Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (20 page)

Oh, man. I’m plotting to see Nicky.

Well, what’s wrong with that?

I take the gift certificate, fold it up, and for lack of any other place to put
it, stick it in my bra. Lord, have mercy. Necessity is the mother of invention,
indeed. I miss you, Kate Spade. Truly.

After about a mile, I’m thankful for all that dancer’s training. Today was
dance-team practice. Today I would have been dancing for Jesus at LLCC.
I’m thinking of twirling right here by the side of the road, on Ellsworth, in
the dress Nicky bought me, a dress that looks like it’s just made for dancing.
But I don’t. I just keep walking.

That’s right. Keep walking, Zora.

I wonder if I’ll ever dance for Nicky. Maybe I will. In this dress.

That’s so silly. What’s wrong with me? I’ve never wanted to do a personal
dance for Miles, and he’s my boyfriend.

I’m about halfway to Meijer when a car—and not a very nice one—slows
and comes to a stop beside me. Oh, man. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this is
some crazy person who’s going to hurt me. MacKenzie would never let me walk
out in the middle of the night just because Meijer is open twenty-four hours.

The window rolls down. I’m about to sprint when I hear a familiar
voice.

“Miss Zora!”

Good grief! It’s Ms. Pamela. My hand flies to my chest.

“You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Girl, whatchu doin’ out walkin’ the streets this time a night?”

“I’m just going to Meijer to get a flat iron.”

“Girl, if you don’t get in this car …”

I slide into her ancient Honda Accord. I don’t think I’ve gotten in a worse
car since Mac had an old beat-up Escort. Most of the time if we rode together,
we took my car. It happened to be getting serviced once or twice, and we had
to roll out in hers. I didn’t appreciate her Escort’s performance and was quite
vocal about it.

How did she stand me all those years?

Ms. Pamela and I bump and shake the last mile to Meijer, and it feels
like it’s the longest trip I’ve ever taken. She’s still got the cough. I’m still
concerned.

“Did you ever make it to see a doctor?”

“I had The Bishop lay hands on me and anoint me.”

I don’t want to say anything disparaging, and not because
The Bishop
is
my daddy. I want to honor her faith. I think about the dream of us being
on the plantation. Both of us slaves. Aren’t we both trying to cling to Jesus,
despite some semblance of oppression? And me, what kind of oppression is
somebody dreaming up a life for me? A life of affluence? Yeah, Zora, how
hard is it going to be as that kind of slave?

Maybe I should ask my mother.

Oh, girl. Don’t you start that. Not tonight.

“Ms. Pamela, I’m glad you got prayed for. I’m just wondering if Jesus
doesn’t think it might be wise to see a doctor, too.”

“You know, your daddy always preaches whatever is not of faith is sin.”

He must be the chief of sinners then, because maybe he should have
a little faith about letting me live my life. It was him standing in the way.
Right?

Wasn’t it, Z?

“I don’t think it means you have less faith if the doctor took a look.”

“Maybe I’ll go. Tessa thought I should go. Maybe.”

Every breath seems to be a struggle for her. She’s hanging in there, but she
doesn’t sound right. “I’ll go with you. I’m not doing anything but trying to
get something to do my hair with. We can just turn the car around and head
to U of M’s Emergency Department.”

“Naw, baby. I think the Lord sent me out. You been on my mind.”

“What?”

“I was just wantin’ some lemons to make me some lemon and honey tea.
Had it so strong, but Tessa said she was tired and my other baby, Vernice, she
sleep. My other baby out on a date.”

It’s one in the morning. Their mother is half-dead, and the no-working
heifers won’t get up to get her some lemons. The other one is out with some
clown from MySpace probably. Yeah. They really are tired.

“So you had to get up yourself?”

“But I think the Lord sent me. I been thinking about you. The Lord lay
you on my heart. People talk, honey.”

“People at our church do.”

“I heard your daddy and you having some problems.”

“Apparently, I’m the only one with the problem. The sin of witchcraft.
That’s what I heard they’re calling it.”

“I don’t know ’bout that. I just know sometimes girls come to a certain
age, and it’s hard for their fathers to let them be women. And it’s hard for
the girls, too. They want to be women and little girls at the same time. It can
be confusing sometimes. My girls, their father ain’t been around for years.
They missed so much. But I had a daddy. I think I know what you’re going
through.”

“Did your daddy take all your stuff because he was mad at you?”

“I didn’t have much for him to take. But he tried to control me in other
ways. He was just scared that if he lost control, everything would fall apart.
That’s all.”

“I can’t imagine
The Bishop
being scared.”

