The Black Rose (64 page)

Sarah believed that. She and Mr. Ransom had kept careful track of Dora Larrie’s movements, and Larrie had never had any success in business even when she tried to use the name
Madam C.J. Walker
. She’d once had the nerve to try to threaten Sarah with legal action if she wouldn’t give up the name she believed now belonged to
her
, before Mr. Ransom put her in her place. Mr. Ransom had even paid someone to send Sarah a sample of the woman’s product once, and Sarah knew just by looking at that mess in the jar that Dora Larrie was fumbling in the dark. And Sarah didn’t think C.J. would have revealed the formula to anyone else. She’d known him that well, at least.

“Now, whatever happens to me, that’s just my lot, and I ain’t even worried ’bout it,” C.J. said. “But one thing does worry me: I put a wrong idea in your head. The way I acted, I left you to believe there was ever a day I thought I didn’t love you.” After his voice cracked, C.J. took a deep breath. “And even though I know it doesn’t seem like it to you, that’s just a damn lie. I always did, Madam. I loved you the first day I took you out to supper over to the Rosebud Bar, and I loved you when you were pointing that gun at my heart. I half hoped you’d pull that trigger. Maybe even more than half.”

C.J. bit his bottom lip, again valiantly fighting an emotional display. He gazed up toward the ceiling, away from Sarah’s eyes. “So maybe it ain’t fair, Madam, but that’s the one thing I wanted to come here and tell you. And you don’t have to say nothin’ else to me, but I just wish you’d tell me you believe I loved you, and that I’ve never stopped. Do you believe me, Madam?”

Sarah’s mind and heart felt stripped. C.J. had broken himself because of her. She would never fully understand why, but he’d broken every part of himself. She could do nothing except slowly nod her head
yes
. C.J. grinned when he saw her affirmation. He smiled a sickly smile.

“You look like I feel, C.J.,” Sarah said in a thin, raspy voice.

“That may be, but I sure wish I felt as good as you look, Sarah,” he said. Then, with obvious discomfort in his joints, he reached up for his lopsided hat and tipped it. “Madam.”

Somehow Sarah managed to smile at him, and the smile stayed on her lips as she watched C.J. Walker turn around and walk away with painstakingly careful steps as he leaned on his walking stick. She heard his footsteps retreat to the end of the hall, and then they disappeared behind a click of the basement door. In the instant before the door closed, she’d heard a motorcar horn sound from outside. She should have known C.J. wasn’t about to sit through a church service unless he was trying to make a sale. He hadn’t changed
that
much, then. Sarah shook her head.

“Good-bye, C.J. Walker,” Sarah said to the silence. “You poor fool.”

Then Sarah closed her eyes and tried to steel herself for church.

By the time the shouts of affirmation had died down after the choir’s spirited rendition of “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?,” Sarah was shaking in her seat. But despite the electricity in the room, with lingering cries of “
Yes,
Lord!” and
“Amen!”
still issuing from the lips of excited worshipers in the midst of sporadic clapping and dramatic organ chords, Sarah knew her shaking had nothing to do with the Holy Spirit sweeping her neighbors. She felt as cold to the bone as she might on any winter’s day, but her underclothes were drenched in perspiration. Her entire body was wet. For all she knew, she’d lost control of her bladder.

I’m really sick,
she thought, as if amazed.
I’ve never been sick as this.

The Robinsons had not yet noticed her sudden decline, but Lottie had. Sarah’s tutor was holding her hand tightly, her eyes pinned to her. “Madam?” she said into Sarah’s ear. “We can’t wait for the end. We have to get you to bed. I want to call Dr. Ward.”

“But I have to
speak
, Lottie!” Sarah said sharply, too loudly. Jessie and C.K. Robinson glanced at her that time, as did several people in the nearby pews. The room seemed to stand still only for small instants, then it swam into an indecipherable blur. Sarah swayed in her seat without realizing it, her weight resting against Lottie. “Where’d C.J. go? Do you see him anyplace?”

The words tumbled out of her mouth from nowhere. Sarah had never mentioned to her companions that C.J. had met her in the pastor’s office, and she hadn’t meant to. Why had she said that? “Oh, Lord—what’s wrong with her?” Jessie whispered, touching Sarah’s forehead.

