Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (27 page)

Yes, Miles. Make me feel good.

He takes off his jacket. Balls it up and gives it to me. I’m confused.

“It’s for a pillow.”

I nod. Put it under my head.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Oh, no. Wait a minute. I just wanted you to kiss me so I could erase
Nicky’s kiss from my soul. I mean, I don’t even like kissing Miles. I certainly
don’t want clothes to come off. Oh, no. What have I done?

My mind starts shutting down.

I don’t want to think about what this man of God, this bishop-in-training
is trying to do. I can’t handle this right now, God. I start thinking in parts so I
won’t have to put the whole of this together. While he touches me I think:

Miles has on a blue button-down shirt. He must have worn it to church.
I’ve seen it before. He wears it with the camel-colored suit. It has pale yellow
pinstripes. He has on jeans, but for now, he’s only unbuttoning his shirt. He
has a solid, strong build and a surprise of a curly tuft of afro hair on his chest.
For a brief moment, I wonder if Nicky has hair on his chest then banish the
thought.

Miles has his shirt wide open, but the last few buttons remain. He stops
unbuttoning to kiss me again. I wonder if he thinks I think his chest is sexy.

Finally, I find a little voice. Something inside that can’t let this happen.
“Please stop.”

He doesn’t stop.

I close my eyes and tell myself I should marry him. It’s sensible. My
mother would think this is a good decision, marrying Miles. This touching
he’s doing will only hasten the day. I think of all the people at church who are
dishonoring each other with bad touches. Good Christian people in churches
all over have done and are doing this. I tell myself that it won’t matter. That
Jesus will forgive us. That no one will know. And the fact that I feel nothing
but afraid and confused is secondary to what I really need. I have to get what
I really need.

I have to fall out of love with Nicky Parker. And I have to do that right
now.

NICKY

I pull into the nearest parking lot, and no one comes after me, including the
police. Despite my concern of what the men in my family would think if they
drove by, I can’t help myself—I put my head on the steering wheel and cry
like a baby.

I’m so confused. I feel like a stranger to myself, and today I’m even more
of a stranger to my family than I usually am. I don’t want to be a white man
today. And I don’t want to be the color of water so you can see right through
me like my family does. I want to be a Vincent Van Gogh,
Starry Night
, full
of color. Zora would understand that.

I want to write. Literally. Right now. I keep a notebook in my glove box.
I yank it open and fumble around for a pen. Some writer I am. I can’t find a
pen to save my life. After rummaging around under the seats, I finally locate
one and begin a poem for Zora.

I wish I were the color of the sky
because you love the sky
maybe you could love me, too—
my distant winking stars,
my nameless constellations
my strange new worlds to explore.
Most of all I wish you would love
my impenetrable darkness.
Could you love me if I’m black,
but only on the inside?

Before I have time to censor myself—and God knows I should—I take
it to her.

ZORA

His touches have become tentative, as if he is warring with himself. I don’t
think his higher self is winning. He keeps touching and kissing.

My lovely white dress with the circle skirt. Circle like a wedding ring.
It’s getting dirty on the floor. This morning I loved this dress. I took a few
moments after I dressed and danced around the empty living room in it.
The whole place is one big studio now. Good, hardwood floors just made
for dancing. I twirled around thinking of how happy I felt. How I wanted
to see Nicky. Meet him in the house of God, even if I had to walk. I danced,
thinking of him.

I’m going to hate this dress from now on, the way accident victims hate
the clothes they were wearing when tragedy struck. I will not associate this
dress with Nicky standing at my door trying to give me the box, saying it was
from Jesus.

Mr. Incarnational Christian.

Where is Jesus now?

Oh, no. Don’t you start crying anymore, Zora Nella Hampton Johnson.
Miles isn’t listening anyway. It’s like MacKenzie always told you. Once you
get a man going so far, you have to just let him have it. You can’t just say no.

Is she right?

Can I say no, Lord?

Where are You?

I need an incarnational Christian to show up right about now, because
I’m in trouble, and the trouble is about to get worse. This man who says he
wants me to do what’s right, who says he’s been praying for me, who says I’m
cursed and he doesn’t want to make it worse, is about to do something I don’t
want him to do.

