{"product_id":"the-black-rose-isbn-9780345441560","title":"The Black Rose","description":"\u003cb\u003e“One of the most exciting novels of the year . . . The dramatic story of Madam C.J. Walker, America’s first black female millionaire.”—E. Lynn Harris\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBorn to former slaves on a Louisiana plantation in 1867, Madam C.J. Walker rose from poverty and indignity to become America’s first black female millionaire, the head of a hugely successful beauty company, and a leading philanthropist in African American causes. Renowned author Alex Haley became fascinated by the story of this extraordinary heroine, and before his death in 1992, he embarked on the research and outline of a major novel based on her life. With \u003ci\u003eThe Black Rose,\u003c\/i\u003e critically acclaimed writer Tananarive Due brings Haley’s work to an inspiring completion. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlending documented history, vivid dialogue, and a sweeping fictionalized narrative, Tananarive Due paints a vivid portrait of this passionate and tenacious pioneer and the unforgettable era in which she lived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Black Rose\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An artfully framed page-turner.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEssence\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An impressive accomplishment . . . Due’s combination of historical study and fictional exploration endows this gripping tale with intimacy and emotional authenticity.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Tananarive Due is an engaging storyteller . . . The real-life Walker would probably have been pleased with the way Due depicts her. . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Black Rose\u003c\/i\u003e is an inspiring, motivational book.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A compelling narrative . . . This book is worth reading for anyone wanting a glimpse into what the human spirit can create with the odds stacked sky high.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eTananarive Due\u003c\/b\u003e is a former features writer and columnist for the \u003ci\u003eMiami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e. She has written two highly acclaimed novels: \u003ci\u003eThe Between\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMy Soul to Keep\u003c\/i\u003e. Ms. Due makes her home in Longview, Washington.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003eDelta, Louisiana\u003cbr\u003eSpring 1874\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe slave-kitchers couldn't get her. Not so long as she stayed hid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStealthily, Sarah crouched her small frame behind the thick tangle of tall\u003cbr\u003egrass that pricked through the thin fabric of her dress, which was so worn\u003cbr\u003eat the hem that it had frayed into feathery threads that tickled her shins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sarah, where you at?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah felt her heart leap when she heard the dreaded voice so close\u003cbr\u003eto her. That was the meanest, most devilish slave-kitcher of all, the one\u003cbr\u003ecalled Terrible Lou the Wicked. If Terrible Lou the Wicked caught her,\u003cbr\u003eSarah knew she'd be sold west to the Indians for sure and she'd never see\u003cbr\u003eher family again. Sarah tried to slow her breathing so she could be quiet\u003cbr\u003eas a skulking cat. The brush near her stirred as Terrible Lou barreled\u003cbr\u003ethrough, searching for her. Sweat trickled into Sarah's eye, but she\u003cbr\u003edidn't move even to rub out the sting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"See, I done tol' Mama 'bout how you do. Ain't nobody playin' no games\u003cbr\u003ewith you! I'ma find you, watch. And when I do, I'ma break me off a switch,\u003cbr\u003ean' you better not holler.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA whipping! Sarah had heard Terrible Lou whipped little children half to\u003cbr\u003edeath just for the fun of it, even babies. Sarah was more determined than\u003cbr\u003eever not to be caught. If Terrible Lou found her, Sarah decided she'd jump\u003cbr\u003eout and wrastle her to the ground. Sarah crouched closer to the ground,\u003cbr\u003eready to spring. She felt her heart going boom-boom boom-boom deep in her\u003cbr\u003echest. \"Ain't no slave-kitcher takin' me!\" Sarah yelled out, daring\u003cbr\u003eTerrible Lou.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, one is, too,\" Terrible Lou said, the voice suddenly much closer.