But Sarah forgot them both, because she could hear the pastor’s voice in front of her, and it seemed to her that he must be talking about her. Yes, he was!

A daughter of St. Louis. Fourteen years as a washerwoman. Hair formula
in a dream.

Suddenly Sarah could hear the man’s voice clearly, not just in snatches: “… She isn’t scheduled to make an address here today, but she is right here in our midst, and I was hoping she could stand and say just a few words to inspire us all—Madam C.J. Walker!”

All around her, Sarah heard gasps of surprise and delight, then applause that sounded to her like the hooves of a wild stampede across a plain. The sound seemed to shake the floor and rattle her teeth. What a humbling sound! It was a gift she could never repay.

“
No,
Madam,” Lottie begged, tugging on her. “You’re not well.”

But somehow, in a single lurch, Sarah managed to free herself from her tutor’s grasp and found herself standing on her feet. She had to lean on the pew in front of her with both hands for support, but her stance was triumphant. She’d done it! She’d stood up by herself.

Nearly rocking, Sarah looked around her at the faces in the room. Beaming, expectant faces. Many of the women in this room were Walker agents, Sarah knew, because Jessie Robinson had already introduced her to several agents in the congregation. Mr. Ransom had told her he’d seen a Walker parlor on every corner when he was visiting Chicago, just like in Harlem, and she’d seen for herself that St. Louis had its proud share, too. And look at all of these women! Most of them were wearing their Easter white, and they were a portrait of dignity with their lacy dresses and freshcut white flowers in their hats, with their men proudly at their sides.

We’re all makin’ it, and we’re doin’ it together. Ain’t none of us washing no
damn clothes. Them days is gone.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Sarah said, and they smothered her in applause. “I’m … not well today. I’m not feeling my best. But when I see you … when I see how beautiful we can be …”

Her heart was full of sentiment that helped calm the strange racing of her heart, but suddenly Sarah couldn’t think of words. Her mouth was dry, empty. She’d made many speeches when she wasn’t feeling well in the past year, but the sight of the crowds had always given her new strength to go on. Not today. She struggled to find one inspirational word, but nothing came from her mouth except the sound of her harsh, ragged breathing.

Who in the world was that screaming in her ear? Was it Lottie?

Before Sarah even realized she was falling, she had already collapsed to the church floor.
I must look like a heap of wash down here,
she thought, still lucid enough to feel mortified.

But soon, even that worry was gone.

Chapter Thirty-nine

VILLA LEWARO

MAY 1919

Sarah still thought about her ride on the train.

She and her employees had used first-class Pullman cars for years, especially when she wasn’t traveling in the South, but the train that had brought her home must have set tongues wagging all the way from St. Louis to New York. The Robinsons had chartered her a private railroad car on the lightning-quick 20th Century Limited, with plenty of room for her bed, Dr. Ward, her nurse, and Lottie. There’d been so many flowers in the train car’s windows, it had been no wonder Lottie reported curious, wondering faces along the way. She herself had heard someone say: “Who’s that in there, the King of England?”

No one had seen anything like it. Now, that had been something, all right.

And it was while she was on that train—not
enjoying
the ride, exactly, but tolerating it in the highest spirits she could muster—that Sarah had her inspiration: It was time to give away more of her money. She’d always given away bits here and there, but now it was time to truly give. Mr. Ransom was always cautioning her to be thrifty, but suddenly she realized that she had to indulge herself in one last spending spree. Not on her homes or cars this time, but on her people.

If she’d had her way, Sarah would have traveled from place to place presenting the checks herself, but she knew that wouldn’t happen now. No, even if she did recover, she wasn’t going to be able to do that. She’d finally understood what Dr. Ward and Dr. Kennedy meant about not exerting herself, and she only hoped she hadn’t pushed herself too far. The one and only thing she wanted to save her strength for now was a trip to Paris with Lelia this summer. If she couldn’t go this year, she’d rest until she was ready to go next year. And if she died in Paris, then so be it.
We all have to
go somewhere, sometime,
Sarah thought. And she couldn’t take her money with her, whenever she died, so she might as well put it to use now.

