The Black Rose (33 page)

He took her to a Market Street supper club called the Rosebud Bar, which had lightbulbs flashing in the window to proclaim that it was open all night. Before Sarah would climb out of the carriage, she ventured glances up and down the street to try to guess the character of this neighborhood. There were no children or families in sight, mostly men in business attire and a few women whose manner of dress, frankly, reminded her of Etta’s.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Walker asked, waiting for her with his hand held out.

“You sure this is a proper place for a lady, Mr. Walker?”

“Well, it is in my book,” Mr. Walker said, shrugging. “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t smoking, dancing, and drinking inside, but there’s no danger to a lady with an escort. Course, there’s some ladies who think there ain’t no proper place for them except a church sanctuary or their husband’s kitchen. But you don’t strike me as that sort, Mrs. McWilliams.”

Mr. Walker’s response hadn’t done much to relieve Sarah’s doubts, but she also burned with curiosity. She had never been to a supper club like this one, even though she’d heard so much about the performances of singers, musicians, and dancers in the newspaper. Besides, Mr. Walker was right; she had an escort, and that made all the difference.

“Seems like a funny place to do business,” Sarah said as she took his hand.

“I do business in all sorts of funny places,” Mr. Walker said, his oddly colored eyes flitting away. He left it at that, and Sarah was glad. She felt Lelia’s warnings trying to surface in her mind, but she ignored them. She was going to have supper with the man, that was all, and she didn’t expect anything else. For once, she was going to have a good time! Didn’t she deserve it?

Inside, the large bar was a world of its own, crowded with men engaged in boisterous conversation, sitting at spare tables facing a piano player on a small stage. The broad-backed musician was playing the keys furiously, filling the room with quick-paced melodies. But C.J. took her to an adjoining room that was much quieter, decorated in gaily colored wall coverings that looked like linked roses. There were at least three dozen candlelit tables fanned across the floor, and Mr. Walker navigated his way through the room just as he had on the road.

“C.J. Walker!” a long-haired octoroon woman in a red dress squealed from a table, and Mr. Walker laughed with recognition, leaning over to kiss the back of her hand. Sarah felt a twinge and forced herself to look away.

“Hey, hey, Scotty,” Mr. Walker said, stopping at the next table to shake the hand of a modest-looking young man sitting alone with papers spread across his table. Looking at the papers more closely, Sarah noticed that they were filled with the same squiggles and symbols from her church hymn books; the man was writing music. “What you doin’ in this barrelhouse?”

“I promised Tom Turpin I’d pay a visit. Better not let him hear those aspersions, C.J.”

“Oh, hey, I’m just makin’ a little joke, now. Tom knows I love this place, or I wouldn’t have helped him with his ads in the
Palladium
. Scott, meet Sarah McWilliams. Mrs. McWilliams, this is Scott Joplin.”

The man, who was dark-skinned with closely cropped hair, kissed Sarah’s hand and gave her a gracious smile. There was something absurdly familiar about his name, she thought in an instant of excited recognition, but she just couldn’t quite …

“Tom started it with
Harlem Rag
, but when you came out with that
Maple Leaf Rag,
boy, ragtime took over the whole world,” Mr. Walker congratulated him, and then Sarah remembered why she knew Scott Joplin’s name. She had heard about his music, of course!

“Taking over the world isn’t always the blessing you’d think,” Mr. Joplin said with a touch of weariness. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McWilliams. You two have a good night.” He lowered his head and went back to work, writing his markings with impossible speed, and Sarah noticed a nearly haunted expression on the young man’s face.

“Some folks don’t know a good thing when they got it,” C.J. muttered to Sarah, and he guided her to the empty table where their escort was waiting. “They’re sayin’ he’s hell-bent on writing opera. Ain’t that something? A nigger tryin’ to write opera. Can’t be satisfied.”

By the time she sat down, Sarah felt nearly dizzy. “Where do you know him from?” she asked, already imagining how surprised and jealous Lelia would be when she told her she’d met the King of Ragtime.

“You meet lots of folks when you travel like I do.”

Oh, I’m sure you do, all right,
Sarah thought, remembering the woman in the red dress, but she vowed to control her reservations. By the time she’d put in her order for prime rib of beef and begun sipping a glass of red wine (C.J. had reminded her that even Jesus turned water to wine), Sarah felt at ease in the lively supper club. She tapped her foot under the table to the muffled sounds floating through the wall.

