Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (13 page)

I don’t want to think about the implications of any of this. I want to call
MacKenzie. She’ll help me through it. I’ve helped her.

I go back into her room since he took my phones. I pick up her old-
fashioned princess trimline, and a feeling of heaviness overcomes me. Didn’t
Mac tell me I needed to apologize? She practically idolizes this apartment.
She’s going to flip her weave when she finds out
The
Bishop
came in and took
everything I own. I put the phone down.

It feels like my blood sugar has gone down. I’m not usually hypoglycemic,
but the stress of the day, my nerves, and no food has wreaked havoc on my
body. Once again, I walk from MacKenzie’s room to the living room. I sit
down, cross-legged on the floor. I’d read my Bible but he took it. And the
thought of that makes me laugh. The Bishop went so far in punishing me for
my sin of disrespecting him that he took my Sword of the Spirit.

How am I supposed to speak the Word? How am I supposed to find the
victory in my mouth? Ha! I’ll bet that to him the only victory in my mouth
are the words, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

I wonder how many slashes across his back before he said “I’m sorry” to
Granddaddy? I wonder if he had to say the actual words, if he had to concede
his defeat in the exact way Granddaddy specified.

Maybe if I showed up at church in my pajamas and put my arms around
his neck, just held onto him, maybe he’d circle my waist with his arms and
that would be
I’m
sorry
for both of us.

What would that mean for our lives? Would he have Mike and Tim come
back bearing my things with a smile? All is forgiven? As if I’d ever forget that
the two guys I’ve gone with to children’s church, to youth group, to singles
group, sold me out like two overseers on a plantation.

“Miss Zora gon’ fly away, Massa Jack. She gon’ cleave da’ air an fly
away.”

What’s the matter with me?

I lie down on the floor and tell myself I’m thinking crazy. I shouldn’t have
gone to Spelman. I definitely shouldn’t have majored in African American
studies. If I’d gone to Parsons, I wouldn’t be lying on my empty floor thinking
about slaves and overseers and wings I don’t seem to have.

All that black stuff. It just makes you angry. Sometimes I think it’s better
not to know it. Any of it. But even the most ignorant of us, the straight-up
hood rat with no education at all, gets it. It’s in us like a mourning song that
we can’t remember all the words to. Like an old spiritual that wounds and
heals at the same time. Even the hood rat can hear the ghosts howling in the
trees where the brothas hung. Smell the blood and sweat in the soil down
South. Hear the wails of the ancestors in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
God, we hear it, and it makes us angry, and it comes out in our rap music,
and our ghetto violence, and our hopelessness. It comes out when we bite
back our rage and smile at every Mister Charley we work for, and it comes out
when we bite off the head of every Mister Charley we work for.

In so many ways, we are still caught in the same drama that others created
for us so they didn’t have to work so hard. We are still house slave and field
slave, trying to be that talented tenth. We’re still giving ourselves brown-
paper-bag tests, and hoping whitey approves of us. And sometimes, we take
on all the attributes of our oppressor, whatever color he is, because in the end,
humanity is basically evil, and it hasn’t a thing to do with our skin tone.

We’ll turn on a dime if the price is right.

I need to call somebody. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of
this headspace.

I glance around the room. My eyes land on the fallen papers and Linda’s
card.

Not a chance I’ll call that white woman. I’ll sit here and lose my mind
first, God.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NICKY

I glance at the caller ID and answer the phone, complaining from the first
word. “Come on, Linda. I’m entitled to a day off now and then. You should
be glad I’m having a Jesus day.”

“I am glad. I don’t mean to interrupt you and the Lord, but Jesus needs a
favor. Someone we know needs help.”

“He didn’t tell me that. He didn’t say anything about favors or helping
anybody, and I’ve been chatting with Him all morning.”

“He’s saying it now.”

“Aw, man, Linda. Can’t you just let me be an uninvolved, marginal
Christian? I don’t want the kind of demanding Christianity that actually has
to help others. I don’t
really
want to be Jesus for people.”