“The Bishop didn’t take your stuff, honey. Your daddy did. I’m not
saying I agree with what he did. I’m just saying sometimes daddies make bad
decisions because they want their little girls to stay little girls as long as they
can. And little girls have to become women. Don’t they, honey?”

“I suppose they do, Ms. Pamela.” All except those morons at your
house.

But I don’t say that.

We get to Meijer, and Ms. Pamela buys her lemons and more groceries
for me than I know she can afford. I believe she is the world’s wealthiest
widow who knows how to work the heck out of a mite.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, theirs is the kingdom of heaven?
I see what You
mean in this child of God, Jesus. I pray God really does give her back one
hundredfold what she forces me to take.

She still won’t let me go with her to the emergency room, even though
she insists on taking me home. I leave her with this:

“My daddy would have taken me to the hospital by now.”

I spend a long time in prayer. Before morning dawns, liberally gifting us
all with new mercies, I ask again and again with my miserly faith for God to
heal her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

NICKY

I almost knocked on her door. The problem is, if she’d have let me, I would’ve
gone in. And since I was in such a kissing mood, I would have given her the
kiss I shouldn’t have given Rebecca. The one that really belonged to her. The
one that would have been full of feeling. Too much feeling.

I can’t go around feeling things.

Not for Zora.

I just left the stuff at the front of her door. I’d said enough. Too much.
The poem. The art supplies. The note. I tried to leave my feelings at the door
with the gifts.

I ended up taking those feelings right back home with me.

ZORA

Sunday morning. Every Sunday morning, barring deathly illness—which we
weren’t allowed to have, and fortunately, we never did—I was in church. Mostly
black churches, and whether those churches had organs or praise teams, whether
they had choirs or a quartet of barber-shop-style warblers, whether there was a
dance and flag team or old ladies shouting out their press-and-combed hairstyles,
I worshipped with my people, and I did this with great love and reverence.

Today I want to go somewhere else. I want to go to True Believer Gospel
Tabernacle.

The day is sunny. It’s unusually warm, in the seventies. God, what a
precocious April You’ve allowed. Nature coming alive in this cold Midwestern
land before its time. What a gift this is to me. You know I don’t own a jacket,
much less a coat right now.

I put on the white dress again. And oddly, I don’t grow tired of it. To me,
it’s like the clothing of the Israelites as they walked toward the Promised Land.
That one outfit that takes you where God wants you to go. Even though he
gave me another one, even though Billie offered more, this is my Promised
Land dress, and I want Nicky to see me in it again.

Maybe, if I can get him alone, I’ll dance for him in it.

I put on the “last all day” lipstick I got last night. I want to add just a few
brushes to my lashes of the Wet n Wild mascara that cost a mere ninety-nine
cents. My mother would die if she saw this makeup. But it’s all I can afford. I
just want to look pretty for him.

When I’m ready, I head out the door. Once again, I take Ellsworth, but
I keep walking past Meijer and Target. I used to look down my nose at these
very ordinary stores. I didn’t remember that until now.

I was a Nordstrom girl. Macy’s. Saks. MacKenzie was so right about me.
Oh, girl. I am so sorry.

I keep walking past the Wal-Mart. I
really
wouldn’t have been caught
dead at a Wal-Mart. MacKenzie loves Wal-Mart. Did I make her feel bad
about her things? God, exactly how insensitive have I been through the years?
Prancing around with my little Kate Spade and Prada bags and more designer
clothes than I’d care to name, like it would never end, and in truth, even now
it doesn’t have to. All it takes is a call, and I can get it all back. For the cost
of a phone call.

I think about Nicky Parker coming all the way back from California
to put things right with his father. How far had he gone? He said he was a
rascal. He probably did more than mouth off at his father. And how far had
he strayed from his heavenly Father’s commands?

How far have I? I mean, really?

I don’t know. I can’t tell where it began. Was it Thursday at dinner?
Sunday when I walked out of church? Was it before then when I began to
wonder if there was more to life than
believe that ye receive them, and ye shall
have them?

I watch the cars whiz by me—beat-up cars driven by folks with not so
much money, and shiny new cars with smug drivers with lots of money. And
now I’m walking instead of flying carelessly by in my black Lexus. Everything
can fall apart in an instant. Or it can all become clear in a single moment seen
through the eyes of grace. Things change that quickly.

Will Nicky’s girlfriend be there in their lily-white church? Will she be
the perfect model Barbie doll—or worse, Bratz doll—I think she’ll be? Does
she love him? Is he going to marry her and have perfect white babies that will
grow up to have his smile and eyes like sapphires?

Maybe I shouldn’t go. I should let Nicky Parker be so he can have a great
life with blonde, pretty, nice Rebecca.

But, I argue with myself,
I should say thank you
.