I start sobbing. “Miles?”

“What? Why are you crying so much?”

“I’m a virgin.”

“I know that, Zora.”

“Are you a virgin?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Dear God. He isn’t. What’s the matter with us Christians?

I cry even harder.

“Baby, that’s in the past. I’ve respected you. We can get married as soon
as you’d like to.”

“You promise?”

“We can get married as quickly as we can get a license.”

“What if Daddy doesn’t approve?” I don’t ask with an attitude. I’m
serious.

“I’ll talk to him. He listens to me, Zora. He loves you. He wants what’s
best for you too.”

I try to force myself to believe it. “I love you, Miles.”

That’s not me. I’ve fallen in love with someone else. That’s the youth
group girl who’s seventeen with the crush on the guy who looks like a young
Denzel. Because the real me—the one on the floor of an empty apartment
with the man who is supposed to love her—she’s not feeling this guy who
has given her nothing in her time of need. She’s not down with the one who
doesn’t think she has any real painting talent. She’s cursed as it is, and if she
thinks about all this, she’s not going to declare her love to him. She’s going to
start swinging on him like she did the guy she really loves, the one who gave
her the white dress, poetry, art supplies, and forty dollars to catch a cab that
cost thirteen. And the driver gave back change.

“I love you too, baby,” Miles says.

“Stop touching me, Miles.”

“Come on, baby. You got a brotha all worked up. We can get married in
a few days if you want to.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t want it, and I’m scared.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not ready for this.”

“You’re not going to take me there and just say stop.”

I try with all my strength to get up. He struggles with me. I want to
knock his head off. I try to remember that this guy is supposed to be my
boyfriend. I’m supposed to love him. I don’t care what Mac says about not
getting a guy started. I’m going to do everything I can to finish this my way.
I may not be the strongest between us, but God help me.

I give him another push, and if that doesn’t work, I’m gonna start
scratching, kicking, and screaming.

On the second push, he responds. “What’s the matter?”

And all I can think of to say is, “You’re getting my white dress dirty.”

And that says so much. God, have mercy.

“Zora, it’s just a dress. Relax. I’ll make this good for you.”

The buzzer sounds, and it’s as if he puts on an I’m-a-really-great-guy-
who’s-not-about-to-date-rape-my-girlfriend persona. I see him change
personalities before my eyes. I get up and run to the bathroom. If that’s my
father at the door, this is all I need, God!

I hear Miles buzz the person in. He didn’t ask who it was. And a few
moments later, there’s a knock on my door.

Before I can get to it, Miles swings it open.

My mouth opens with the door. Nicky Parker is standing there.

NICKY

Surprise!

The door opens, and she’s not standing there. The Lion King is. And he’s
the freakin’ king of the jungle! Zekora has got to be six-foot-four or -five.
I look up to him, and I’m six-foot-two. He’s annoyed that I’m there, and
because he’s buttoning his shirt, I can figure out why he’s so annoyed.

I had her wrong, and I don’t usually call ’em wrong. I pegged her for a
virgin. Shoulda known. She’s too sensual to be a virgin. And here I am, with
a poem in my hand, now wondering if someone else is going to smack me
around today.

He sizes me up. A white boy at his girlfriend’s door. And it occurs to
me that I don’t know anything about Shaka Zulu. I don’t care how racist I
sound, or am, either. Maybe I’m not the one I should be concerned about
him hurting. I don’t know if me showing up is going to be a huge problem
because I didn’t factor him in this equation. Every freakin’ “black men are
dangerous” fear I’ve ever had seizes me. And my reflexes are about as sharp as
marshmallows right now.

“Can I help you?” he says. He ain’t smiling.

I look crazy. I’ve got a big bruise where my dad hit me, I just tried to beat
up an old man, and I’ve been crying profusely, but I’m a white man in a suit.
And I’m a Baptist.

“Good evening, sir. I was wondering if I might share with you the good
news of Jesus Christ.”

A part of me wants him to please say no. I think if he has any good sense
whatsoever he will say no and slam the door on me, no matter how much I
want to keep her safe. God, let her be okay. I just
feel
like I need to get in that
apartment.

I’m being paranoid.