She laughs. “It’s Zora. Would you be Jesus for Zora?”

I close my eyes. Try to breathe deeply. Pause and wait for my heart to take
the elevator back up to where it’s supposed to be.

“Tell me you mean another Zora, and not the one who had me laid out
in the shape of a cross all night.”

“Laid out in the shape of a cross, huh? Sounds very Richard. You’ll have
to tell me about that later. Anyway, I’m thinking she’s probably the same
Zora. How many other Zoras do you know?”

“You suck, Linda.”

“I wouldn’t ask you, but I can’t leave here today. We’re short of people
because somebody called off work so they could let Jesus love on them. Now
Jesus needs to love on somebody else, and Billie can’t get away from the house,
and Richard didn’t answer his phone.”

“Richard is probably asleep because he was up half the night with me.
Don’t you know any other Christians, preferably better Christians than
me?”

“Can you just go take her some clothes?”

For a moment a delightful image of Zora sans clothing fills my head. Of
course Linda the prophetess knows.

“Nicky. Grow up. Something happened, and she’s lost everything.”

“What do you mean she’s lost everything? Did her apartment building
catch on fire or something? I saw her last night and she was fine.”

“She told me about last night, including the fact that she saw you, and it
goes right into why she doesn’t have anything today.”

“What happened? You mean seeing me is part of why she lost everything?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Everything isn’t about you. She can tell you herself
what happened. Will you take her some clothes?”

“Where am I supposed to get women’s clothes?”

“Be creative, Nicky. I don’t care where you get them. What’s most important
is that you help your sister in Christ in need. More than anything, she needs
your presence. This is the kind of incarnational living we talk about at Bible
study. Be Jesus for
her
, not just Nicky, okay? I know you can do this.”

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to be Jesus for anybody? Especially her!
I can’t, Linda. I have … thoughts. Feelings about her that aren’t squeaky
clean, if you know what I mean. I don’t want to end up flirting with her or
something, especially if she’s vulnerable.”

“Nicky Parker. You’re a better man than you realize you are. I’m sure you
can put your adolescence to the side long enough to hand her an outfit and
tell her you’re sorry for her trouble.”

“You’re wrong there. I can’t help her. I’m sorry. You’ll be off of work at
five. She’ll have to hang on until then. She has a roommate, MacKenzie or
something. Maybe she can help her before you can get to her. I can’t.”

“She wears a size eight. Clothes and shoes. You only have to remember
one number. You can handle that. Thanks a lot.”

She hangs up on me.

I call her back. “Linda, I’m not going over there.”

She tells me she doesn’t have time to engage me if I’m going to keep
acting stupid. What am I supposed to say to that?

I’m not going. I told Linda I’m not going, and I’m not going.

And that’s that.

H
OW DO YOU
dress a Black American Princess?

I have no idea.

I find myself at the fifth store in the mall. The
mall
! And I want to give
up. First of all, the only place I have interest in shopping for Zora is Victoria’s
Secret, and I’m thinking that’s not what Linda has in mind. I go to the place
where my
mom
shops, Eddie Bauer, and then I realize my mom shops here.
Bad idea. I call Rebecca, and God, was that ever a colossally bad idea. I ask
her where she buys her clothes, and I can hear the delight in her voice. She
thinks I’m about to up the ante, and now I gotta get Rebecca something too.
Then I’m appalled to find out that she shops where my
mom
shops. I get
terrifying visions of the life that is set before me: my father’s life, complete
with pot roasts, the ’burbs, a four-door sedan, and recycled sermons nobody
realizes are recycled.

Kill me now, God. Please.

I go into Macy’s. I’m sure not going to be buying her any Prada or Kate
Spade—I don’t care what her MySpace page says—but maybe I can find
something nice that I, the pretzel-machine guy, can afford. I go through rows
and rows of clothes. Lovely, incredibly expensive clothes that make me want
to smoke a joint I feel like such a failure in life. I will never, ever be able to
afford that woman. I end up getting depressed by exactly how much the
pretzel-machine guy cannot afford. Finally, I go back to Eddie Bauer and pick
up a necklace I hope Rebecca won’t think is engagement jewelry and head
back to my truck, not only defeated but steaming mad at Linda.