“Where were we, Lottie?” Sarah asked from her bed, sipping from a glass of tepid orange juice. The organ downstairs was playing a beautiful piece entitled
Communion in G
, which Sarah never tired of hearing. That organ had given her plenty of trouble, but it was finally working. Her music was often interrupted by the endless ringing of her telephone as people from all over the country called to inquire about her condition (Lottie brought her an armful of new telegrams and letters each day, and there were so many flowers that they had filled the villa with a sweet smell), but Sarah knew better than to take any calls, no matter how much she was tempted. She needed all of her energy to keep her mind clear and her strength up. By the time Lelia came back from Central America in August, she wanted to surprise her daughter by being out of bed and healthy once again, never mind what Dr. Ward had said about her poor body’s ailments.

“Five thousand dollars to the NAACP Anti-Lynching fund,” Lottie read from her notes. “That’s a wonderful gift, Madam. I’m sure they’ve never had one so big.”

“Good …” Sarah said. She coughed, then cleared her throat. “Let’s see … there are so many… . Oh! Don’t forget Mary Bethune. Put down the Daytona school for a contribution, too. Make sure she knows right away.”

“Yes, Madam. This brings your total to … twenty-five thousand dollars in contributions,” Lottie said, tallying up the figure. Lottie’s expression was dutiful enough, but Sarah could hear the unhappiness in her tutor’s voice. Lottie looked uncharacteristically disheveled, as if she hadn’t slept in days. Maybe she hadn’t, bless her.

Dr. Ward might be right about her, then. That was why it was more and more difficult to speak, and why her vision seemed to be dimming. Everything was blurry now; she couldn’t deny that. She’d hoped her vision would improve, but it hadn’t. Maybe it would get worse. Dr. Ward hadn’t admitted it outright, but she’d known from his voice when she complained about her eyesight that he expected she might well go blind.

Sarah felt a stab of alarm. There was no more money to give, not if she wanted to leave enough for her company to run. She’d bequeathed $10,000 to establish an industrial and mission school in Africa, and her will provided for her little godson, for Lottie, for Nettie, for Lou, for Willie. And Lelia, of course. She’d even bequeathed a thousand dollars to C.J.’s sister, Agnes; she had looked out for C.J. before, and Sarah knew she would look out for him now.

She had nothing left to give, she realized. Nothing.

“Lottie … can you write a letter to Lelia for me? I’d write this one myself, but …”

“Of course, Madam,” Lottie said, pulling her chair closer to the bed as if Sarah were a fire she hoped to warm herself by.

Sarah sighed, suddenly allowing herself to realize how awful it felt to have Lelia so far away from her now, a yawning chasm between them. It was just so much harder this way! She often woke up at night with a feeling of searing panic, knowing something was undone, and she guessed it was Lelia’s absence. She’d never have imagined even going to Paris without her daughter, and where was she going now?

But it was all right. Lelia was making better choices in her life, so at least Sarah didn’t have to worry about her anymore. Because Lottie’s features were so blurry to her, Sarah tried to imagine that Lelia was here beside her now, and she began to speak:

“My Darling Baby,” she began. “Lottie just read me your letters, and you made me very happy to know that at last you have decided to marry Kennedy. I never thought Wiley would make you happy, but I do believe Kennedy will. Let me know what time in August you will return and at what time you will marry. If you think it best, I will announce the engagement while you are away.” She paused a moment to catch her breath, as she was often forced to now. Her lungs, like everything else, were in rebellion. “My wish is for you to have a very quiet wedding out here and leave shortly afterward for France. You may get your château and I will follow. Then I will take my contemplated trip around the world. Let Kennedy study abroad for a year. I will make France my headquarters. I never want you to leave me this far again.”

Sarah sensed that Lottie was looking at her now with some surprise, but she didn’t care. She would move to France, if it came to that. The villa didn’t matter—all that mattered was being with her baby. Somehow Sarah had felt from the first time she’d walked through the doors of Villa Lewaro that she had not been meant to live here long.

And if Dr. Ward was right, she would not live anywhere long.

“Nettie is here with Frank and your little namesake,” Sarah went on. “You will love seeing her. She is too sweet and dear for anything. I am so happy having them with me. Nettie and the girls join me in love to you and Mae, and I send my love, kisses and kisses and kisses. Your Devoted, Mother.”