Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (38 page)

All these strange ideas about race—these cut-off-from-love ideas. I didn’t
want Nicky to spend one more moment feeling like a stranger anywhere in
this world.

“Welcome home.”

Now he looks confused. “What did you say?”

But I don’t repeat it. I put my arms around his neck. If he inclines his
head, he can kiss me, but he doesn’t. I tell him again what he asked me to. “I
see you, Nicky, and you are very beautiful to me. Your soul isn’t black like your
poem says at all. It’s as bright as one of the stars in one of those constellations.
Even brighter than that, Nicky. Your soul is like the sun because God made
it that way.”

“Where’ve you been all my life, Dreamy?”

“I’ve been wandering around, a stranger just like you.”

“I can’t cry anymore,” he says.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“Did I tell you I feel sick? I get sick when I feel this way.”

“You told me. It’s okay, Nicky. I’ll help you.”

“I told God I wouldn’t do anything bad to you. I just wanted to come so
you could see me. I knew you’d be able to see me, and I’d be all right then.”

“You were right, Nicky.”

I don’t know where this boldness comes from. “Your lips are swollen.”
And I put a little kiss on them.

He blushes and laughs. “That hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I liked it though. You can do it again. But softer.”

So I do. His shoulders slump. It’s like he collapses into me.

“I got you in trouble with Miles. I called him. I thought you were with
him, and I told him he doesn’t deserve you. I was going to go get you from
his apartment. He’s probably mad at us.”

My heart catches, but just for a moment. “You called Miles?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You told him he didn’t deserve me?”

“I told him he sucks.”

I can only imagine how that’s going to ripple. He’s going to tell my father.
“I’m going to be in trouble.”

What does it matter? Can my father be any more disappointed in me?
Nicky must read the concern on my face.

“I’m sorry. I’ll just let him beat me up. My dad already gave him a head
start.”

That reminds me. “You have a black eye for real, now.” I plant a delicate
kiss just under his swollen eye. I try to push the thought of my father out of
my head. Didn’t my father marry a very fair-skinned woman? What could he
say about this?

Nicky pulls me closer to him. Oh, Lord, a flame flares up within me. He
buries his head in my neck. And I can’t stand it. I don’t know what to do with
myself.

“You smell good,” he says. “Is smelling you bad? I told God …”

“I don’t know what’s bad or good, Nicky.”

“Me either.”

I want to tell him that I want him, but this wanting is so very unfamiliar
that I’m afraid of my own body. I simply tell him, “I think I need you.”

He breathes into my neck. “Don’t tell me that.”

“I can’t help it. I don’t know what else to do. What are we going to do,
Nicky?”

He pulls me flush against him. “I can’t do anything but this right now. It’s
all I can figure out, and I’m confused about this.”

We stand there for a long time holding each other, and in some ways
we’re saying everything, though none of it in words. After a long time, he
whispers, “I’m going to try to let you go now,” but he doesn’t. Not for several
more minutes.

Finally, Billie walks back into the room. She clears her throat. “Nicky,
you’re welcome as a guest, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to see to it that
Zora gets to bed now.”

He releases me, though he seems reluctant. I want to kiss him so badly
it hurts me.

“Thank you, Zora.” He sounds so brave.

“You’re welcome, soldier in the army of the Lord.”

For that, he rewards me with a tiny smile from his sore mouth.

Nicky seems to find his peace and gathers it about himself. He reaches
out and touches my face, then with those long, beautiful fingers, sweeps my
hair back with his hand. “I knew you’d get me in trouble,” he says.

He leaves without saying good-bye at all.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

NICKY

I go back to my apartment and can’t sleep at all. From my bed, I watch
the pink-and-orange-sherbet perfection of the Monday sunrise and wish I
could serve those colors on a golden spoon to Zora. The paradox of a happy
lamentation creates a simple song in my soul.

Because of the Lord’s great mercies we are not consumed, for His compassion
never fails. They are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.

