The Black Rose (46 page)

“I don’t expect you to be an expert in every part of this thing, C.J.,” Sarah said. “I know one day we’ll have to hire folks to do what we can’t. But I’ll always need you. You can’t see it, baby? I need you to watch over me. I need you to be my husband. And I need you to be proud of me wearing your name everyplace I go, because I’m sure proud to be wearin’ it.”

Sarah saw that C.J.’s eyes were glistening like new pennies, threatening tears. “I am proud,” he said. “I’m proud every damn day, even when I’m too bullheaded to show it. You’re about to be somethin’, Sarah Walker. You hear me?” His voice became a hush, close to her ear. “I mean, you are about to be really
somethin’
like folks ain’t never seen.”

Then he kissed her with a hunger and urgency that Sarah had missed in C.J.’s kisses.
We’re gonna make love tonight
, she realized, happy and surprised. With renewed vigor, C.J. raised himself high enough to reach for Sarah’s wrists, pinning them on the mattress as he leaned over her and mashed his mouth over hers. His grip on her was so firm, and his mouth so intoxicating, that she couldn’t have moved an inch even if she’d wanted to.

Chapter Twenty-six

INDIANAPOLIS

FEBRUARY 1910

MME. C.J. WALKER, of Pittsburgh, Pa.

THE NOTED HAIR CULTURIST

is in this city, at the residence of

Dr. J.H. Ward, 722 INDIANA AVENUE:

where she will demonstrate the art of growing hair.

Every woman of pride should see her during her stay in this city,

which is for a few days only.

DO NOT FAIL TO CALL AND SEE Mme. WALKER.

IT DOES NOT COST ANYTHING FOR CONSULTATION

Persons calling for treatment will kindly bring comb, brush, and two towels.

“Why do I use the term ‘hair culturist’?” Sarah said.

There was no answer from the half dozen ladies who sat in Dr. Ward’s parlor listening to her in the cozy heat from the physician’s brick fireplace. All of them were sipping hot cider, their eyes watching her closely. “Because the Madam C.J. Walker method is not just about slappin’ some grease on somebody’s head, and I want that notion forgot from the start. My course teaches the totalment of colored womanhood, so anyone who sees you will know right off you are a woman of pride. We’ve all heard folks say colored women are unclean and lacking in virtue, and some of our own women have fallen to that idea and ’based themselves. You know it’s true.”

Entranced, the women nodded.

“Even before your customer comes, you have shown them you are a serious person. Your space is clean and swept up of dirt and hair. You have seen to it you’re not carryin’ no body odors, which is very simple to do by applying some zinc oxide powder to the right areas. You have sweetened your breath with mints. You have presented yourself in a professional way in your dress. And you keep your combs and other materials clean and sanitary. See, maybe your customers know some lady down the street that
does hair
, but you are a cut above the rest. You are a hair culturist who’s studied the hair, the scalp, and the follicles, and who carries a proper attitude. And you are using only Walker products, which are science-proved and divinely inspired.”

Sarah was tired, but no matter how often she repeated her ideas to new groups of potential customers and agents, she felt her blood coursing in her veins as if she were saying the words for the first time. She felt rejuvenated by their unblinking eyes, their flushes of excitement, their inspired smiles. One woman in today’s group, a high-yellow woman in a very prim dress, was listening so eagerly that she was hunched forward, sitting so far at the edge of her seat that Sarah was afraid she would fall over. The woman’s face was pure rapture, and that gave Sarah new energy even though it was evening, and she’d already had a long day.

So far the sales trip to Indianapolis was working out better than she and C.J. had hoped. After the Wards invited Sarah to the Midwestern city to sell her products, she and C.J. laid out plans for an advertising campaign in
The Indianapolis Recorder
, one of the city’s colored newspapers. Of course, the ads included the photographs taken before and after her hair cure that had worked so well before. But this time they also devised a letter from her supporters so she would have a rousing introduction in the local press. The letter attesting to her product had been signed by friends, pastors, and customers from Pittsburgh and other cities she had visited. And if the hair grower didn’t work after two months, they decided as part of their campaign, they would give any dissatisfied customer twenty-five dollars.
That
would catch people’s attention!

