An eye-opening, atmospheric novel set in the South and Midwest during the time of Jim Crow that reveals a little-known part of American pre-civil rights history of Black intrigue and power.
In the South, justice is swift and absolute.
Jordan Sable, a prosperous undertaker turned political boss, has controlled the Black vote in St. Louis for decades. Sara, his equally formidable wife, runs the renowned funeral establishment that put the Sable name on the map. Agile and pragmatic, she is known for the careful, deliberate way in which she powders, dresses, and embalms the community's dead.Together, in a true partnership built on trust, mutual respect, and a shared vision for a better future, they have pushed through several obstacles in order to create a legacy for their children through a business that serves as a source of unity and stability for their friends and neighbors.
When tragedy bursts their carefully constructed empire of dignity and safety, the family rallies around an unconventional solution. But at what cost?
Set in the Midwest in the 1940s, The Sable Cloak is a rarely seen portrait of an upper middle class, African American family in the pre-Civil Rights era. Brimming with multifaceted characters who weave their way through love, heartbreak, and the fight for autonomy, this intricate, deeply personal novel inspired by the author's own family history delves into legacy and the stories we tell ourselves, and celebrates a largely self-sustaining, culturally rich Missouri community that most Americans may not be aware of.
Release date:
February 4, 2025
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
240
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Little Sarah? Where in the devil are you?” Mattie called out as she searched for her younger sister in the Franklins’ spacious parlor.
Sarah parted the brocade cloth that covered the wee teapoy where she hid, just enough for one of her eyes to peer out. She stifled a laugh as she watched Mattie scour the same obvious places: inside the maple wood trunk, behind the navy-blue drapes that hopscotched across one wall, and under the two matching settees. She waited until Mattie spread herself flat on the floor for a look under the low-slung cocktail table, then let out a squeal, burst forth from the deepest corner of the room, and ran toward her.
“Can I help you?” Sarah teased and offered her a hand.
Mattie jumped up and swatted at her with the kitchen towel she snatched from her apron pocket, but Sarah scooted away.
“You rascal, you. One day I’ll beat you at your own game, Little Sarah.”
Sarah turned toward her sister.
“Stop calling me that,” Sarah demanded and put one fist on each hip.
“But you are a rascal. If the name fits…”
“No, not that. You know what I mean. I’m almost eight. I’m not little anymore.”
“Mama is Big Sarah and you are Little Sarah and that’s just the way it goes. We gotta know the difference between the two of you.” She laughed.
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“But you are a little thing. About knee high to a grasshopper.” Mattie giggled again as she reached to pinch her nose.
“No, I’m not,” Sarah insisted and swung away again.
She hurried out of the parlor, crossed the grand foyer, and slammed the front door behind her. She sat on the top step of the expansive front porch and looked out over acre after acre of the Franklins’ rich farmland. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears.
Her parents, Horace and Big Sarah, were tall and straight and towered over most of the colored in Greenston. Mattie, born four years before her, had shot up and already surpassed Anna, the first-born girl, in height. Yet Sarah remained petite for her age and her family never stopped mentioning her early delivery and how they had feared she wouldn’t survive.
Her father had given his two older daughters their own teeny plots of land. She often watched them plunge their hands into the dirt, and lovingly drop seeds for collard and mustard greens. Whenever Sarah asked for some soil, her father would tell her:
“Your delicate hands are better suited for needlepoint. Your brother and sisters can learn how to feed us. You, my dear, can nourish us with beauty!”
“Darlin’? What are you doing out here?”
Sarah looked up into her mother’s soothing, doe-like eyes, and saw Davis, their driver, atop a buggy behind her. Clara, the housekeeper, smiled the little girl’s way as she carried packages into the house.
“When did you get here, Mama?”
“Just now. You didn’t notice me at all? Off daydreaming somewhere?”
“I don’t know, Mama.”
“I left you with Mattie. Has she been goading you again?”
Sarah said nothing as her mother lifted her chin.
“There’s one way I know to turn the corners of your mouth up. Come with me.” Big Sarah sat her daughter on the buggy’s back seat and climbed up next to her.
“Davis, the emporium, please.”
“Oh, Mama. Yes, let’s go!” Sarah shouted and off they went to the family’s store.
As they rode toward Sunset, the Negro part of Greenston, Sarah watched her mother acknowledge each Black passerby in some way: a bow of her head, a blown kiss, a wink, or a wave. Little Sarah copied each gesture. Her mother’s demeanor changed, however, whenever a white person appeared, and instead she stared ahead or into her lap or leaned forward toward Davis to banter.
“Mama, why don’t you say hello when you see white people?”