Somehow I lived through the night. The image of my grandfather pulling
the gun on me flashes in my mind, and with that sunrise and new mercy, I
whisper “Thank You, Jesus” for my life. Last night, I dreamed I was with
Zora. I’d gone to her, and in those blissful moments of unconsciousness not
only did she see me, she held me. She kissed me. My grandfather and his gun
were not there. My father was not there. My mother was not there. Rebecca
was not there. Prejudice was not there.

I take a deep breath. I know it wasn’t a dream because I can still feel
her waist in the circle of my arms. Her scent still fills me. Her hair, that
intoxicating blend of textures, soft spun wool and silk all together, still lingers
beneath my fingertips.

I’ve barely slept at all, because most of my thoughts have been dreams
of her, but those flights of imagination are soul fuel, energizing me. I take a
look at my watch. I can go into work early. I hear my cell phone ring. I hope
against hope it’s Zora, flip it open, but the caller ID says it’s Linda calling
from home.

“Good morning, Nicky.”

“Oh, hi, Linda.”

“Well, thanks for your enthusiasm.”

“No offense. I thought you were someone else.”

“I’m sure Zora is sleeping right now.”

“How did you …?” I don’t even know why I bother. Linda just knows
things. Our little Bible study is just like a family in the worst way. We’re in
each other’s business like crazy. “I didn’t do anything wrong, other than make
a late visit.”

“I didn’t say you did anything wrong.” But she adds, “Except make a late
visit.”

“I was desperate.”

“So I hear.”

“Why are you calling, Linda? I’m on my way to work. You can interrogate
me then.”

“I’m calling to save you the trip,” Linda says. “As romantic and heroic as you
were last night, Billie said you looked like the Elephant Man. Are you okay?”

“I just have some swelling and bruises. I’m better now.”

“I’m not talking about your bruises, Nicky. She said you were very unlike
your usual self.”

“Well, it was a very unusual day.”

“Take the day off, Nicky. Regroup.”

“I’m fine, Linda. I missed work on Friday.”

“Consider it a long weekend.”

“But Linda—”

“Nicky, your physical wounds are small, but your psychological and
spiritual wounds are massive. Don’t make light of this. I’m also calling for an
emergency Bible study and prayer meeting tonight. We’re going to take these
matters to God together. All five of us.”

“Okay, Linda.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at my house at seven.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll make sure she’s there too.”

“You just ensured that I’ll be there.”

“That’s good to know. Seek God today.”

“I will.”

“And call me if you need anything.”

“I will, Linda.”

She takes a deep breath. “I love you. You’re my little brother.”

And this actually makes me feel like some tears are going to come. “Hey,
cut it out. Are you trying to make me go all mushy?”

“Have a nice day, Nicky.”

“I love you, too, Linda.”

We hang up, and I tell myself that—even if only for this woman who
loves me despite myself and refuses to give up on me—I’m going to be a good
boy today. That’s what I tell myself. And I believe it.

ZORA

Monday morning, Fred Hammond wakes me up. Not the real Fred. No, in
real life, Billie’s little girl wakes me up because she’s sitting on the bunk bed
telling her sisters how pretty I am, but even before I knew they were there and
before I could hear their voices, Fred sang in my soul.

I know it might be tough to get yo’
praise on
Devil been messing with you all
week long
If you don’t have a reason to praise
Him let me give you one
He gave you a brand new mercy
With the rising of the sun, say….

Oh, yes, my brotha, I’m ready for my blessing. I’m ready for my
miracle. And even though this song makes me miss LLCC fiercely, especially
MacKenzie, I decide I’ve got to get up out of bed and see what life holds for
today. Nicky came back to me last night. He kept fighting for me. I think
of the contrast between him and Miles. When I needed protection, Miles
protected me in the way he thought was best for me. And Nicky protected
me in the way I thought was best for me.

Which was better? Honestly, I don’t know, but someone acting in a
manner that made sense to me, at least one that I can understand. Someone
who didn’t think I was cursed and “uncovered.” I feel like Nicky gave me a
little more to work with.

But what will Miles be up to today? Because surely he and
The Bishop
will confer.

