The Black Rose (50 page)

She was a tall young woman, about thirty, and Sarah liked the way she presented herself; her hair was neatly pinned, her clothes were modest despite her ample bustline, and she had a naturally pretty face, angular and bright-eyed. She looked exactly like one of those high-yellow women at the church picnic in St. Louis who’d turned their noses up at her, and Sarah couldn’t help feeling a small glow of satisfaction that she’d come to
her
to learn.

The room assigned to Sarah was a cooking classroom, apparently, because it had a wood-burning cooking stove that she guessed was also used for heating. C.J. had lit a fire for her while Sarah selected one of the twenty-five women in the classroom to demonstrate her pressing comb. Dutifully, Lottie passed out yellow advertisements they had printed up about the company for their trip to the South, with testimonials from hair customers and agents from all over the country.

“As you’ll see,” Sarah said to the women, holding up her steel comb, “it’s best to use two combs. In this way, one will heat while the other is in use, which will save you and your customers time. Efficiency is another watchword of the Walker method.”

The women nodded, watching closely while Sarah parted her subject’s hair; the woman was the wife of a farmer who had come to the demonstration purely out of curiosity, and Sarah had chosen her because she liked the natural length of her hair, which had been tied into two big braids. Sarah had already washed her hair and dried it carefully with towels, and now it was time to press. The results would be impressive, Sarah thought.

“Madam C.J. Walker’s Glossine is a very important part of this process,” Sarah said, as C.J. helpfully handed her an open jar of the pressing oil. “I’ve been told that some Walker culturists are substituting Vaseline and other products, but while that may save a few pennies, it is not in the best interests of your customer. Now, you place a small amount of Glossine with the index or middle finger of the right hand, using the fingertip along the part. You must apply the Glossine to
both
sides of the part… .”

Then Sarah asked the women to stand up and gather around her the best they could, because she wanted them to have a closer view of her work. The woman in her chair smiled, glad to be the center of so much attention. “You hold the comb in the right hand, like so, and a small portion of the hair between the thumb and first two fingers of the left hand. The teeth of the comb should be placed as close to the scalp as possible without touching it, and then turned so that the teeth face straight
up
. Pull the comb toward you, feeding hair through the fingertips to the very end of each strand. Then you pick up the same hair, insert the comb from the other side, and press
downward
. It’s in this downward pressure, ladies, that you will get the desired result… .”

Mrs. Larrie raised her hand often, asking questions about the products. Sarah liked her persistence and her perceptiveness.

“Do you live right here in Tuskegee, Mrs. Larrie?”

“Yes, Madam,” the woman said. “I’m from Indianapolis, but I live here now.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you should be my first Tuskegee agent.”

“Oh, yes, Madam, I sure would like that!” the woman said, her face flushed with excitement.

Some time later, Sarah noticed a regally dressed woman standing in her doorway, and she nearly lost her train of thought. It was Margaret Murray Washington, Dr. Washington’s wife! Mrs. Washington smiled at her and nodded, and Sarah returned the gesture, feeling a rush of pleasure. Discreetly, Mrs. Washington motioned for Lottie to come to her. Sarah watched the two women talking quietly in the doorway. Lottie nodding as she listened, smiling widely. Then, just as quickly as she’d appeared, Mrs. Washington was gone.

Lottie walked up to Sarah and whispered the message: “She’s having tea with a few ladies in a few minutes, and she would like you to come. One of Tuskegee’s instructors, Dr. George Washington Carver, may also be there… .”

Sarah’s heart leaped. She’d been invited to tea with Mrs. Washington! But how could she leave? Even though she’d nearly finished pressing her subject’s head, she still needed time to talk to Dora Larrie about everything she would need to know about becoming a Walker agent. Sarah might need another half hour or more before she could even think of leaving.

C.J., who was standing close enough to have heard Lottie’s words, also knew exactly what Sarah was thinking. He scribbled a note to her:
Go have
your tea. That’s not my liking, as you know. I’ll see to the agent’s needs
.

Sarah smiled at C.J., believing this must be one of the luckiest days of her life.