“My dear, all God’s children are the same. But when some of them choose to act ugly, they should be ignored. That’s all you need to know for now.”
“You all treat me like I’m too young for everything.” Sarah folded her arms in front of her chest.
Sarah unfolded her daughter’s arms, took her hands, and looked into her eyes.
“Some white people think we aren’t as good as they are. And when they treat us like nothing, they are actually showing us that they are the inferior ones. Always know that you are just as good as anyone, and be the best at whatever you choose to do. Never, never, settle for less. Understand?”
Little Sarah nodded. When they pulled up in front of a storefront with an outsized sign that read MADAME SARAH’S EMPORIUM, Sarah patted down her hair and pinafore before scurrying inside. She and her mother walked up and down each aisle of merchandise.
“Good morning, Mrs. White,” Big Sarah said as she passed one customer.
“Good morning, Mrs. White,” Little Sarah repeated.
When her mother stopped to adjust an out-of-place item, Sarah hunted for one to rearrange as well. When she stooped to inspect if the floors under the clothes racks had been properly dusted, Sarah did the same. They then stopped in the middle of the cavernous main room at the checkout counter where Mrs. Wilson controlled the cash box when Big Sarah was absent from the store.
While the two women talked, Sarah slipped off to the far wall where bolts of cloth slept on shelving, awaiting a seamstress to awaken them. She gravitated, as she always did, to the silks and velvets, fingering the ones she could reach. When she was sure there was no one in sight, she unwrapped the end of a striped eggshell-yellow-and-empire-blue fabric and rolled it around her torso.
“And where might you be going all dressed up?”
Sarah knew her mother’s voice and the feel of her hand resting on her shoulder. She swiveled around.
“Oh, Mama. Don’t be mad at me, please. I just wanted to know what it was like to be—”
“All grown-up? And off to a ball somewhere?”
“Oh yes, Mama. Yes!”
“You will, my dear. One day.”
“But not the ones here. Bigger ones.”
“My darlin’, you have such dreams. I’ll pray that they come your way. But first, let’s rearrange this.” Big Sarah smoothed out the cloth and rewound it.
“Mama? Can I go outside now, please?”
“If you hadn’t drifted off to the king’s formal dance”—she laughed—“you’d have been there already. Of course, my dear. Run along.”
Sarah headed out the back door toward the small shed attached to the emporium and, once inside, surveyed the numerous emptied boxes and crates. She went from one to the next, reading the return labels aloud. Atlanta, New Orleans, New York City, St. Louis, Savannah. She turned a carton upside down and sat on top. I’ll order buttons and beads and all sorts of things when I take over from Mama. And I’ll go to all these places myself and choose each one, I will.
Before long, Big Sarah joined her.
“Darlin’, where did you imagine yourself today?”
“Everywhere!”
Big Sarah stretched out her arms and her daughter ran to her.
“After all your traveling around the country, you must be ready for a cool drink. How about that?”
Little Sarah nodded, and hand in hand they walked to the modest soda fountain toward the front of the store.
Over the next three years, Sarah observed her siblings grow up around her. Although she remained pint-sized, she garnered the most attention in her family because of her beguiling face: oval with prominent cheekbones; bottomless dimples that announced themselves almost before she grinned; hazel eyes that took on a purplish cast if she wore blue; and a creamy, flawless complexion that sprouted a few freckles in the sun.
Sarah tagged along with Mattie whenever her sister allowed it. One early summer day when Sarah couldn’t find her in the house, she opened the front door to take a gander outside, and startled Mattie and Henry Cornwall, Mattie’s beau, who stood hand in hand before her.
Exasperated Mattie said, “Run along, Sarah.”
“But why?” Sarah asked.
“Papa’s waiting for us.”
“What for?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Sarah stood her ground and saw how Henry adjusted his tie, straightened his cuffs, and dug the soles of his shoes, one after the other, into the doormat for one more swipe before entering.
“I told you to run along,” Mattie reiterated.
By this time Henry had positioned himself in front of the hallstand’s mirror and Sarah watched as he smoothed his hair and checked for any flecks of anything on his coat jacket.
“Henry, you look dapper,” she said, then turned to her sister. “That’s the right word, Mattie?”
“It certainly is, you rascal,” Mattie responded, and they both laughed.
“Thank ya kindly, Sarah,” Henry answered.
“All right, Mattie, I’ll go now,” Sarah conceded.
She walked outside and waited until the pocket doors to the parlor banged shut. Then she returned to the foyer and put her ear to the key opening. The inaudible conversation frustrated her and just as she decided to wander away, Mattie started to sob as loudly as she’d ever heard her. Sarah jumped back when Henry pushed the doors apart, shut them, and, almost tripping over his feet, headed out of the house without a word.
