Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (40 page)

“I don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t know anything.”

“Will you let me know if you need me, Zora? Please?”

“I promise I will, Billie.”

I meant it when I said it.

NICKY

I go to the bank early in the morning and get the last bit of cash I can spare. I
need the rest to make it through until I get paid again. As it is, I’ve missed two
days of work. That’s going to bite into the budget. Plus, I’ve burned up the road
and a whole lotta gas going back and forth between Detroit and Ann Arbor. I
knew I couldn’t afford Zora. I could never do this. I have very little cash to work
with as it is, and what I do have I try to be smart with, and keep something on
hand for emergencies.

I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. I saw myself as playing the
good son, going on to seminary and eventually bringing my father’s ministry
into the postmodern world.

I guess that won’t happen.

I would have never thought that when I walked out of church Sunday, it
would be the beginning of me walking away from my family again. Because
after that conversation last night, I don’t think I can go back.

I hoped my dad would guide me, like a shepherd. The fact is, I hoped he
would be a dad to me, and I guess in his own way, he was. He actually came
to me. Gave me what he thought I needed to help me. What he didn’t realize
is
she’s
what I need.

And what am I supposed to do about
her
?

I end up getting a hundred and fifty dollars. I try to strategize about
what this will get me. Not much. I have no idea when I’ll see my folks
again. Or if my gun-wielding grandpa is going to go Charleton Heston-
NRA on me if I show up at their house. I wonder how fast I can shower and
change so I can get over to Billie’s to see her. I just want to get her in my
arms again, in the light of day, when I’m not feeling so fragile and looking
so desperate.

I
HURRY AND
get myself together. My cell phone rings again just as I’m getting
back into my truck. God, I want it to be Zora, but it’s from my parents’
home. I don’t know if I should answer, but I can’t help myself.

“Hello.”

“Nicky?”

It’s my mom, and she’s calling me Nicky.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Can we meet somewhere?”

I can hear in her voice that this is killing her. This is as bad as the “abortion
incident” years ago. “Mom, I don’t want to cause you any more pain.”

“Please.”

“Dad won’t like it.”

“I don’t care. I just want to take you to breakfast, unless you have company
or something.”

I know exactly what she’s asking.

“Mom, I didn’t spend the night with her. I’m not going to get her
pregnant. We’re not doing anything, I
promise
.”

“Your dad said—”

“I don’t care what he said. I’ve never touched her. You don’t have to give
me any credit for that, but I wish somebody would at least give her some,
because she’s one of the coolest people that I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t
deserve to be treated like the whore of Babylon just because of stereotypes she
has nothing to do with.”

“She certainly didn’t represent herself very well.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Mom. Zora and I are just …”

“Just what?”

I don’t answer her.

“Nicholas?”

So much for calling me Nicky. “Yes, Mom?”

“Will you have breakfast with me?”

“Sure. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“At Denny’s on Washtenaw.”

“I’ll be there.”

An hour later, I’m in Ann Arbor settled into a booth at Denny’s. We
used to come here every Friday evening, me, my mom and my dad. I think
about the lawsuit against Denny’s and all those allegations of racism. I never
thought much about them before. I used to think black people were too
sensitive. That they had to be imagining some of the racism they cried so
frequently, but now I’m not so sure. Nothing is what it seems to be. Not even
my own heart.

My mother comes into the restaurant just when I expect her to. She is
a prim and proper Parker through and through, fifteen minutes early, which
she considers right on time.

I stand up to greet her, and she looks so frail. When I gather her into a
hug, it feels like I could break her.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Nicholas.” She pauses. “Nicky.”

“Mom, just call me whatever you feel comfortable with.” We settle into
the red vinyl booth. A waitress comes over and introduces herself as Catrina.
She’s a short, gorgeous, freckle-faced redhead, and she’s making eyes at me.
I know I’m in love because I don’t give her a second glance. Okay, I do, but
not a third.

“I miss calling you Nicky,” my mother says.

Catrina asks if she can take our order. My mom orders a Grand Slam for
both of us.

“I’m not hungry, Mom.”

“Why not? You love their Grand Slam breakfast.”

“Maybe I don’t want to support this racist institution.”