And it had. Sarah had arrived in Indianapolis at the beginning of the month, and she’d already had a steady stream of customers for pressing, each willing to pay a dollar. And the hair grower, priced at fifty cents, was selling as fast as she could open new crates of it. This was a fertile town, all right! By the time the ad appeared saying she would be in Indianapolis only a few days, at the encouragement of Dr. and Mrs. Ward, Sarah had already decided to stay through the month, or perhaps longer. C.J. wouldn’t like it much, she knew, but he would certainly be excited about how well sales were going after he received her letter with the news.

The women meeting with Sarah now were interested in being agents and beauty shop operators, hoping to take her beauty course. Like the students who came to Pittsburgh, these women were from every part of Negro society. One young girl here barely looked groomed, her gums caked with yellowish matter as if she hadn’t seen a toothbrush and tooth powder in at least a month, which Sarah hoped to advise her about privately; but the woman at the edge of her seat looked as impeccable as a schoolmarm, her face virtually shining with her intelligence.

“I have heard it said by whites that Negro women in Africa mate with apes,” Sarah went on, and the women’s faces drew back with horror. “Now, we all know that’s no more true of women in Africa than any of us here tonight, but the thinking about Negro women in America is not so different, in my book. And if the world sees us that way, ladies, then it is up to us to show different. We can do that through our beauty and the way we carry ourselves.”

Sarah had a headache by the time she finished, although she ignored her discomfort as she graciously spoke to each woman privately, answering questions and accepting their praise. She stole a glance at the stately grandfather clock standing in the corner by the fireplace, and saw that it was already after nine o’clock. And she’d been pressing heads since eight that morning!

The last woman to approach her was the one who looked like a schoolmarm. The pale-skinned woman was nearly as tall as Lelia but looked like she must be exactly Sarah’s age. She had piercing molasses-colored eyes that seemed to leap from her square-jawed face. Her hair, which was dark and fine-textured, was pinned into a bun on top of her head.
An old maid
, Sarah thought, noticing the woman’s lack of a wedding ring.

But already there was something about this woman Sarah liked.

“Madam Walker,” the woman said, squeezing Sarah’s hand hard. “To me, this is a pleasure almost beyond expression. I am so overwhelmed to make your acquaintance. A friend of mine I’ve known since I was a girl is a Walker hair culturist in Philadelphia. She’s a teacher by training, like myself, but there was so little work for her because Negroes cannot teach in those public schools, as you must know. Now she has her own shop, a good business, and her pride intact. To offer such a road of independence! You are a pillar of Negro womanhood, Madam.”

Her speech! Sarah had almost stopped listening because she was savoring the lilt of this woman’s words, which seemed to glide from her tongue. She had a deep timbre and the oddest accent, one Sarah didn’t think she had ever heard before—not Southern, not Midwestern, and nothing like she would have expected from the lips of a Negro. The woman pronounced each word with loving care, making each sentence sound like a proclamation. Who could this woman be? This time it was Sarah who was spellbound.

The woman had not yet let go of Sarah’s hand, and she squeezed more urgently. “This will hardly matter to you, but my name is Charlotte Ransaw. I’m also called Lottie.”

“Where … are you from?” Sarah asked.

The woman’s smile widened; she was obviously thrilled Sarah had asked. Finally she remembered to release Sarah’s hand. “I was born in the South like you, Madam, in Selma. But I was fortunate, as a child, to be sent to live with a well-off uncle in Boston, where I attended preparatory schools that led me to Dartmouth College. That is where I took my degree.”

Ordinarily Sarah would have felt defensive because she would have assumed this woman was being boastful, since so many elite folk in Denver and Pittsburgh trotted out their degrees to point out Sarah’s deficiencies. But Charlotte Ransaw’s eyes were genuine, and there was nothing at all boastful in her voice.

“I’ve had all the requisite classical training, Madam—I can read Greek and Latin, and I speak French quite well. I planned to teach, because that is my great love. But I must tell you, when it comes to Negroes, I think there is such a thing as
too
much preparation … because like my dear friend in Philadelphia, I have found few institutions to appreciate someone of my training. Presently I have taken up secretarial work.” She stopped, taking a quick breath.