“What do you want with me, Mr. Walker?” Sarah blurted, bolstered by the wine.

Mr. Walker’s eyes widened with surprise as he sipped from his whiskey glass, then he laughed, nearly spilling his drink. “What do I want … ?”

“That’s right. Why did you follow me from the picnic to my kitchen, and why are we sittin’ here tonight? It ain’t like you couldn’t find no other lady to put on your arm.”

Slowly Mr. Walker’s smile faded and she saw earnestness creep into his eyes. “Well, all right, then. But first off, I wish you would call me C.J.”

Sarah considered that, then shook her head. “I only call friends by their Christian names, and we ain’t friends, Mr. Walker.”

Mr. Walker chuckled. “There it is again! Mrs. McWilliams, you’re ’bout one of the most direct women I ever did meet, besides my own mama. That’s why you sold so much of your hair product at the picnic, you know, and that’s why you’re gonna sell a whole lot more.”

At that, Sarah relaxed. She’d been right! Mr. Walker
did
want to talk business with her. She felt both vindication and a flash of disappointment, though her disappointment soon gave way to relief. She might not know much about courting, but she
did
know about selling her formula.

“I’m listenin’,” Sarah said.

Mr. Walker folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward, his eyes boring into her. “Mrs. McWilliams, I’ve been in advertising a long time, and I’ll tell you what I know: You can shout what you’re selling from the rooftops, but in the end it won’t do you no good if what you’re selling ain’t worth a damn. So when I see somebody who’s selling something worth a damn, it gets my blood to boiling. Now, when you got up in front of all those folks at the picnic and let down your hair and said you had a miracle cure, you made me want to believe you. You have what’s called the gift of persuasion. And when I went to your kitchen and saw what you were doing with that comb, I
knew
you had somethin’ worth selling.”

Sarah was pleased, but she tried to hold her face steady. Mr. Walker was probably about to try to ask her for something, and she couldn’t let his flattery blur her common sense. He had the gift of persuasion, too. “So what do
you
want?” Sarah asked him.

This time Mr. Walker didn’t blink. “I want to tell you the truth, that’s all. Most folks don’t want to hear it, but in my heart I think you do. Do you want the truth, Mrs. McWilliams?”

Sarah was confused, but she nodded.

Mr. Walker began. “What I saw in your kitchen was a mess, so help me, like a Mississippi rib joint on a Friday night. Nothing but clutter every which way, so much smoke I could barely breathe, and y’all scooping that hair formula into cups and cans like it was bacon grease. I’ve seen all kinds of ways to run a business, Mrs. McWilliams, but that ain’t no kinda way.”

Sarah’s mouth fell open, and she felt her body stiffen so rigid that it hurt. Her tear ducts smarted, but she wouldn’t allow any tears to come.

“This is St. Louis, Mrs. McWilliams, and St. Louis belongs to Annie Malone and Poro. Everyone in this town knows her product. It’s bull-headed to try to compete with her in the first place, but what you’re doing ain’t no kind of competition at all.”

“You done yet?” Sarah whispered, her voice raking her throat.

“You asked for the truth.” Mr. Walker’s face didn’t soften.

“Just ’cause you’re payin’ a few dimes for my supper don’t mean I expect you to insult me to my face. You don’t know how hard I been workin’—”

“Mrs. McWilliams, folks who can’t hear the truth won’t succeed. That’s a fact.”

Before she even realized what she was about to do, Sarah’s hand flew out and lashed across Mr. Walker’s cheek. She didn’t hit him hard, but she was shocked she had hit him at all. It had just suddenly felt as if Mr. Walker were ridiculing her child, her flesh and blood. Sarah’s anger gave way to mortification, and she crumpled back against her chair. “Oh, my—”

Mr. Walker hardly blinked. Very slowly, he raised his fingertips to his cheek to feel the sting, then his lips rose into a small, sad smile. “Well, I’m glad that’s over with. Now maybe the air is cleared up and we can finish our talk.”