“Nicholas, what in the world are you talking about?”

“What about those lawsuits, Mom? All the allegations of racial
discrimination.” Frankly, I’d rather say this than “I’m so lovesick I can’t eat.”
But my mom knows me.

“You’re sick over
her
, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer her.

“If you’re sick, this isn’t good.”

Catrina looks disappointed that I’m obviously smitten with someone
else. To keep her from knowing all my business, I order. “Okay, Catrina. I’ll
have the Grand Slam breakfast too. With orange juice.”

She nods, takes my mother’s drink order, black coffee, and off she goes.

“Come on, Mom. I’m always sick when I’m upset.”

“You’re serious about her, aren’t you?”

I don’t want to get into this with my mom. If she tells me to “experience”
Zora and come back to my senses too, I think I’ll give up on humanity as a
species.

“Well, are you?” she presses.

“Yes.”

My mom shakes her head. “I don’t understand. Saturday, Rebecca called
me so excited. She said you got her a present from Eddie Bauer and you
kissed her for the first time since you’ve been dating. She thought you were
finally getting serious about her. She’s brokenhearted, Nicholas. I liked her
for you.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt Rebecca, Mom. I did kiss her. I wanted to see if I
could feel with her a fraction of what Zora makes me feel.”

My mother’s eyes, the same blue as mine, search mine. “Are you sure
what you feel for her isn’t just—”

“Please, Mom. Please don’t say it. Because what if I do feel
that
? Yes, I’m
attracted to her. I’m freakin’ bowled over by her beauty and sexiness. But
that’s not all, Mom. She’s funny. And she’s intelligent. She’s sensual, and I feel
a little more alive when I’m around her. I feel more like myself when I’m with
her, and there are very few people in the world I feel that way with anymore.
That I happen to feel sexually attracted to her is a little low on the scale of
why I love—”

My mother raises an eyebrow.

I rub my hand over my mouth.

“You were going to say you love her.”

I pick up the menu promoting the featured pies. I don’t want to talk
about being in love.

I don’t look at Mom. She makes a sound like a balloon deflating.
Almost
saying I love Zora has taken the wind out of her. I guess she’d fall dead if I
admitted it.

We sit quietly until Catrina returns with our beverages. Mom sips on her
coffee and I gulp down my orange juice in three big gulps.

“I think I’ve only heard you say you were in love twice before.”

“Yep.”

“With Leslie Shanoski. Remember her?”

“Yes. She was the only fifth grader in our class with breasts. All of us boys
were in love with her.”

“And you were in love when you came back from California. What was
her name again? You said very little about her.”

“Brooke Bennett.”

“Was she white?”

“They were all white, Mom. Every girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“Why a black girl now, honey? Your dad thinks you’re just acting out.”

“I know what he thinks.”

“He said you may need medication.”

“He may have a point about that.”

Mom looks frustrated at me. She gives me “the look.” Then takes a sip of
her coffee. “That’s what I mean. We never know when you’re serious.”

“You didn’t think I was serious when Grandpa was about to shoot me?”

“I think that’s very serious. That’s why I’m here. I want to know if you
love this woman. I want to know what your intentions are.”

I settle back into the red vinyl. I no more know what I’m going to do with
Zora than I know what I’m going to do with Nicky. I only know what I wish. But
Mom thinks it’s as simple as that. Just make some kind of freakin’ declaration.

When I don’t answer, she advances “the look” to another level. She’s
getting serious with me. She wants to know my position.

“I think she’s the one, Mom.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because I can’t imagine living without her.”

My mother takes what must be a scalding gulp of her coffee like it’s a shot
of whiskey. She throws her head back and swallows.

“Your life is going to be so complicated from here on out.”

“It’s been complicated before now.”

“You haven’t seen anything, Nicky. You’re going to grow up now.”

At that, Catrina returns with our Grand Slams, and I can’t help but notice
the irony.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ZORA

Billie drops me off at my apartment and I see Daddy’s Bentley and my Lexus
in the parking lot next to each other. He’s in there, and someone else is, too.
Probably Miles.

I tell Billie, and of course she wants to go in there with me. She feels like
I’m about to be thrown to the dogs, but I have to remind her that this is my
family.

