Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (14 page)

For a moment I don’t answer. The question takes me by surprise. Janelle
smiles. “Is that what you said, sweetness?”

“I’m sorry, what did I say?”

“You said, ‘I’ve gotta get something for my woman.’ At least that’s what
it sounded like you said.”

I scratch my head. “Did I? I meant to say for a woman.”

“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.”

“It would appear that you’re right.” I shake my head. My slip unnerves
me. “She’s not my woman.” I chuckle. “Right now, it’d be good if I can just
figure out an outfit for her.”

“That’s a big step, an outfit.”

I laugh. “Oh, no. We’re not at the buying-clothes stage or anything. We’re
not even at the
friends
stage. There’s a need. I’m not sure what it is, but I hear
it’s bad. Like ‘she’s lost everything’ bad.”

“The poor thing.”

“I want to get her something until we can take her shopping. The people
in our Bible study. At least I think so. I’m Nicky. My friend Linda sent me.”

“I’m Janelle. I figured you were Nicky. Linda called me and told me you were
coming. I don’t get many handsome twenty-something young men in here.”

She makes me blush, and I notice she didn’t call me white. “Thank you,
Janelle. I’m not even sure exactly how much I should get. I really don’t know
the plan. And I don’t have much money. I can use my credit card, but I don’t
have much credit, either. Student loans.”

“That’s okay, sweetness. We’ll go easy. We don’t always get the plan, but
we still have’ta act, don’t we? You say you think she lost everything? Linda
didn’t say much to me. Just that you were coming.”

“Yeah. I don’t know the details. I just need to tide her over until we all meet
or something. I don’t know. I’ve been at the mall for hours.” I throw my hands
up. “I’m. Just—” I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Lost.”

I look at her. “You don’t sell Apple Bottom jeans, do you?”

She seems to laugh with her whole body. “No, baby.”

“Do you sell other clothes like that? I don’t want those. Well, I do, but
Linda would kill me.”

She chuckles. “I can’t imagine Miss Linda hurting a living soul. How
’bout you tell me about your young lady?”

My heart races to think of her. “She’s beautiful, Janelle, and complicated.
In the way the horizon is beautiful and complicated at dusk and dawn. She’s
a dancer and a painter.” I imagine those MySpace pictures, and the thought
of them takes my breath away. “And she’s smart. Sassy. She’s an Ella Fitzgerald
scat, or a Thelonius Monk melody. You know?”

Janelle shakes her head at me. “You’ve got it bad, Nicky.”

“Can you tell?”

“I’m afraid so. Is she African American, sweetness?”

“Yes. And she’s totally not into me.”

Before Janelle can address my dilemma, I throw this out there before I
can change my mind. “Can you find something modest for her?”

She smiles and nods like I’ve pleased her.

“Not like old lady modest or, forgive me for saying this, even
Linda
modest. And please, Janelle, don’t even show me something Eddie Bauer
white-lady modest like my mom would wear. Zora is … a
sistah
.”

I didn’t mean it like Pete. I meant it in a good way. I said it with respect.
“I want her to look like Zora, the artist, the dancer, the
sistah
. Not somebody
else’s image of who they think she is, and that includes me.”

I hesitate, not knowing how to say this next part without sounding crazy.
I look at Janelle. Those kind black eyes gaze into mine. “Janelle, if she were,
like, to pray, lying prostrate, with her …” I gesture toward my rear. “You
know, in the air a little bit … I don’t know. What kind of thing could she
wear so that her, you know, so she’d still be okay to pray like that around …
me? And it not drive me crazy. In a
bad
way.”

Janelle cracks up like Linda did when I said I prayed Zora would never
come to Bible study again. She even gets a few chuckles out of me she laughs
so hard.

I ask hopefully, “Can we try something in white, too? She’s darker than
you. She’ll look good in white, with the contrast against her incredible skin.
Don’t you think?”

“I know just the thing.”