“Mr. Walker, I ain’t n-never—”

“Oh, that’s all right. I have a knack for bringing out the violent tendencies in ladies. My mama used to blame my mouth on my daddy’s side. I guess the thing is, Mrs. McWilliams, it’s up to you whether you want to see my face again, but I don’t want you to forget what I had to say.”

“You can bet on that,” Sarah said softly, steely-eyed. “You may know a heap about advertising, but you ain’t learned nothin’ about makin’ friends.”

The waiter brought their food on steaming plates, and they ate hurriedly in a strained silence. Sarah had never had prime rib and she’d been looking forward to her meal, but she barely noticed the taste of her juicy meat. She felt as if her spirits were on the floor. Now the cheerful music sounded irritating instead of pleasant.

Finally Mr. Walker sighed. “The only point I was tryin’ to make is that you need some changes, or you’ll never get out of your kitchen. Advertising can’t fix everything.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Sarah said stiffly, barely concealing her sarcasm. “And thank you for the meal. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go—”

“You
do
have a miracle cure, Mrs. McWilliams,” Mr. Walker said, his voice suddenly passionate, nearly pleading. “I don’t know what your hair grower can do, but I do know what that comb can do. My sister would love it. My mama would love it. And so would every lady I know. If you listen to what I’m sayin’, you can have everything you want. And I’d hate to see you walk away from that just ’cause you got your feelings hurt. In business, you need skin like leather. If what I said came out wrong, I’m sorry. But if you do this right, and you go to the right town to start, you could be as big as Poro. I promise you that.”

In that instant, Sarah suddenly realized that Charles Walker was being as sincere as he knew how. Somehow, just as she’d told Lelia before she’d left home, this man believed in her.

“You’re sayin’ … I should leave St. Louis?”

“Even David needed a rock to slay Goliath. You don’t even got a rock yet, Mrs. McWilliams. You need to start somewhere you can have a chance.”

Sarah played with that notion. Where would she go? Back to Vicksburg? No, sir. That would be going backward, as far as she was concerned. But she couldn’t stomach the idea of going somewhere she didn’t know
anyone
. Then the thought came to her like a bullet: Her sister-in-law and nieces lived in Denver. Alex’s widow was always writing about what a hard time she was having, and she needed help. Sarah could help Alex’s family, and they could help her.

“I don’t know what your brain is saying to you, Mrs. McWilliams, but I like the way I see it workin’,” Mr. Walker said, his lovely smile returning.

Sarah couldn’t help smiling back at him.

Once Sarah and C.J. Walker left the supper club, he drove the buggy aimlessly through the city streets as the two of them talked back and forth. He told her about his travels, his work, and his brushes with danger with whites in small Southern towns. He had educated himself, he said, and he’d been determined not to destroy his lungs mining coal the way his father had. She told him about her childhood, and how Moses had died. Then she told him about her hair problems, and how she’d struggled so hard to find a cure until she decided she needed to make one herself. They spoke in low tones, and Sarah couldn’t believe how natural it felt to talk to him. She’d heard people claim they’d met people they felt they’d known a long time, but she’d never experienced it herself until tonight. Sometimes he seemed to know what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

“When I first started mixing a hair cure, most folks I knew thought—”

“—You were plumb out your mind. Thought you were wasting precious time,” Mr. Walker finished, nodding as the horse clopped along the silent, moonlit street of well-kept homes. A few lights burned dimly from the windows, although it was so late that most families had retired for the night. “I know all about that.”

“Even my own sister,” Sarah said. “But we never did think the same way. Lou’s always been ready to settle for what life would give her. But not me. I figgered if other folks could do it, why not me? An’ maybe I could even do it better.”

He laughed. “Oh, yeah. That sounds like me, all right. And there’s always some fool who can’t wait to tear you down for tryin’, like those ol’ Toms who used to run back and report every little thing to Massa.”

He sounded so much like Moses! Sarah looked at this man who, suddenly, seemed to have been heaven-sent. His face was so smooth, and his lips were an unusual rosy pink beneath his trim mustache. Sitting beside him in the buggy, she could feel him breathing next to her, and his scent surrounded her. She couldn’t utter the words on her mind, so she said instead, “If you know so much about selling a business, Mr. Walker, how come you ain’t never had your own?”

“You got to have something to sell first,” he said. “I get excited when I see somethin’ I know folks will want. But
making
somethin’ folks want, well … that’s another story.”