“Yeah, but I’m your family, too. And I think I treat you better.”

“I’m going to be fine, Billie. Just let me handle them myself. I don’t need
to bring them any more surprises.”

“Are you sure, sweetie?”

“I’m sure.”

“Tell me my phone number again.”

Billie actually made me memorize her telephone number, and I rattle it
off for the twentieth time or so.

“Okay. Just let me go in with you.”

“No, Billie. I’m fine.”

“Oh, fine,” she says. She’s in a snit about it. But I kiss her on the cheek
and promise I’ll call when it all blows over, and I’m hoping it does soon.

I try not to tell myself that I’m “dead sistah walking” going up the
stairs and into the building. I dig into the backpack Billie gave me for
my keys, thankful for the copy I got from the super, and that I don’t
have to buzz a half-dozen people to get into my own place. I get inside
the building and walk down the corridor, which seems unnaturally long
today. There seem to be too many stairs. I almost wish Billie had come
with me after all. I haven’t seen my daddy since Friday when he took
everything I owned away except the pajamas I wore. And now I’ll face
him. My heart drums inside of me.

I miss my daddy. I don’t know the man who did such a terrible thing to
me. I don’t understand him. I knew Daddy to be controlling and manipulative,
but not with me. Somehow I had thought I’d be exempt from his games
now.

I finally reach my door and put the key in. I don’t even turn the knob all
the way before the door opens, and my mother pulls me into her embrace.

“Oh, baby,” she says, squeezing me. “I promise you that as soon as I
found out about this I raised heaven! And Jack and I have been arguing ever
since. Me and several ladies from the church have stopped by. We never catch
you home. And he wouldn’t tell me where he’d taken your stuff. Baby, I’ve
been praying, and if the Lord hadn’t assured me you were in His hands, I’d
have lost my mind. I refused to go to church on Sunday. I told Jack
and
Jesus
that LLCC wouldn’t see the First Lady again until he brought every piece of
furniture in this place back. Where on earth have you been?”

When Mama lets me go, I see that my stuff is back. The butter-cream
colored sofa. The Cheryl Riley chairs. The prints. Everything is as it should
be, except MacKenzie is gone. The nightmare is over, I suppose. I close the
door behind me. I also see my dad.

“Hi, Mama and Daddy.”

My mama squeezes me again. “Zora, baby, I can’t believe Jack took your
things. I was absolutely sickened.”

Daddy is sitting on a funky wooden Cheryl Riley chair looking grim.
“I told your mother that I never expected to keep it. I expected you to call
and apologize by Friday evening. How was I supposed to know you’d be so
stubborn?”

My mother puts her hands on her hips. “She’s always been just like you,
Jack. What else would she do?”

“She’s got plenty of you in her too, Liz.”

My mother looks me up and down. I’m wearing the black pants and white
shirt Nicky gave me. The silver cross and hoops. My mother is horrified. “Oh.
Those cheap clothes. We need to get you out of those.”

“I like this outfit, Mama.”

“And where is your gold jewelry?”

“What’s wrong with sterling silver?”

“You’re a daughter of the King. You can wear gold. Your Father in heaven
owns the cattle on a thousand hills.”

“He also owns sterling silver. And my daddy, who does
not
own the cattle
on a thousand hills—but probably is claiming them—took my gold, he, and
the overseers with him, took everything but the pajamas I was wearing. They’d
have probably taken those too, but I don’t think Daddy would have wanted
them to see me naked.”

Daddy protests. “That’s precisely the kind of insolence that caused this
mess. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Zora. Or who.”

“Who?” I say. Daddy is never crude with me. Ever.

He stands up. He wouldn’t want to let his baby girl have a height or
psychological advantage or some such thing. “I know I took your promise
ring, but I didn’t mean for you to go crazy.”

“I dunno, Daddy. That one led me to believe all bets were off. What did
Miles tell you?”

“He told me a white boy has been calling him. What do you have to say
about that, Zora?”

“I’d say he’s a white
man
.”

“A white
man
?”

My mother almost seems amused by my answer. She sits down on the
sofa but doesn’t ask any questions about him. Dad has enough for the both
of them.

