Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (12 page)

“You don’t think I’m safe for her?”

“You’re not even safe for you tonight. I don’t say that to condemn. I know
you love Jesus. If you didn’t you wouldn’t be on the phone with an old cuss
like me.”

“So what do I want?”

“You tell me. And how’s about you give me your no-bull answer? What
do you want, Nicky?”

“Man, she’s so beautiful, Richard.”

“She is, but that doesn’t tell me what you want. Go on.”

“What if I only dig Rebecca because it’s easy? I certainly don’t have to lie
here wondering if I’m a racist when I think about her. I lie here thinking I’m
a jerk, but not a racist.”

“That’s definitely easier.”

“What if my white guilt is why I’m attracted to her?”

“I don’t think white guilt is driving you, Nicky. Come on. Dig a little
deeper.”

I stare at the phone. The old fart is making me work. “Okay, what if, God
help me, it’s not just lust I’m experiencing, but I really want to
know
Zora?
How smart she is? What makes her laugh? What makes her feel? I want to see
her dance, Richard. I want to see her paint.”

“Do you think you’re afraid of intimacy?”

“Richard, I can’t even begin to figure out how to be intimate with a
woman. I know sex. I don’t know intimacy. I’m afraid I don’t have any self-
control, and if by some miracle we end up together, I’ll probably disappoint
her.”

“Like you disappoint your father?”

“Yeah. Maybe even more than I disappoint my father.”

For a few moments we’re quiet, then he breaks the silence.

“You’re affected by her, Nicky. You’re digging into your big ol’ box of
manipulations so you won’t have to deal with the crap that’s coming up in
you. Zora came into your life and, without even knowing it, threatened
your self-imposed exile. Now you want to use sex, and it doesn’t matter if it’s
masturbation or sex with her or somebody else. You’re really trying
not
to feel.
You want to blunt how vulnerable you are. And how ugly some of the stuff
inside of you is. It’s scary to think maybe you can be
involved
with a woman.
I mean really involved, Nicky, in a way that will change you. Like maybe you
could love somebody. And she’s a black woman. That can really shake up your
narrow little world.”

“I’m a sinner. A rascal, rebel, and whore. I don’t know how to love.”

“Say that last part again.”

“I don’t know how to love.”

“Now, Nicky, tell me what you really want.”

I finally know what he’s been getting at. “I want to love.”

That statement hovers in the air like something alive and big, and I feel a
little courage seeing it. “I want to
be
loved too, but I’m so messed up.”

“That’s also why you called, Nicky. You don’t want to be full of the racist
crap we’ve all got. If you did, it wouldn’t have bothered you what Pete said.
By your own admission you’ve thought the same thing yourself. But you can’t
sex the darkness inside of you away.”

“What am I gonna do, Rich?”

“Normally, I’d tell you to go read your Bible, but for right now, I want
you to do something physical. I want you to engage your body in a different
way than you wanted to. I’m going to give you a bodily prayer. Read the
Scriptures after you do what I ask, okay?”

“Okay.”

“First I want you to get quiet. Lie face down on the floor with your body
in the shape of the cross, and don’t get up until the urge to do something that
doesn’t reflect the love of God passes. The love of God will deliver you. If you
think, ‘Whatever happens, I’ll err on the side of the love of God,’ you’ll be all
right. ‘Does the love of God want me to masturbate? Does the love of God
want me to defile Zora?’ It’s kinda like those weird rubber bracelets, only
you’re asking what would love do.”

“What if I fail, Richard?”

“A righteous man falls seven times in a day. Get up again, or in this case,
lie down on your face again. Just like Zora did. And you don’t have such a
nice silhouette, so it shouldn’t distract anybody.”

I smile, even though he can’t see over the phone. “All right. I’m gonna
try it.”

“Trust God. Have a little faith.”

“I will.”

“It only takes a mustard seed. Those are tiny.”

“That’s all I got. Tiny faith.”

“That’ll do. Night, Nicky.”

“Good night, Rich.”

I get off the phone and sit up on my bed. This is what I get for hanging
around weird old former Catholic rascal-rebel-whores who have faith.

I stand. Stretch. Sit on the bed again. I don’t want to lie on the floor.
I’ve got hardwood floors, and it’s gonna feel bad. Relieving myself would be
a lot easier, but then how would I feel? Guilty. And what if I ever see Zora
again? I’ll feel all weird, as if she could know I had nasty thoughts about her.
I’ll probably never see her again, after I called her rude like that. Then again,
she’ll probably think I’ll never want to see her again now that I know what she
really thinks about the white people she’s met. But this isn’t so much about
Zora. It’s a God and Nicky thing.

It’s a God and Nicky thing.

Before I can change my mind, I drop to my knees. I stay there for a while.
Just thinking—or rather, avoiding.

Finally, I lie down. I stretch my arms out and one goes under my bed. I
saw something like this in the movie
Luther
, and even then something in me
admired the idea of stretching out in your own cross. I felt drawn to it. And
now, here I am. Still, I feel silly. My dad would have a quadruple bypass if he
saw this. In fact, he wouldn’t even need the bypass. He’d just fall dead of a
heart attack on the spot.