\u003cbr\u003e\"I'ma cut you up an' sell you in bits if you don't come an' git back to\u003cbr\u003ework.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah saw her sister Louvenia's plaited head appear right in front of her,\u003cbr\u003eher teeth drawn back into a snarl, and she screamed. Louvenia was too big\u003cbr\u003eto wrastle! Screaming again, Sarah took off running in the high grass, and\u003cbr\u003eshe could feel her sister's heels right behind her step for step. Louvenia\u003cbr\u003ewas laughing, and soon Sarah was laughing, too, even though it made her\u003cbr\u003elungs hurt because she was running so hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You always playin' some game! Well, I'ma catch you, too. How come you so\u003cbr\u003eslow?\" Louvenia said, forcing the words through her hard breaths, her legs\u003cbr\u003epumping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How come you so ugly?\" Sarah taunted, and shrieked again as Louvenia's\u003cbr\u003earm lunged toward her, brushing the back of her dress. Sarah barely darted\u003cbr\u003efree with a spurt of speed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You gon' be pickin' rice 'til you fall an' drown in them rice fields\u003cbr\u003edownriver.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, I ain't neither! You the one gon' drown,\" Sarah said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You the one can't swim good.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Can, too! Better'n you.\" By now, Sarah was nearly gasping from the effort\u003cbr\u003eof running as she climbed the knoll behind their house. Louvenia lunged\u003cbr\u003eafter her legs, and they both tumbled into the overgrown crabgrass. They\u003cbr\u003eswatted at each other playfully, and Sarah tried to wriggle away, but\u003cbr\u003eLouvenia held her firmly around her waist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"See, you caught now!\" Louvenia said breathlessly. \"I'ma sell you for a\u003cbr\u003ehalf dollar.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A half dollar!\" Sarah said, insulted. She gave up her struggle against\u003cbr\u003eher older sister's tight grip. Louvenia's arms, it seemed to her, were as\u003cbr\u003estrong as a man's. \"What you mean? Papa paid a dollar for his new boots!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLouvenia grinned wickedly. \"That's right. You ain't even worth one of\u003cbr\u003ePapa's boots, lazy as you is.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There Papa go now. I'ma ask him what he say I'm worth,\" Sarah teased, and\u003cbr\u003eLouvenia glanced around anxiously for Papa. If Papa saw Louvenia pinning\u003cbr\u003eSarah to the ground, Sarah knew he'd whip Louvenia for sure. Louvenia and\u003cbr\u003eAlex weren't allowed to play rough with Sarah. That was Papa's law,\u003cbr\u003ebecause she was the baby. And she'd been born two days before Christmas,\u003cbr\u003eSarah liked to remind Louvenia, so she was close to baby Jesus besides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You done it agin, Sarah. Got me playin',\" Louvenia complained, satisfied\u003cbr\u003ethat Papa was nowhere near after peering toward the dirt road and dozens\u003cbr\u003eof acres of cotton fields that had been planted in March and April,\u003cbr\u003esprouting with plants and troublesome grass and weeds. Still, her voice\u003cbr\u003ewas much more hushed than it had been before. \"You always gittin' somebody\u003cbr\u003ein trouble.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I ain't tell you to chase me. An' I ain't tell you to stop workin'.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sarah, see, you think we jus' out here playin', but then I'm the one got\u003cbr\u003eto answer why we ain't finish yet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeeing Louvenia's earnest brown eyes, Sarah knew for the first time that\u003cbr\u003eher sister had lost the heart to pretend she was a slave-kitcher, or for\u003cbr\u003eany games at all. Right now, Louvenia's face looked as solemn as Mama's or\u003cbr\u003ePapa's when the cotton yields were poor or when their house was too cold.\u003cbr\u003eAnd Louvenia was right, Sarah knew. Just a few days before, Louvenia had\u003cbr\u003ebeen whipped when they broke one of the eggs they'd been gathering in the\u003cbr\u003ehenhouse. It had been Lou's idea to break up the boredom of the task by\u003cbr\u003etossing the eggs to each other standing farther and farther away. They\u003cbr\u003ebroke an egg by the time they were through, and Sarah hadn't seen Mama\u003cbr\u003ethat mad in a long time. \"Girl, you ten years old, almost grown!