She leads me to a rack of markdowns. And right there, at seventy-five
percent off, hangs a white wrap, three-quarter-sleeve shirt. On the same rack,
Janelle finds flowing black bottoms that I think are a skirt at first. She calls
it a split skirt. I call them pants, but they’re beautiful, and Zora will look
fantastic. Both are size eight.

I save so much money with the sale prices I can buy her a spring dress
that’s not on sale. It’s a gauzy number, but not sheer. White. And the skirt
is made for twirling in. I buy her big silver hoops because Janelle says all
bohemian types love those, and I finish the look with a simple sterling silver
cross and the some underthings I hope she won’t think are too personal, but
rather a necessity. I even try to keep my head out of fantasyland. Impossible
while buying Zora bras and panties, but I tried just the same. Janelle gives me
fifty percent off a pair of black leather ballet flats and a throws in a few more
unmentionables for free to help with Zora’s losses, whatever they are. We pray
together for Zora, and she sends me on my way.

I don’t call Linda to report on how well I did. Somehow I have a feeling
the Holy Spirit has told her all about it.

CHAPTER NINE

ZORA

I know I’m losing my mind. I tried to find Mac’s Bible without success. I
doubt if Mac can find her Bible. I don’t want to raid her boxes, especially
since my things have been pillaged.

The feeling of being violated fills me with indignation. I want to stretch
out having everything taken from me for as long as I can. Oh, I’m in solidarity
with my ancestors now. And every violation I feel today is in remembrance of
those for whom a simple apology would never suffice. Ever.

I think of all the Scriptures I have memorized, and only one brings
comfort. Over and over Jesus’ words in the Gospels play in my mind. “Blessed
are the poor in spirit.” And again where He said, “Blessed are you poor.”
Something like that. I meditate on them. My only deviation, in snatches, is
to actually think on those poor. Those poor in spirit. And then back to the
Scripture.

I try not to think about myself. I try not to think about Daddy.

I don’t cry.

I have no idea how long I lay on the hard floor like that. But I’m sore
from the assault the ground puts on my body. At some point I hear someone
buzz my buzzer. It surprises me. I’m rarely home on a Friday morning. Or
is it afternoon? Maybe it’s Miles. I think it is. Miles is going to help me stop
thinking about slaves and masters and overseers and Daddy. He’s going to talk
some sense into me. ’Cause I’ve lost it, and all I can think of is the poor.

I don’t even ask who it is. I buzz him up, wishing he could fly up the stairs
instead of walk. I run into the bathroom but I can’t do a thing with myself.
Funky tank top. My hair nappy at the roots. I can’t even brush my teeth. Not
that I’d have time to. Not now. I rinse my mouth and wipe my teeth with the
tank top and smooth it back over my pajama bottoms. I hear Miles knocking,
and rush to let my sweet boyfriend in.

Only it ain’t Miles. It’s Nicky Parker.

I’m so flustered I can’t get my mouth to work, and he’s leaning at my
doorjamb.

“Hey,” he says with an easy grin. Like my whole life hasn’t fallen apart.

When I find my voice, I blast him. “What are you doing here? Did Linda
send you? I knew I shouldn’t have called her. What are you supposed to be,
my great white hope?”

Nicky looks stunned. He bolts up from his leaning position. “Great white
hope? Didn’t you call
Linda
? Did it occur to you that
she’s
white too? Or am I
the only white person you’ve taken it upon yourself to torture with your ‘hate
whitey’ crusade?”

“At least Linda is nice.”

“What? I’m not nice? I’ve been at the mall for hours for you. With my
own money, mind you. And I don’t even know what’s going on with you. I
took a personal day off work, for
myself
, Zora, and that is a rare and beautiful
thing, by the way. I’ve spent it shopping for
you
because I heard you had
trouble in Black American Princess land. So you’ll excuse me, but I think I’m
pretty darned nice, especially since you’re so freakin’ salty.”

Okay. Man at mall cuts across all racial and cultural boundaries. But did
she have to ask him? I look a hot mess, and he’s looking all fine, especially
when he’s mad. And he argues with me. Miles never argues with me. I thought
his speech was over, but no.