Mad or no, Zora still needs some clothes. I take one more trip to
downtown Ypsilanti and go to Puffer Red’s. That’s the spot for urban chic in
Washtenaw County, and when I say urban, read “black.” All the rappers that
come to town stop into the boutique and get their picture taken with Red,
and they really do have the coolest clothes and shoes. Pete introduced me to
the place when he first began his—forgive me for saying this—
wigger
stage.
Don’t make me explain the term. Please don’t.

I realize I’ve seen Zora twice. I have no idea what she wants to wear. Both
times she wore jeans. I head over to the denim, and the first thing I see is a
brand called Apple Bottom.
Apple Bottom
? I start having visions. Really, really
good ones of Zora in Apple Bottom jeans. I stand there an inordinately long
time caressing the hanger until I realize I look like some kind of “off the rack”
freak.

Gonna be a cross for a long time tonight.

A long time.

I can’t buy her these jeans. Pete’s freakin’ voice rings in my head about
sistahs
wanting their bodies to be seen. I don’t want to think about what Zora’s
motivation is for wearing jeans. Maybe it’s the same as my own. Jeans are
comfortable. Easy to wear. But my brain feels stained by the thought.

I let the hanger go. I can’t do this. I knew I couldn’t and tried to tell
Linda. My anger rises like bile to my throat, and I think it will explode out of
my mouth. And I don’t care. I’m gonna let Linda have it.

I pick up my cell phone and punch our work number. The kindness in
her voice as she answers the phone shames me.

I pause, and she waits, as if she knows it’s me. I sigh into the phone.
“Linda. I have no—”

“Go to Janelle’s.”

“What?”

“Janelle’s. It’s a boutique. It’s on Washtenaw by the K-Mart in Ypsi. Do
you know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a nice lady. A sister in Christ. She’ll help you.”

“How did you know what I was going to say?”

“The Holy Spirit. Now get going. You’ve wasted enough time.
Victoria’s
Secret
!”

“I didn’t go in!”

She laughs.

I stare at the phone and hang up before God can tell her anything else
about me.

I
GET TO
Janelle’s, and despite what Linda said, I still feel like I’m spinning my
wheels. Nobody is in the store. I see all kinds of church lady suits in pastel
colors. If they were egg-shaped, I’d feel like I walked into an Easter basket.
Immediately I think Linda has steered me in the wrong direction. This doesn’t
look like a place a Black American Princess shops. It doesn’t even look like a
place Linda shops. Thank God for
that
.

I start yanking hangers around the racks, looking at clothes I doubt Zora
will wear. I think about the Apple Bottom jeans. And all the racy little halter-
tops I’ve looked at today. I think about the Eddie Bauer twin sets and black
pencil skirts. I think about the dizzying array of skirts, blouses, slacks, capris,
and I have no freakin’ clue what to do.

I just want to please you, Zora.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that it’s taken me hours because I
want to get just the right thing. That I want to get that dazzling smile out
of her. She has a dimple, just on one side. And she wears CK One, the same
freakin’ Calvin Klein unisex scent I wear. Her skin looks like blackberries, and
she glows from the inside out. She’d be gorgeous in white. A dress she can
twirl in when she dances, but how practical is that?

I feel a presence behind me. I turn and see an older black woman. I notice
her eyes first. Black as obsidian. Crinkled, crow’s-feet-marked eyes full of
wisdom and laughter like I imagine Jesus’ are now. Not before. I use to imagine
Jesus with stern brown eyes of judgment, but now His eyes are loving.

She’s the color of café au lait, and her face is covered with brown freckles.
I never see black people with freckles, so the sight of them startles and delights
me. I like her.

“Can I help you?” she says.

I nod. “I need help, badly. I’ve gotta get something for my woman.”

“Something for your woman, you say?”