“Please forgive me if this inquiry is inappropriate, Madam, but I have to ask if you have any need for a personal secretary. I already have employment, but I am so taken with your work that I believe I could find a much greater sense of purpose working for you than anywhere else. You are building a Queendom, Madam Walker, and I could be of great help to you. I would take dictation, write out speeches, see to your needs while you travel, and the like. I have no family, so I am not bound to any geographical region. Are you familiar with Dr. Booker T. Washington’s secretary, Mr. Emmett Scott … ?”

Again, Sarah’s attention had drifted because she was so excited by this woman’s careful speech patterns. There was a stodginess to her, no doubt, but words came to her with such ease and precision!
Wonder how long it
would take me to learn to talk like that
, Sarah thought.

Then she realized the woman’s glorious talking had stopped, and she was waiting for an answer to something. What had she just asked? Was she looking for some kind of job?

“I’ve never thought one way or the other about a personal secretary, Mrs. Ransaw,” Sarah told her, recalling her words. “What would I do with one? We have a girl in Pittsburgh who writes letters on typing machines from time to time, but that’s hardly any kind of work for you.”

Mrs. Ransaw’s face fell, and her lip sagged so low that Sarah feared she might cry. “Madam, there is never any work appropriate for me! I’m willing to start at the lowest office, if that’s necessary, and I will prove my dedication to you.”

Then an idea hit Sarah with such power that she literally felt as if she’d been tapped with a hammer between her eyes; her headache worsened, but her heart came to life. If this plan worked, she thought with wonder, it might be the most valuable purchase she could ever make.

“You say you wanted to teach, Mrs. Ransaw?”

“Yes, Madam. And it would give me great satisfaction if you simply called me Lottie.”

“You know history and music, too, Lottie? An’ you keep up with the magazines and papers, white and colored?”

“Yes, Madam, of course,” she said, tilting her head curiously. “I take in
The Crisis
and the
Colored People’s Magazine
from Atlanta, as well as—”

“Then you may have just got yourself a student,” Sarah said. “But it’s no regular job, Lottie. There’s no set teaching hours, just whenever I have a minute to breathe. Maybe you can do some of that other stuff, too, the dictation and whatnot, but I really want a tutor. I didn’t get but to the third-grade level in my schooling. I’m proud of where I’ve gotten to, but I want more. I want someone to read with me like my daughter used to, and teach me things I don’t know. I want to learn French, too, hear? And I want to learn how to talk like you do.”

Lottie’s face was frozen. At first Sarah was afraid she’d insulted her. Then the woman’s bottom lip began to quiver, and she lunged forward to give Sarah a hug.

“Oh, my goodness …” Sarah heard her murmuring, stunned. “My goodness gracious …”

Sarah laughed, patting the woman’s back. What a gentle creature Lottie was, to have her talents so wasted! Sarah had heard of many Negroes from colleges like Dartmouth, Howard, Amherst, and Oberlin who had gone on to excel in law and education in their communities, but perhaps Lottie had been too fragile to fight the way she needed to. Perhaps one or two heartaches had made her give up and curse her skin color. Sarah knew plenty of folks who’d suffered that fate, too.
Like Etta
, Sarah thought sadly.

“You come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk some more, Lottie,” Sarah said. “My head’s ailing me tonight. But I think we just found you a job you’ve got perfect trainin’ for.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lottie said, dabbing at her eyes. “Madam, you just don’t know … Th-thank you so much. I’ll be back tomorrow, Madam.”

She was gazing at Sarah as if she had just saved her life.

Sarah hadn’t asked him to examine her, but his wife had told him how often she got headaches. Dr. Ward had finally insisted she sit down and let him be a physician instead of just a friend. He had a small examining room in back of his house in case patients came to his residence instead of his office, just a table, two chairs, a desk with a lamp, and shelves of medical books. On his wall, he had his framed degree from the Physiomedical College of Indiana, which he’d received in 1900.

“When’s the last time you saw a doctor, Madam Walker?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“Well, since I’m a guest in your home, Dr. Ward, I see you most every day.”