And it’s Sunday. I don’t have any place to go. I want to do something
different. It wouldn’t be different going to another black church. And God, I
don’t want to be alone today.

NICKY

Honest to God, Rebecca is surgically attached to me. I don’t have to wonder
if she’ll notice if I walk out this Sunday. I’d definitely have to drag her out of
the door with me today. And all I can think about is Zora. Wondering what
would have happened if I’d knocked on her door last night. My stomach
leaps around inside of me just thinking about it. I don’t hear a word of Dad’s
preaching, as usual.

What am I doing?

I called Richard again last night when lying in the shape cross did nothing
to banish Zora from my thoughts.

He laughed at me. “It’s not a formula for success, you idiot.”

And I thought it had worked so well that first time.

When I told him about kissing Rebecca, he groaned. “Tell me you just
gave her the kiss of peace.”

“Unless the apostle Paul was in the habit of putting his tongue in the
mouth of the faithful, it wasn’t the kiss of peace.”

“Nicky, kissing Rebecca isn’t going to keep you from falling in love with
Zora.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Richard! Wait just a minute. Who said anything
about falling in love?”

“You’re not falling for her?”

“Of course not. It’s lust.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Nicky.”

“It’s just lust. It is.”

“Right, Nicky. I’m going to bed now.” And the old dog hung up on me.
Which is just as well.

“I’m not falling in love.”

“Excuse me,” Rebecca stage-whispers.

“Did I say something?” I whisper back.

“I think you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said you’re not falling in love.”

“Why would I say that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shhh,” I say. “Dad is preaching.”

Oh, man. I’m talking when I don’t know I’m talking now. The next thing
you know I’ll be hallucinating. I’ll look behind me at the door and I’ll see
Zora walking into the sanctuary in her white twirly dress.

Just to show myself how absurd the idea is, I look behind me and—

“OH NO!”

“Nicholas!”

I put my hand over my mouth. I’m freakin’ hallucinating! I thought
I just saw Zora come in and sit on the back pew. And she’s in the white
dress.

Aw, man. I’m crazy. I’m really crazy. Maybe Richard is right. I’m falling in
love, and it’s making me insane. I knew she was going to get me in trouble. I
didn’t know I was looking at putting in some time in a straitjacket.

“What are you looking at?”

Oh, no. Now Rebecca is going to see that I’m crazy, too.

She looks toward my hallucination. “Is it that black woman that just
came in?”

I grab her arm. “
You
can see her too?”

She leans into me. “Nicholas, what is the matter with you? Of course I
can see her.”

I don’t look back. “A young black woman in a white dress is in our
church?”

“Yes.” Rebecca whispered. “What is going on?”

“I have no idea. Black people don’t come to our church. She doesn’t come
to our church, even though she voted for him.”

“Do you know her?”

I give a noncommittal grunt halfway between a moan and something
else. I don’t know what.

“Was that a yes?”

“She goes to my Bible study.”

“What Bible study?”

“The one I go to on Wednesday night.”

“You go to a Bible study on Wednesday night? I thought you had to work.”

“Rebecca! You are talking incessantly during Dad’s sermon. Can you just
be quiet? Please!”

I start shaking my leg. I do that when I’m nervous. I also drum my
fingers. Between my shaking and drumming, I’m turning into a freakin’ one
man band, and it feels like my father is never, ever going to stop preaching.
It also feels like Rebecca is never going to take the vice grip off my arm. Did
I mention that I have to puke? I’m not just having puke fantasies today. I
gotta hurl. I will never pray something interesting happens at church again,
I promise, God.

The heat rises into my face. “Excuse me.”

Rebecca starts to get up with me.

“I’m going to the john, Rebecca.”

“Oh.”

Oh, God. I really am going to be sick. Why, oh, why do I sit at the front
of the church? I go past a thousand freakin’ pews, and I can’t look at her. I
know Zora sees me walking away. I know Rebecca is watching me. My father
is probably watching me. God, Jesus, the saints, and the devil are probably
watching me, and they’re probably all placing bets. And who knows what I’m
going to do?

I go into the bathroom, hyperventilate. Pace back and forth. Hyperventilate.
Pace. Then take a deep breath. As calmly as I can manage I take my cell phone
out of my pocket and call Richard. By some miracle he answers.

“Richard?”

“Hey, Nicky.”

And now a dumb question to kick-start what surely will be a dismal
conversation. “You didn’t go to church this morning?”

“I thought I’d stay home and seek the Lord.” His speech is slurred.
Richard is drunk, and I don’t think it’s with the Spirit.

Dumb question number two. “Richard, are you drunk?”

“Yes.”

“Man, please tell me you aren’t drunk when I’m having a crisis.”