\" Mama had\u003cbr\u003esaid, thrashing Louvenia's bottom with a thin branch from the sassafras\u003cbr\u003etree near their front door. \"That baby ain't s'posed to be lookin' after\u003cbr\u003eyou! When you gon' get some head sense?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLouvenia's eyes, to Sarah, looked sad and even a little scared. Maybe she\u003cbr\u003ewas remembering her thrashing, too. Sarah didn't want her sister to feel\u003cbr\u003ecross with her, because Louvenia was her only playmate. In fact, although\u003cbr\u003eSarah would never want to admit it to her, Louvenia was her best friend,\u003cbr\u003eher most favorite person. Next to Papa and Mama, of course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah squeezed Lou's hand. \"Come on, I'll help. We won't play no mo' 'til\u003cbr\u003ewe done.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We ain't gon' be done 'fore Papa and them come back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, we will, too,\" Sarah said. \"If we sing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat made Louvenia smile. She liked to sing, and Papa had taught them\u003cbr\u003esongs he learned from his pappy when he was a boy on a big plan-\u003cbr\u003etation he said had a hundred slaves. Sarah couldn't sing as well as her\u003cbr\u003esister--her voice wouldn't always do what she told it to--but singing always\u003cbr\u003emade work go by faster. Mama sang, too, when the womenfolk came on\u003cbr\u003eSaturdays to wash laundry with them on the riverbank. But Papa had the\u003cbr\u003ebest voice of all. Papa sang when he was picking, and to Sarah his voice\u003cbr\u003ewas as deep and pretty as the Mississippi River on a full-moon night. Papa\u003cbr\u003ealways started singing when he was tired, and Sarah liked to watch him\u003cbr\u003epick up his broad shoulders each time he took a breath before singing a\u003cbr\u003enew verse, as if the song was making him stronger:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO me no weary yet,\u003cbr\u003eO me no weary yet.\u003cbr\u003eI have a witness in my heart,\u003cbr\u003eO me no weary yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah and Louvenia enjoyed the uplifting messages in Mama's and Papa's\u003cbr\u003esongs, which were mostly about Jesus, heaven, and Gabriel's trumpet, but\u003cbr\u003ethey also liked the sillier songs Mama didn't approve of, the ones Papa\u003cbr\u003esang on Saturday nights after he'd had a drink from the jug he kept hidden\u003cbr\u003ebehind the old cracked wagon wheel that leaned against their cabin. Sarah\u003cbr\u003eand Louvenia thought those songs were funny, so that was what they sang\u003cbr\u003ethat afternoon as they crouched to chop weeds from Mama's garden:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHi-ho, for Charleston gals!\u003cbr\u003eCharleston gals are the gals for me.\u003cbr\u003eAs I went a-walking down the street,\u003cbr\u003eUp steps Charleston gals to take a walk with me.\u003cbr\u003eI kep' a-walking and they kep' a-talking,\u003cbr\u003eI danced with a gal with a hole in her stocking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTogether, as Sarah and her sister yanked up the stubborn weeds that grew\u003cbr\u003efrustratingly fast around Mama's rows of green beans, potatoes, and yams,\u003cbr\u003ethey sang their father's old songs. Finally, the boredom that had felt\u003cbr\u003elike it was choking Sarah all day long in the hot sun finally let her mind\u003cbr\u003ealone. Instead of fantasizing about slave-kitchers Papa had told them\u003cbr\u003eso many stories about, or fishing for catfish, or the peppermint sticks at\u003cbr\u003ethe general store in town she was allowed to eat at Christmastime, Sarah\u003cbr\u003ethought only of her task. Her hands seemed to fly. She'd chop the soil to\u003cbr\u003eloosen it with the rusted old hatchet Papa let her use, then pull up the\u003cbr\u003eweeds by the roots so they wouldn't come back. Chop and pull, chop and\u003cbr\u003epull. Sarah didn't stop working even when the rows of calluses on her\u003cbr\u003esmall hands began to throb in rhythm with her chopping. By the time they\u003cbr\u003esaw Mama's kerchief bobbing toward the house in the distance, followed by\u003cbr\u003ePapa's wide-brim hat, their weeding was finished, and they were lying on\u003cbr\u003etheir backs in the crabgrass behind their house, arguing over what shapes\u003cbr\u003ethey could see in the ghostly moon that was just beginning to make itself\u003cbr\u003evisible in a corner of the