Chapter Twenty-nine

CHICAGO

AUGUST 1912

(SEVEN MONTHS LATER)

Sarah sweltered in the hard wooden pew of Dearborn Street’s Institutional Church, which was a challenge to her stiff back. The National Negro Business League Convention had rolled on for two days of meetings, lectures, and debates. If C.J. were here, she thought, he would lean over and whisper his old joke,
Well, you know heat gathers wherever there’s colored
folks in numbers
.

She started to smile, but the smile itself brought discomfort. C.J.
wasn’t
here, and she wasn’t in the mood to consider the whys and wherefores of that. Not now.

It wasn’t yet ten in the morning, and even this airy, grand structure with seating for hundreds was no sanctuary from the weight of the August sun outside. The room flurried with hand fans as the delegates tried to cool themselves. Sarah already felt the first prickles of moisture beneath her armpits, and she hoped she’d dusted her body with enough talcum powder under her velvet floor-length suit. The suit was businesslike, but too heavy for this oppressive weather. Still, heat or no heat, she wasn’t going to take off her waist-length jacket or loosen the lace collar around her neck. Today was a special day. She would endure.

Sarah had attended the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs in Virginia last month, where she’d met Madam Mary McLeod Bethune, a dynamic and fiercely intelligent woman Sarah was quite certain would become a friend; Sarah had been so impressed with her that she’d vowed to lead a fund-raising campaign for Madam Bethune’s school in Daytona. But this was the first time Sarah had attended a national meeting dedicated entirely to Negroes in business. Sarah’s ears were filled with the hum of activity she’d come to expect at this NNBL event as delegates exchanged anecdotes, strategies, and solutions. These men were from all over the country, and Sarah could feel their expertise crackling in the air.

“Tell you what, though, if you start out with enough capital …”

“If I could find someone to map me out an advertising plan …”

“… already seen what motorcars might mean to the future of blacksmithing …”

But Sarah felt slightly wistful: thus far, she was only a spectator. This was a club she didn’t belong to—not yet, anyway. The only delegate she knew was George L. Knox from the
Indianapolis Freeman
, who had promised to introduce her today, and he had yet to arrive for this morning’s session. As they had for the past two days, she and Lottie sat alone near the back of the church, simply listening to what was going on around them. Lottie had discreetly distributed yellow Walker Company advertisements throughout the pews on the session’s opening day, but for once Sarah didn’t have her demonstration kit with her; she was here to learn, not sell. Today she would be invisible until it was her time to speak.

Next year they’ll all know who I am
, Sarah promised herself.
Every
single one
.

“It’s a shame C.J. didn’t come,” Sarah said. “He’d be struttin’ through this place like a rooster. I heard a man just now saying he wants better ads. C.J. would’ve talked his ear off.”

Lottie nodded quiet agreement. After a moment she said, “What
was
his excuse for staying at home, Madam?” Her inflection was carefully neutral.

“C.J. said he had things to do,” Sarah said, hating the defensiveness in her own voice.

C.J. had just shrugged and mumbled something about being tired, saying he was ready to stay at home a while. Granted, they’d already had an eventful year together; while they’d been staying in Jackson, Mississippi, for several months to train culturists and agents, C.J. had actually been
arrested
for selling products without a license. He and Sarah had been outraged about it, but Mr. Ransom had advised them to pay the fine and forget the matter, lest they be taxed in Mississippi. There were so many pitfalls to doing business! Besides, Sarah couldn’t help feeling the law had been exercised so freely against C.J. simply because he was a Negro.
I’m ’bout done
with bein’ on the road, Sarah
, C.J. had said. Except she knew there was more to it than that.

C.J. had been tired a lot in the past five months, but when she tried to broach
that
subject he’d changed tactics, accusing her of chasing after Dr. Booker T. Washington’s coattails. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely wrong.