“Miles says his name is Nicky Parker.”

“It is.”

“Please tell me that your
white man
Nicky Parker isn’t the infamous skirt-
chasing son of Reverend Nicholas Parker.”

“That’s him.”

“Zora, do you know what kind of reputation he has?”

“Yes. I heard he’s a rebel, rascal, and whore.”

“What did you just say? Are you using profanity?”

“I don’t think the word
whore
is profanity, Daddy. In fact, I’m really good
friends with a former whore. And now that I think of it, Jesus seemed really fond
of whores. And since we’re on the subject, Nicky’s family thinks
I’m
a whore.”

I’ve watched my father’s face since I was a little girl. I love his face. The
rich, dark skin like mine. I look in his face and see in living color the sharp
angles and lines of a Benin bronze sculpture. I’ve memorized that face singing
lullabies to me, laughing, praying, preaching, telling stories, yelling, eating. A
lifetime of expressions I’ve watched for twenty-two years, but I’ve never seen
this face—a morbid mien of sorrow, anger, and horror—that says, “I’ve failed
at what has meant the most to me.”

I turn away from him. I’ve never regretted saying something so much in
my entire life.

Daddy’s voice becomes a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want you to ever see
that boy again.”

“But, Daddy—”

“I understand that you were upset with me, Zora. I understand that I
may have overreacted, but this has gone too far. My daughter is not—”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Come in the bathroom with me.”

My mother gets up from the sofa. “Jack, what are you—?”

His withering glance silences her.

“Come with me, Zora.”

I follow him. I think he’s going to take me in there and give me a spanking.
Or some kind of beating. He used to spank us when we were little, but he hit
us so hard Mama told us that if he ever hit us again, she was out like a ghost,
and he’d never see us again. In that way, he had too much of his own father
in him.

Mama grabs his arm. “Jack, if you lay a hand on her—”

His voice turns to ice. “Don’t touch me, Elizabeth.”

He takes me by the arm, yanks me into the bathroom, and turns the light
on.

“Look into that mirror Zora Nella Hampton Johnson.”

I don’t want to look at myself.

His voice demands. “You look up in that mirror, girl.”

I take a quick glance and look down again.

“I said look!”

This time I fix my eyes on my image.

“I want you to see what I see.” He grabs me by the chin and keeps my
face toward the mirror.

“I see the crown jewel of creation in that mirror. From the time you
were born, I have spoken God’s Word over you. I have told you that you are
the head and not the tail. You are above not beneath. You are more than a
conqueror in Christ Jesus our Lord. You have dominion over the earth. I have
not raised a whore. Do you understand me, Zora?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You will not walk in fellowship with anyone, black or white, who believes
you to be a whore. Those people, they are not worthy of you, and if in any
way you have misrepresented yourself, if in any way you have behaved in a
way that may have led them to believe you are a whore, then you have lost
your mind, little girl. And you are far from the woman of God I have raised
you to be. Do you understand me, Zora?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I want you to say to that young woman in the mirror. ‘I am nobody’s
whore.’ ”

I wanted to say it. I wanted to say it loud like James Brown telling the
world he was black and he was proud, but I had let Miles put his hands all
over me. I didn’t feel like I wasn’t a whore. I didn’t know what I was.

“I can’t, Daddy.”

His voice becomes steely with controlled rage. I think my heart will come
right out of my chest as he nearly hisses, “Oh yes you can.”

I feel like a tiny toddler. “No, I can’t.”

“Say it,” he yells. It feels like his voice could shatter the red walls in the
bathroom. Tears spring out of my eyes.

“I can’t, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

My mother stands behind him. “Leave her be, Jack.”

He turns his rage to her. “My daughter is nobody’s whore.”

“We know that, Jack. It doesn’t matter what they think.”

“It matters!” He is nearly screaming now.

And then some monster comes into the bathroom that isn’t my daddy
at all. That man grabs me by my shoulders and throws me against the
door. He slaps my face so hard, my cheek goes numb. “You don’t let no
white man violate you. Didn’t I teach you about what they did to our
women? That’s what I sent you to Spelman for. To study your history. You
knew better.”