I open my eyes. Three striking golden children stare at me. I’d gone to
a conference at Spelman about being biracial in America, and one of the
speakers said she called herself a “golden” person. I thought that was the
dumbest thing I ever heard. I went home and made a running comedy
monologue out of the poor woman’s thesis.

My mother is a “golden” person whose white mother would have nothing
to do with her. My father made sure we were spared the nonsense of such
romantic thinking and drilled our mother’s blackness—despite her mostly
white looks—into us from the beginning of our preschool confusion about
race. But looking at Billie and John’s children, with their heads of wild blond
or brown manes, their pairs of blue, hazel, and brown eyes, I see a room
full of golden kids. Gorgeous kids. Not that I think all biracial children are
gorgeous—and I know some people who do. God help us, but these kids
really are as good-looking as their parents.

She looks like she’s five or six. She smiles. “Hi, Miss Zora.”

“Hi, pumpkin. What’s your name?”

Her brown eyes light up. “Monica.” Her golden skin has warm red and
peach tones just like my mama, and she’s chubby and round like a little peach,
too. She’s going to have her father’s solid build. She’s got his dark hair and
eyes. Her springy sable hair is standing straight up on her head.

“You got a comb, kiddo?”

“Uh huh.” She jumps off the bed and goes scavenging for a comb.

The other is seven or eight. Her coppery hair is a finer, wavier texture
than Monica’s. And she’s got the psychedelic hazel eyes that seem to change
colors every moment. She seems quiet and reserved. I sit up on my elbow.
“Hi there.”

“Hi.” Her eyes look cast down.

“What’s your name, pretty girl?”

“Clare.”

“Monica and Clare. Those are pretty names.” I point to another one of
Billie and John’s doll babies. “And what’s your name?”

“Frances.” She favors Monica very much.

Their older sister has a mess of blonde Afro curls. She’s got Billie’s wiry
body and face. She’s about sixteen. “They’re saint names,” she says. “We all got
saint names. It’s an Orthodox thing.”

“What’s your name?”

“Perpetua. My mom calls me Pet.”

“You’re going to need therapy for that, aren’t you?”

She throws back her head and laughs, very Billie-like. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you, Perpetua.”

“Nice to meet you, too. At least a cool story goes with my name,” she
says.

Clare and Frances protest, with Clare loudly proclaiming, “We got cool
saint stories for our names too.”

“Everybody knows Saint Francis and Clare of Assisi lame-o,” she says.

I realize then that all preachers’ kids the world over are alike. Little Saint
Monica returns with the wrong kind of comb. “I need a big comb. Do you
have a wide-tooth comb?”

She looks bewildered. I look to Perpetua for help.

“Don’t look at me. Our mom is white. We’ve been looking like this all
of our life.”

I don’t mean to, but I can’t help but laugh. “I sympathize. My mom has
the straight hair. If she didn’t send me and my sister Zoe out to get our hair
done, we’d have been nappy, but not happy.”

Perpetua sighs. “I feel you.”

“Is there a store around here? My African roots are definitely showing. If
I don’t get an afro comb and soon, I’m going to be sporting a ’fro whether or
not I want to.”

“I think you’d look cute in a ’fro. I like my ’fro most days. But sometimes
I wish I knew how to do more with my hair. We get a lot of visitors, but not a
lot of people stick around long enough for me to really get the trick of doing
my hair.”

“I’ll show you some things.”

“Really? Are you planning on staying awhile?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be in this house, but I can definitely guarantee
that your mom won’t be getting rid of me too soon. I think I’m falling in love
with the Beloved Community.”

Perpetua gives me a wide smile. “That’s good news.”

“Amen,” I say.

The girls are all dressed, so I get myself together, and when I get back into
the bedroom Perpetua is waiting for me.

She gets up from her bunk bed and takes me by the hand. Her kind
gesture startles me, just as it did when Billie held on to my hand as she
introduced me to John. Perpetua and I walk with our hands joined into the
kitchen, and I remember being a little girl and holding hands like this with
Mac. And it makes me want to talk to her.