gave her a pleading look, and Sarah actually felt sorry for her daughter. C.J. was embarrassing them both.

As far as Sarah was concerned, the evening went worse than she’d feared. By the time she’d sat through dinner, bracing for inappropriate comments from C.J. or slights from her hosts, she had a headache and felt sick to her stomach. Dr. Ward and his wife had been wonderful, exchanging calling cards with her and C.J. so they could keep in touch, but Sarah thought it had been obvious that the Robinsons actually looked
down
on their family. And based on what? Sarah knew without asking that she earned far more than the Robinsons could dream of—the man was only a clerk, after all—so how dare they feel superior!

It was only as she prepared to leave that Sarah thought she discovered the true source of the family’s pride: She saw rows of family photographs displayed on the foyer walls. The photographs pictured colored men and women of all complexions, from very dark to nearly white, all of them posing in fine, antiquated dress and stern expressions. Some of the photographs looked so old that they might date from before the Civil War, Sarah thought. The Robinsons had history, and that was more important than money to them. They had been free for generations, and they were proud of it.

No matter how much money she made, Sarah realized, she would never have that.

“You sure put on a show tonight,” Sarah complained, climbing into bed beside C.J. He had disappeared beneath the bedsheets almost as soon as they got home, with his back turned away from her. She remembered a time when they used to cling to each other before going to sleep, especially during the months when they spent most of their time apart. Each night together had been a reunion of sorts. But no more.

“Thank you. I aim to please,” C.J. muttered, more of his sarcasm. He always accused her of having an ugly side, but he had one, too. She’d never noticed his sarcasm when they were courting, or right after they were married. That, apparently, was his hidden weapon.

Sarah sighed. She was tempted to go on criticizing C.J., to ask him how much whiskey he’d had to drink before dinner, but what purpose would that serve? She was tired of arguments. All right, so she didn’t like John Robinson or his family much. So what? Tomorrow morning, she decided, she would sit down to breakfast with Lelia and tell her, from her heart, that she wished her all the happiness in the world with her new husband.

And she wanted to make things right with C.J., too. Sarah gently rubbed C.J.’s bare shoulder. “You ain’t been yourself, C.J. I can see it plain as day. What’s wrong?”

C.J. half laughed, still not looking at her. “Now, what could be troubling Mr. Madam C.J. Walker? Not a thing I can think of, Sarah.”

Sarah sighed again, curling up behind him, fitting herself to the shape of his body. She wrapped her arm around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “That man was just rude, C.J.”

“No …” C.J. said, and this time the sarcasm had left his voice bare. “He was tellin’ the truth. I know I don’t get no respect here.”

“Oh, C.J., these OP Negroes don’t—”

“It ain’t just that,” C.J. said. He paused, then rolled over to scoop her into his arms until their faces were nearly touching. At that instant she realized it had been a long time since C.J. had really held her. Too long. Their breathing rose and fell in unison as he pressed their chests together. “You wouldn’t understand it, Sarah.”

“Tell me,” Sarah said softly, holding his eyes with hers. This close to him, she could smell the remnants of spirits on his breath.

“You know, I almost didn’t leave Denver. I swear to God, I didn’t want to lose you, but I didn’t think I could go. Do you remember who I was in Denver? There wasn’t
no place
C.J. Walker couldn’t get an invitation. I was Johnny-on-the-spot. I’m nothing here, Sarah. I went and tried to join that Leondi Club I keep hearing about, thought I’d play some billiards with the fellas, but they didn’t want to be bothered with me. To them, I’m just a man living off his wife’s name. And I guess they’re right at that.”

How could he say that? C.J.’s words lanced Sarah, and she tightened her grip around him. “We’re partners, C.J., just like you said you wanted. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be selling hair grease out of my kitchen in tin cups. You think I don’t know what you’ve done for me?”

C.J. considered that a moment, then he moved a wisp of hair from her face with his index finger. “Maybe so, maybe not…” he said in a raw voice. “But I’ll tell you one thing: You don’t need me, woman. You’re like one o’ them Kentucky Derby thoroughbred horses. I just opened the gate, and out you went. I guess I thought you needed me, or maybe I just hoped you did … but a man can’t be a man if he don’t feel like he’s of some use, Sarah.”

C.J.’s words had robbed her mouth of its moisture. Yes, she knew why C.J. felt this way; their business had grown so fast that C.J. had reached the end of his areas of knowledge, constantly being forced to research questions of shipping, supplies, billing, and credit. Snags were common and frustrating. And Sarah was being forced to learn herself, monitoring the seemingly endless details about the activities of the agents who were selling Walker products all over the country. Soon there would be more than hundreds of Walker agents, she knew. Hundreds! Sometimes she was afraid her business was growing faster than she could learn, and she thought C.J. must feel the same way.