Sarah
had
been thrilled to meet Dr. Washington and his wife at Tuskegee in January. The great man, the league’s president and founder, had sent her a gracious letter thanking her for her $40 contribution to the school, appropriately signing it
Principal
. But it had maddened Sarah to know that the best-known Negro in the country was going to be only a few hundred miles from Indianapolis for the NNBL Convention and would not come to town to see her company. She’d written him twice, first offering to pay his way to Indianapolis on his way
to
Chicago, then asking to host Dr. Washington on his way home.
Sorry, he’s too busy
. Polite words on neatly folded sheets of fine paper, signed by Dr. Washington’s secretary, Mr. Emmett J. Scott. In his second letter, Mr. Scott had said he admired her persistence, but she wondered if it amused him instead.

C.J. had cautioned her to stop pressuring the renowned educator everyone called the Wizard because of his power in building coalitions.
Lord have mercy, Sarah, he’s got everybody and his mama running after him.
Why you have to push so hard?
But that was always C.J.’s problem, not being able to put two and two together and see what it added up to. The way she saw it, if Dr. Washington was sufficiently impressed with the company, he might one day agree to offer the Walker method as a part of the
curriculum
at Tuskegee. And if that happened, Tuskegee itself would certify untold numbers of women in the use of Walker products and hair preparations. What a boon that would be!

Sarah had seen that potential as clear as day when she visited the Alabama school, but she couldn’t approach Dr. Washington with such a proposition based on her mere say-so. For all she knew, the Washingtons might have viewed her as just another two-bit traveling salesman. No, Dr. Washington needed to see the company for himself. That would make all the difference.

And that was one of the biggest reasons Sarah was here.

Even though she hadn’t yet been able to get close enough to Dr. Washington to even catch his eye or say hello, the NNBL convention itself had surpassed Sarah’s wildest hopes. What a golden opportunity this was, hearing the stories of so many Negro businessmen! She wished Lelia had come, too. But Sarah had known full well from the nonchalance in her daughter’s letter from Pittsburgh a week ago that Lelia had no interest in a business trip.
I’ll think on it, Mama
. Not likely! Now, if Sarah had invited her to a
dance
, maybe …

“Morning, Madam Walker.” Someone squeezed Sarah’s shoulder warmly, and she turned to see George Knox behind her grinning, his wild tufts of white sideburns sticking out from the sides of his hat. He leaned over to give her cheek a peck, then he did the same for Lottie. His breath smelled of coffee. “You aren’t nervous, now, are you, Madam?” He winked at her.

“Not until you said that, no.”

“Don’t mind me; that’s just teasing. Why are you sitting way back here? How do you expect these folks to hear you?”

“Now, Mr. Knox, you should know me and my mouth better than that by now.”

The newspaper publisher sat beside her with a chuckle. “Remember, you get only three minutes. Did you write out a speech like I told you?”

Lottie chimed in. “She sure didn’t, Mr. Knox, even after I offered to help her by transcribing it. She seems to forget that’s what I’m paid for.”

“Well, I know sales, and sales is ninety percent mouth,” Sarah said. “Don’t you worry. You introduce me, Mr. Knox, and I’ll do the rest.”

“She will, too. This lady here is a constant marvel to me,” Lottie said.

“
Marvel
. That’s a beautiful word, Lottie—she’ll be a marvel to this whole delegation. High time the world heard about the best-kept secret in Indianapolis!” George Knox said. “Just be patient and trust me, Madam. You’re not on the program, so I have to find a way to work you in. I’ve sent a note up to the pulpit, but in case that’s overlooked I’m ready to pick my own spot. When you’re in the newspaper business, you have to know how to push.”

Sarah felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach. The other delegates might not be nearly as impressed with her as George Knox was, she told herself. In the past two days, she’d heard remarkable addresses from bankers, publishers, and manufacturers who had been in serious business while she was still scrubbing clothes in a tin bucket. Why, Mr. Anthony Overton, who was based right here in Chicago, had a manufacturing business earning $117,000 a year! And her ears were still ringing with excitement from last night’s address by a man named Bishop Scott, who’d talked about business opportunities in
Liberia
, of all places. Like everyone else, she’d leaped to her feet to applaud him at the close of his presentation.