That evening, the Franklins gathered for supper in their well-appointed dining room. Mattie, eyes still crimson, moved food aimlessly around on her plate. After the rest had eaten in near silence, their father, Horace, cleared his throat.
“You all are awfully quiet this evening,” he remarked and looked around the table. “Maybe you already know what happened here today.”
“Some white slickster trying to steal land from us again?” Nathan chuckled and Anna laughed along with him.
“If it were only that easy, my son. I’ve easily dealt with those scoundrels. But this is an affair of the heart,” Horace emphasized. “Henry Cornwall came to ask for your sister’s hand in marriage.” Horace turned his eyes to Mattie and addressed her with a firm voice. “And we won’t have it!”
Mattie rose from her seat, shouting back defiantly, “But, Papa, what about what I want?”
“First of all, Mathilda, you sit down and listen to what I say.”
Mattie settled back into her seat. Nathan and Anna sat silently, transfixed. Little Sarah grasped Mattie’s hand under the table while Big Sarah stared straight ahead.
“Your mother and I like Henry. He’s a decent boy. Since he set eyes on you the first day of kindergarten, the two of you have been inseparable. But marriage? That’s for a lifetime. It means children, heirs…”
“My life will be over if I can’t be with him,” Mattie sobbed.
“Mattie.” His voice softened. “Your life is just starting. You’ve got to finish school. We’re fortunate to live in a place where there’s one of the only high schools for colored people in South Carolina. We Franklins are all educated.”
“I will finish school, Papa. Henry was asking for a betrothal, so he’ll know that as soon as I finish, we can…”
“That’s not the point, darlin’. It’s Henry. He dropped out of high school and”—Horace hesitated—“he comes from different stock.”
“No, he doesn’t!” Mattie insisted. She let Sarah’s hand go. “Your parents, Mama’s parents, might have served the massa inside his house while Henry’s kin worked the fields. But we were ALL slaves, Papa! And these acres of fertile land you got? If Massa Franklin hadn’t fathered your father, and hadn’t given him all this, we’d be sharecroppers just like Henry’s people. And Mama’s mama got her land for the same reason!”
“Now, Mattie, you pay attention to me. All you see, all we have, isn’t just because of the bequest of some depraved slave masters. We Franklins expanded our holdings after emancipation through our labor! And the parcel your mama’s folks got was the worst that their massa owned.”
Mattie stayed quiet as her father continued.
“Yes, we knew how to set a table and polish silver. But our folks emptied more than their share of filthy bedpans as well,” Horace said sharply. “Your mama didn’t just establish our emporium on a humbug. She saved until she could. You’re too young to appreciate what heritage means. How it must be preserved and nurtured and enriched. You see what’s become of your mama’s baby sister. She ran off with that John Anderson who has next to nothing to give her.”
Mattie started to weep, and Little Sarah reached up and patted her sister’s eyes with a linen napkin.
“Darlin’, you just don’t understand.” Horace shook his head from side to side.
“All I understand is that I can’t go on without him. Please let me be his wife. I can’t live without him. I can’t!”
Anna crouched down next to Mattie and hugged her as tightly as Sarah did from her other side.
“Please stop that sobbing,” Horace said.
“I know what I want. I know what I’m doing. Papa, please.”
“I cannot give you my permission.”
“Then I’ll run off and you’ll never see me again. I will. I don’t care.” She tried to bolt from her sisters’ grasp, but both of them held on to her. As they stroked her head, she quieted down.
Big Sarah tapped her glass. “This conversation is over for now,” she said.
“But, Mama, what does that mean?” Mattie and Little Sarah both blurted out.
“You heard me,” their mother replied.
Mattie immediately retreated to her bedroom and did not emerge for breakfast or lunch the next day. Little Sarah brought up a tray of food and implored Mattie to eat, but Mattie refused. She would speak to no one.
After lunch, Little Sarah spied her parents entering the parlor. They locked the doors behind them and remained there until dinner.
The entire family was called to the table, including Mattie, who came reluctantly, still determined not to talk nor eat. After everyone sat, Horace tapped his glass.
“Your mama reminded me that human kindness will often accept what common sense denies. With that in mind, your mother and I consent to Mattie’s engagement to Henry,” he announced.
Little Sarah clapped her hands and hugged Mattie, whose mouth had dropped open.
“I knew you would say yes!” Little Sarah shouted. “Oh, thank you so much.”
“You’re not the one who’s getting married, my dear,” her mother kidded.
“I know, but it means so much to her, and she means so much to me, and I just want everyone to be happy! You wouldn’t break Mattie’s heart. You couldn’t!”