I lie like that for at least an hour-and-a-half, ticked off at Richard for
making me do something so dumb and ineffective, but I don’t get up.

Oh, but at dawn, as the light eases through my miniblinds, something
begins to change. Suddenly my cross, my awkward position, my cold skin,
my discomfort gets lost, absorbed into the cross of Christ. His nailed-on,
outrageously beyond-awkward position, and His whip-split flesh become my
meditation. I ruminate on His nakedness and humiliation. My little cross
of sexual temptation—all my little crosses—is nothing.
Nothing
! Except to
Him, who loves me so much that every little thing I bear in this life matters.
Enough to die for.

I don’t think of me anymore. I don’t think of Zora. Jesus soaks Nicky
Parker’s games in blood and love. It’s as if that blood and love nourishes the
fallow ground in my heart, and suddenly everything inside begins to green
and bloom.

He makes a garden filled with roses. Crimson-colored roses for me to run
in, even though there are thorns big enough to pierce your head.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ZORA

Friday morning. After a fitful sleep, I awaken to the sound of five rapid-
fire raps at my door. That is his warning. I know that knock. I hear his key
twisting inside my lock. My father is coming in.

I stumble out of my room to the door, righting pajama bottoms twisted
around my waist. I try to prepare myself to face him. It can’t be too bad.
This is my daddy. But I did make him angry. No one challenges
The Bishop
,
especially not his little girl.

But this is Daddy.

He swings the door open, perhaps expecting I’d still be sleeping. He looks
a little surprised to see me standing there near the door. He comes inside,
walks past me, and seats himself on my sofa. No greeting. He’s obviously not
here to extend social graces.

He glances around at a room he’s seen a million times.

The sapphire blue walls. The Sankofa symbols I stenciled onto the
borders in a cream color, the same as my leather sofa. For Word-Faithers,
we Hampton-Johnsons are a particularly culturally aware bunch. Funky, hip
Cheryl Riley furniture, all contemporary and afrocentric. The fine art prints—
Daddy thinks the originals are too expensive and not worth it. Gilbert Young,
Cynthia St. James, Romare Beardon. Everybody I wish I had the courage to be
like. MacKenzie has life drawings and renderings she’s framed and displayed.
Just a few. Painting and drawing aren’t her thing; she’s more of a furniture
design diva. I’m the one who paints and draws. In theory.

I do not showcase my art. I don’t have a single painting of my own displayed
in my apartment. Not one drawing. My easel and paints hide away in my closet
like you’d keep the clothing of a loved one who died out of sight.

Daddy sits on the sofa like he owns it. Which he does.

It’s not his fault I haven’t displayed my work. I’m grown. I can paint if I
want to. Can’t I? I try to choke back anger rising like the tide inside of me.
Or is that grief?

Wait a minute. I’ve got everything. Look around you, Z.

Isn’t this everything? Even MacKenzie said I need to be thankful for these
blessings. I should apologize.

But I say nothing.

It feels like a snake is coiled tightly inside of me, and if I open my mouth,
it will hiss, strike, kill. And I can’t guarantee exactly what or who will die.

God help me.

Daddy hasn’t lost his words. “Don’t you have something to say to me,
Zora?”

“Mama stopped by last night. She brought me my purse and talked to
me.”

“Then I believe you have something to say to me.”

But I don’t. My mother wore me out with her recriminations. I’m silent.

He stares at me. I try to remember how badly my grandfather treated him.
I think of the road map of misery trailing scars across his back. I try to dredge
up every psych class I’ve ever taken. Tell myself he’s only this controlling
because he’s had so many losses. I try to think of him like the little boy he
was, just being himself and having his father try to beat the Jack Johnson out
of him. Beat him like a slave.

Slave.

Slave.

Slave.

Daddy doesn’t beat me. My daddy doesn’t beat me.

I still can’t speak.

“So, you’re just going to stand there and stare at me?”

I clear my throat. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m perfectly
capable of speaking. I just do not wish to be manipulated. “No, sir.”

“No, sir, what?” he barks like a drill sergeant.

“No, sir.”

“I said, ‘No, sir, what?’ What do you have to say to me, Zora?”

I start to feel hot. Sweaty. For a moment it feels like I can’t breathe.

No, sir, what? No, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir, boss. Yes, sir, boss.

I wonder, do I bow my back and widen my eyes, shuffle my feet? Uh, no,
suh. Uh, yes um, massa. I’s sorry I’s offended you! Suh! Massa.

This is your father. A black man. Don’t be like this, Z.

I press my lips together, still not knowing what’s wrong with me.

Daddy stands up. “You want to act like you’re mute. That’s fine with me.
I can get quiet too. But before I do, I’m taking my stuff. You want to be on
your own? You do that, Zora. You are on your own. And your mother, your
brothers, your sister, none of them can help you, or I cut them off. Do you
understand?”