late-afternoon sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cabin's windows, which were pasted shut with paper instead of glass\u003cbr\u003eduring cooler months, were a curse in the winter, since they were little\u003cbr\u003eprotection against the biting cold even with the shutters tied shut. But\u003cbr\u003enow, in spring, when the bare windows should have been inviting in a cool\u003cbr\u003etwilight breeze, the air inside the cabin was so still, so stiff and hot\u003cbr\u003ethat Sarah hated to breathe it. It felt to her like hot air was trapped in\u003cbr\u003ethe wooden walls, in the loose floorboards, in every crooked shingle on\u003cbr\u003ethe drafty roof. Sarah watched the sunlight creeping through the slatted\u003cbr\u003ecracks in the walls and ceiling where the mud needed patching, wishing\u003cbr\u003edark would hurry up and come and make it cool. Hungry as she was, Sarah\u003cbr\u003ewished Mama didn't have the cookstove lit, because it only made the cabin\u003cbr\u003ehotter. And it wasn't even summertime yet, Sarah thought sadly. By summer\u003cbr\u003ethe heat would be worse, and the sun would bring out the cotton they would\u003cbr\u003ehave to pick come the first of September.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapa swatted at the big green flies and skeeters hovering above\u003cbr\u003ethe table. Mosquitoes always seemed to know when it was suppertime, Sarah\u003cbr\u003ethought. Papa's arm moved lazily in front of his face as he shooed the\u003cbr\u003einsects, as if he were hunched over the table asleep. Sarah knew better\u003cbr\u003ethan to try to talk to Papa too soon after he'd come back from the fields,\u003cbr\u003eespecially close to June. Sarah and Louvenia were both too small to help\u003cbr\u003ein the fields in late May, because that was when Papa, Mama, and Alex\u003cbr\u003epushed plows to break up acre after acre of soil to tend the cotton plants\u003cbr\u003eproperly. Sarah and Louvenia did weeding, or on some days carried water\u003cbr\u003eand corncakes out to the croppers. Papa hated plowing those deep furrows\u003cbr\u003ebetween the rows, and Sarah could see how much he hated it in the lines on\u003cbr\u003ehis frowning, sunbaked face as he sat\u003cbr\u003eat the table. Papa and Alex were barebacked, so slick with sweat they\u003cbr\u003elooked greased up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapa and Alex spoke to each other with short grunts and words uttered so\u003cbr\u003elow Sarah couldn't make out what they were saying, man-talking that came\u003cbr\u003efrom deep in their throats. She'd heard men speak that way to each other\u003cbr\u003ein the fields, or as they rested on the front stoop and shared a jug and\u003cbr\u003erumbles of laughter. Papa grunted something, and Alex smiled, muttering\u003cbr\u003ehusky words back. Sarah knew her brother was nearly a man now, and she'd\u003cbr\u003eseen the change in the way Papa treated him. It was the same way Mama was\u003cbr\u003etreating Louvenia like a grown woman, expecting her to cook and mend and\u003cbr\u003edo a bigger share of fieldwork. Everyone was grown-up except her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah knew she could go to her pallet and play with the doll Papa had made\u003cbr\u003eher out of cornhusks wrapped together with twine, but she wanted\u003cbr\u003eto be more grown-up than that. She walked across the cabin--she counted\u003cbr\u003etwenty paces to get from one side to the other; she'd learned numbers up\u003cbr\u003eto twenty from Papa--and stood by the cookstove on her tiptoes to watch\u003cbr\u003eMama stir collard greens in her big saucepan while Louvenia sat on the\u003cbr\u003efloor and mended a tear in her dress. Mama had one kerchief on her head\u003cbr\u003eand one knotted around her neck, both of them gray from grime. Her cheeks\u003cbr\u003ewere full, and she had a youthful, pretty face; skin black as midnight and\u003cbr\u003esmooth like an Indian squaw's, Papa always said. Gazing at her, Sarah\u003cbr\u003ewondered if her mother would ever become stooped-over and sour-faced like\u003cbr\u003eso many other women she had seen in the fields.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSarah expected Mama to tell her to get from underfoot, but she didn't.