Big Sarah now stood up and looked at Mattie.
“But our approval carries conditions. First of all, Mathilda Franklin, you will finish high school.”
“Of course, Mama. You know that,” Mattie declared and broke out into a confident smile.
“And Anna? You will chaperone Mattie and Henry whenever they are together.”
“But, Mama, what about when Northrup comes to visit me? He doesn’t get much time off from his work as a Pullman porter,” Anna answered.
“Your fiancé will be glad to help you out with this, and get to know your sister and her intended better now, won’t he? And once you marry him and move to Atlanta, your sister, Sarah, will assume this duty.”
“Furthermore,” Horace interjected, “I expect Henry to put aside as much money as he can during these next two years. I want to see periodic accountings of his savings.”
“Oh, Papa. Yes. Yes. Yes. Henry can sprout beans out of rocks and he’s also a smithy now. He’ll do whatever you say. I’m so grateful,” Mattie cried.
“I’m so happy for you, my Mattie, that I could cry, too,” Little Sarah said.
She then led her sister to her parents and motioned for Nathan and Anna to join them in a family hug.
St. Louis, Missouri, 1914
Jordan Winfred Sable prided himself on his ability to rule any steed. His daddy, Jesse, worked for a white man who owned a small stock farm just outside St. Louis, and Jordan had spent every Saturday there since he was five years old. He began by currying the horses’ bellies and wound up atop even the most rambunctious stallion in record time.
“Don’t ya never come up behind one of them critters,” Jesse repeatedly schooled him. “Or ya could get the kick of a lifetime and wind up dead. And don’t show no fear, even if one of them starts buckin’ and neighin’ like he’s plumb crazy. And keep yo’ word with them. No backin’ and forthin’. Ya gotta take control, ya understand me?”
“Kinda like with people, right?” Jordan would always reply.
“How’d ya get so smart?”
“By watching you.”
One late October day when Jordan was just shy of sixteen, he and his father stood in the stalls together, pitching hay and sweeping up the remnants.
“This place would fall apart without you, Papa,” Jordan said, and threw down his broom. “You’re the one who makes sure there’s enough food for the cattle and horses, but never too much, so none of it’s wasted. You always know when a cow’s gonna calve or a filly’s gonna foal. You know more and do more than anybody around here. Including that no-account owner.”
“Hush, Son. Don’t want Mr. Hart or nobody else to hear ya.” Jesse glanced around the shed.
“Why do you make him think he knows everything?” Jordan approached his father and stared him in the eyes.
“’Cause I want to keep my job. We need the money. Wanna be able to give yo’ mama and sister a few nice things. Ya smart. Want ya to go to college. Puttin’ some money away for that, too.”
“You don’t need to, especially if it means kowtowing to some good-for-nothing…”
“I told ya to hush now. These walls got ears.”
Jesse picked up Jordan’s broom and handed it to him, but his son refused to take it.
“I still don’t see it like that.”
“While ya under my roof, ya gonna see it my way, boy! And you won’t defy me. Now take this!” He rammed the broom into Jordan’s chest. “The best way to make it in this world is to watch me. See how I treat white folks. When ya finish school, look for a decent white man to work for. That’ll feed yo’ family and keep a roof over ya, ya hear?”
A yell from the main house interrupted them.
“Jesse!” his boss hollered. “Get up here!”
Jesse scurried out of the barn and up the hill, with Jordan close behind, but stopped abruptly and clutched his chest.
“Papa, you okay?”
“Just a little heartburn, I reckon. Don’t like the boss’s tone. We gotta go.”
“Papa, take it easy. We’ll get there soon enough.” Jordan took his father by the arm and helped him finish the walk.
“What kinda nigger mess have ya made?” Joe Hart hollered as soon as they arrived in his office.
“Mr. Hart, suh, I dunno what ya mean.” Jesse looked bewildered.
Hart sat at his desk, rifling through papers. “Ya been fiddlin’ with the inventory numbers. What do ya take me for?”
“But, Mr. Hart, just double-checkin’ everythin’ like ya told me to.” Jesse massaged his chest as he spoke, and Jordan held on to his other arm.
“I don’t care what I told ya. Ya not supposed to change anything.”
“Whatever ya say.”
“Now, go on and get outta here.” Hart looked down at his desk as he snarled. “Rake up some leaves. Do something ya know how to do.” He then raised his head. “And keep that big, fat, black, ugly nose of yours outta my books from now on.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Jordan’s eyes stung from holding on to his tears.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?” Jordan blurted the moment they got outside.
“And I told ya that ya gotta know how to handle white folks. They hold the key. Ya gonna get yo’ education and…”
“Not if I have to get it this way. . .
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