“Mama came by last night. We talked.”

“Then you should have apologized.”

I want to say, “I didn’t do anything,” but I can’t seem to get the words
out of me.

My heart thunders inside me. I hope he can’t see through my baggy
pajama pants how my legs are trembling. I didn’t know it was possible to feel
so angry. I want to tell him to take his stuff, and then tell him what to do
with it, but I can’t bring myself to do that any more than I can apologize for
wanting to own my own life.

I don’t understand. All I wanted to do was finish the newsletter. Skip
dinner. Dress in jeans and a sweatshirt.

Maybe this is my answer. Maybe this is Jesus’ capsule course on poverty.
The thought of that takes a bit of the sting away.

Daddy’s rage is so completely controlled it startles me how casual he
sounds. “I’ve got some of the men from church and a moving truck with me.
I’m here to get all my things since you don’t want to honor your father. You
can keep what’s on your back.”

The words confuse me, as if he’d spoken in Swahili. I can keep what’s on
my back?

He holds his hand out. “Give me your jewelry, including your promise
ring.”

This
is
another language. I was to give my daddy this ring back after I
gave my husband my virginity. This is the ring I put on in tears, promising my
daddy I would not as much as kiss a young man until I was on the altar letting
my daddy pronounce me my husband’s wife. This ring kept me through
high school. It kept me in college when I was away from home, aching and
throbbing with need and loneliness. I would tell myself those nights I fought
alone against my own body, fingering that band of gold on my finger, “I
promised. True love waits.” And I meant that.

I don’t understand this.

But I take off my promise ring. I put it back in his hand the same way
I put it on my finger, with tears in my eyes. I guess promises are made to be
broken, just like the world and all those fast heifers at school said.

I give him my gold hoops. I take the cross off my neck and give it to him.
It’s like an out of body experience. Suddenly I’m not inside of me anymore.
I’m watching myself put my treasures, my maid’s ornaments, into his hand.
And it’s strange and surreal, as if I’m a ghost, something dead, watching what
used to be me going through the motions.

He storms past me and knocks me so hard that I fall to the ground. He
doesn’t even look back.

I’m glad the lease is in my name. At least he can’t take the apartment.

Two of the guys I go to church with walk in to help my father strip me
of my dignity. They refuse to look at me. I grew up with them. Mike Gregory
and Timothy Jones. I used to have a crush on Tim. They work with solemn
efficiency, and for a man who hardly gets his holy hands dirty anymore,
The
Bishop
throws himself wholeheartedly into this project.

Everything they walk out the door with cuts like a slash across my back.

No, this is different. He’s not treating me like he was treated. This is just
stuff. This is not a beating. These are not stripes across my back like the lashes
he got.

They take everything that Mac hasn’t packed for her move. They take all
the furniture. The art. My easel and paints and brushes from the deep recesses
of my now empty closets. They take my toothbrush! Everything they think
belongs to me, until nothing remains but Mac’s boxed-up belongings.

MacKenzie, for all her talk, is at least her own woman. Her things are
hers. She doesn’t even have credit card debt. Nobody can repossess her life.

I’m amazed at how quickly my life disappears. Nothing left but the
pajamas on my body, some papers, business cards, and a handmade card in
calligraphy that dropped out of the spring purse Tim emptied when he was
taking my makeup.

I
WALK IN
and out of MacKenzie’s room. She’s ready to fly away on her own,
black, shining wings. She gave away her furniture to a single mother who
had a three-year-old baby, a man in prison, and a whole lot of nothing. I
think about what her room used to look like before she boxed up what she’d
take with her to Parsons. A little lived in, but mostly neat. MacKenzie had
cute furniture, but it was cheap. I joked with her that it was mortal, and
when it died it would turn to dust.
Sawdust
that is. She could only afford
prefabricated furniture kits you had to put together yourself, that you’d better
not dare put a teacup on. Another artist friend of ours, Shanna, calls that kind
of furniture “Shanghai surprise.”

I wonder if Mac thought my jokes about her furniture were funny, while
I sat in the living room on my Cheryl Riley originals. Oh, Lord. And now it
looks like the Grinch stole
my
Christmas.

My knees feel week. I realize that hours have gone by since I woke up
and I haven’t eaten a thing. I walk on shaky legs into the empty kitchen. My
dining room furniture is gone, not as fancy as my mother’s, but a scaled-
down version by the same designer. All my linens with the Adinkra symbol
embroidery that went with the stencils on the walls are gone too. I’m grateful
I didn’t rent a house, because maybe he’d have taken the stove and refrigerator
too.

Thank God I had the good sense to get the lease in my name. He’d tried
to cosign for me, or get the lease in his name, but I persevered. He can’t take
my apartment. But he has my job. And my car. And all the credit cards. My
clothing. My computer.

My résumé is in my computer. Not that I can go job hunting. What am
I going to do in my pajamas? I don’t even have any shoes. And what about
interview clothes? Clothes, period?