\u003cbr\u003eInstead she gave Sarah a big, steaming bowl. \"Pass yo' papa his supper,\"\u003cbr\u003eMama told her, and Sarah grinned. The smell of the greens, yams, and corn\u003cbr\u003ebread made her stomach flip from hunger. Papa's eyes didn't smile when he\u003cbr\u003etook his food from Sarah, but he did squeeze her fingers. Sarah knew that\u003cbr\u003ewas his special way of saying Thank you, Li'l Bit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside, Papa's hound barked loudly, and Papa and Alex looked up\u003cbr\u003eat the same instant. They all heard the whinny of a horse and a heavy\u003cbr\u003eclop-clopping sound that signaled the arrival of not one horse, but two or\u003cbr\u003emore. An approaching wagon scraped loudly in the dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who'n de world . . . ?\" Mama said, leaning toward the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not-uh,\" Papa warned her, standing tall so quickly that his chair\u003cbr\u003escreeched on the hard packed-dirt floor. \"Don' put your head out. Git\u003cbr\u003eback.\" Something in Papa's voice that Sarah couldn't quite name made her\u003cbr\u003estomach fall silent, and it seemed to harden to stone. His voice was\u003cbr\u003edangerous, wound tight, and Sarah didn't know where that new quality had\u003cbr\u003ecome from so suddenly. She had never heard Papa sound that way before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilently, Mama took Sarah's hand and pulled her back toward the stove at\u003cbr\u003ethe rear of the cabin. Louvenia was still sitting on the floor, but her\u003cbr\u003ehands were frozen with her thread and needle in midair. Alex stood up at\u003cbr\u003ethe table while Papa took long strides to the doorway, where he stood with\u003cbr\u003ehis arms folded across his chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Whoa there!\" a man's voice outside snapped to his horses. It sounded like\u003cbr\u003ea white man. Sarah felt her mother's grip tighten around her fingers, her\u003cbr\u003eface drawn with concern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapa's whole demeanor changed; the shoulders that had been thrust so high\u003cbr\u003esuddenly fell, as if he had exhaled all his breath. He shifted his weight,\u003cbr\u003eno longer blocking the light from the doorway. The dangerous stance had\u003cbr\u003evanished. \"Evenin', Missus,\" Papa said, nearly mumbling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Evening, Owen,\" a woman's voice said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA frightening thought came to Sarah: I hope they ain't here to take our\u003cbr\u003ehouse away. She didn't know why the visitors would do something like that,\u003cbr\u003ebut she did know that she'd heard Mama and Papa talking about their\u003cbr\u003epayment being late. And she knew that their house, like everything\u003cbr\u003eelse--including the land as far as they could see, Papa's tools, their\u003cbr\u003ecottonseed, and even the straw pallets they slept on--belonged to the\u003cbr\u003eBurney daughters. Time was, before 'Man-ci-pa-tion and the war that ended\u003cbr\u003etwo years before Sarah was born, and before Ole Marster and Ole Missus\u003cbr\u003edied in '66 (\"Of heartbreak,\" Mama always said, because of their land\u003cbr\u003ebeing overrun by Yankees and their crops and buildings burned up), the\u003cbr\u003eBurneys owned Mama and Papa and a lot of other slaves besides. Some of\u003cbr\u003ethose slaves, like Mama and Papa, still worked on the land as croppers.\u003cbr\u003eBut some of the other slaves, Mama told her, were so happy to be free that\u003cbr\u003ethey'd just left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere'd they go? Sarah had asked, full of wonder at the notion that\u003cbr\u003ethe other freed slaves had crossed the bridge to go to Vicksburg, or even\u003cbr\u003ebeyond. The only other places she knew about were Mississippi and\u003cbr\u003eCharleston, like in the song. Had they gone away on a steamship? On a\u003cbr\u003etrain?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey went on they own feets, pullin' every scrap they owned on wagons,\u003cbr\u003eMama said. And Lord only know where they at now. Might wish they was back\u003cbr\u003ehere. Now Sarah had a bad feeling. She wondered why Mama and Papa hadn't\u003cbr\u003epulled a wagon with every scrap they owned and left on their own feet\u003cbr\u003eafter freedom came, too. If they had, they wouldn't be late on their\u003cbr\u003epayment, and these white folks wouldn't be coming to take their house.\u003cbr\u003eBased on the research and writing of acclaimed author Alex Haley","brand":"One World","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304294043877,"sku":"NP9780345441560","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345441560.jpg?v=1767738404","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-black-rose-isbn-9780345441560","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}