“Who doesn’t know of her? She was the first woman self-made millionaire! And her hair care products were all natural, which was unprecedented for the era.” Sam recalled when she had first come across Madam CJ Walker’s Wonderful Hair Grower at the five-and-dime store. Using plant-based ingredients, Sarah Breedlove had discovered a way to regrow her hair after going nearly bald from stress.
From that brief moment in the drugstore hair aisle, Sam realized plants were so much bigger than just food. They could restore, they could heal.
“Her understanding of the way to use nature to care for the body was innovative. In fact, her work inspired me to pursue homeopathy.”
“Most people don’t recognize her by her maiden name Breedlove. They only recognize her business name—Madam CJ Walker—but no one ever seems to know what she’s famous for.”
“Oh, well, I do. She was brilliant. And an incredible philanthropist. I can’t believe you’re related to her. She used to have a beauty parlor in the Hill District.”
“I know. That’s where I’m from.”
While something in Sam’s brain clicked, Bernadette nodded, wondering what this odd woman was actually here for and if she could trust her. Part of her wanted to believe this was a genuine friendship budding, but that required a special brand of faith that she wasn’t sure she had left.
“Thanks for checking on the noise. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” Bernadette considered inviting Sam to stay and chat over family-favorite oven-fresh biscuits and gravy. But the memory of the firecrackers and vandalism and For Sale signs erupting after she’d moved in stopped her short.
“Of course we will. We live next to each other,” Sam stated, unmoving.
“Well, have a nice day,” Bernadette wavered, a little disheartened that her dreams of a friendly neighbor were expiring so quickly.
As neither woman moved, it would seem as if they were not quite ready to part ways, as both felt the same tug for companionship.
“Do you happen to like tea?” Sam asked. “Perhaps Russian Friendship Tea?”
An hour later, Alonzo Jr. sat watching Captain Kangaroo while Sam and Bernadette had circled around several topics, including which topping tasted best on a biscuit, what it was like for Bernadette being married to a police officer, and how Sam had come to commandeer the art of botany. They had finally segued into chatting book club selections—with Bernadette sharing her book club read, The Bluest Eye, while Sam lamented falling behind on her book club read, The Godfather, followed by Bernadette’s shock at discovering that the current bestselling romance novel, Naked Came the Stranger, was in fact a hoax.
“The book was a social experiment,” Sam went on to tell her. “The author wasn’t a woman but a group of male journalists who wrote the most sexual, vulgar literature they could come up with to poke fun of women’s literary culture. Their theory was that modern women’s literature was so base that if enough sex was thrown into the plot—regardless of terrible prose quality—it could be a bestseller. Maybe they were right, since here we are a year later and it’s still at the top of the bestseller charts.”
Bernadette laughed, her voice boisterous for the first time in the months since moving onto this street. “Sometimes a woman wants Italian gangsta crime,” she said, “and sometimes she wants cheap smut. That doesn’t make us any more disreputable than a man!”
“Exactly. The same could be said for men and their movies. Throw in a bunch of six-shooters, horses, and cowboys and it’s an instant box-office hit.”
“Nothing could be truer,” Bernadette agreed. No one had ever spoken the exact words she was thinking before. She felt an instant kinship to this quirky stranger.
“Look,” Sam added sharply as she set down her teacup. “I need to come clean.”
“Come clean about what?” Bernadette had been unknowingly waiting for this moment. It always came.
“About you,” Sam said firmly, gesturing first to Alonzo Jr. then to Bernadette. “And something I need to confess.”
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That the color of my skin was going to be an issue. Just like it’s been an issue in this neighborhood since day one.”
“Oh, that’s not what I was coming clean about.” Sam now had second thoughts bringing it up, lest she crumble their fragile foundation. “Never mind.”
“No, spit it out, Sam.”
“I…” Sam waved her hand uncertainly, then looked off into the distance.
Bernadette exhaled, and folding her arms across her dress, she waited for the rebuff she knew was coming. In the last couple weeks, she had gotten death threats left in her mailbox, her door painted with vulgar words, accused of scaring the good neighbors away, and firecrackers thrown at her son. While moving to the picket-fence suburbs was supposed to be living the dream, it was quickly becoming a nightmare she could not escape. The dream because segregation was behind them, schools were integrating, her husband was promoted to patrol unit, and the neighborhood was safe. But the reality? No one wanted her here.
“Okay, here goes,” Sam began. “I’m a columnist for Women’s House Magazine, and I recently had a woman write in about a situation very similar to yours. I’m hoping perhaps you can help me understand her.”
Bernadette’s mouth dropped open. Her eyebrows arched with surprise. Then she inhaled a steadying breath.
“Then I, too, have a confession to make,” Bernadette finally replied. “I’m Worrywart Wanda.”
Chapter 23
“Absolutely, unequivocally, under no condition can I do that,” Mr. Getty replied when Sam turned up at his office Monday morning begging for the ledger back. “You really are a thorn in my side, Miss Stanton. Are we done here?”