“You know, if you ever come back to our Bible study, and you
should
,
since apparently you
need
it, you’ll find that we happen to think Christians
should bear one another’s burdens. We love each other the way Jesus says we
should. It doesn’t matter what color we are.”

“All of you are white.”

“
You’re
not white, angry
black
woman. And I’m here bearing
your
burdens.” He thrusts a beautifully gift-wrapped box at me. “Here are some
clothes. And shoes. And even some other stuff that isn’t necessary—but just
nice
. Linda calls it being missional, and intentional, and incarnational. I don’t
even understand all those terms, Zora. But when she says we need to be Jesus
for one another, I get that. That’s pretty concrete.”

I stand there looking at him until he fusses some more.

“Take the box.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Jesus wouldn’t be standing here yelling at me.”

“Jesus would probably take a switch to your behind.”

He runs his hand, with those delightfully long fingers, through his hair. It
looks like he’s done that gesture several times today, probably at the mall. For
me. It falls back in soft layers around his face. It’s a little sun kissed in places,
blonder in some spots than others. Nicky is crazy fine, and he’s standing so
close I can smell CK One. I used to have a bottle before
The Bishop
confiscated
it. I haven’t even asked Nicky in.

He tucks the package under his arm.

He takes a step back like he’s going to walk away, and then steps up to me
again, as stealthy as a lion. But he doesn’t roar this time. His voice is soft.

“Zora, I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t really want to do this. But I honestly
want to be Jesus’ hands, and feet, and heart, even if that means I have to go
to Briarwood Mall. And Puffer Red’s.”

I smile when he says he’s been to Puffer Red’s.

“And Janelle’s. I don’t know what happened to you, but I can see your
apartment is empty, and you’re in your pajamas, and you don’t look like
yourself. Linda said you’re in trouble. Will you take this package from Jesus,
and not turn Him away because He happened to come to you looking like a
ticked-off white man today?”

Again, he stretches the package out toward me. I take it this time.

“Come in, Nicky.”

He hesitates.

“Come on.”

He follows me inside. I don’t make a show out of what’s left in here.
Nicky notices my work on the walls.

“Did you paint in here?”

“Yep.”

“It’s beautiful work, Zora. What a rich blue color.”

“I love this color. It looks just like your sapphire eyes.”

I shouldn’t have said that.

He actually laughs. “You mean you
like
my eyes? Me, the blue-eyed
devil?”

“Okay. You get three cool points for knowing some early Malcolm X. But
why don’t we cool it with the militant stuff? I’m sure you’ve had your fill for
now. So have I.”

I sit on the floor. Beckon him to do the same, and he does.

We both sit cross-legged. He seems to look everywhere but at me. I tease
him for avoiding my gaze. “You must really like that paint job.”

“I like more than that.” And then that sweet baby turns red on me.

“Didn’t mean to let that one out, did ya, Nicky?”

“No, but if you’ll forget about it, I’ll pretend you didn’t say I have sapphire
eyes.”

Oh, yeah. There’s definitely something wild and sweet about him. I like
him despite myself. He finally looks at me.

“I feel a little nervous around you, Zora. Nobody has challenged my
white guilt like you do.”

“I can’t turn off the militant in me sometimes. I wish I could.”

“I can’t say I understand that, Zora. But who am I to judge you for it?”
He points to the ceiling. “What’s that symbol that looks like a bird? I’ve seen
it before.”

“It’s Sankofa. It means go back and fetch it.”

“I don’t understand. Is it like, some kind of flying thing? Some kind of
freedom thing?”

“In a way. You see how its head is turned? It’s looking back, behind itself.
Its lesson is that what we’ve lost is in our past, and only in going back can we
truly go forward. So maybe there is a kind of flying lesson. Maybe we have to
fly back to where things began. Flying back, looking back, maybe they’re the
same thing, just going at different speeds.”

He looks uncomfortable. “I don’t want to look back at anything. I
definitely don’t want to fly back to my past. I’d just as soon leave everything
behind me right where it is.”

“Sounds like you have a reason to go back. Maybe you left something
important there.”

“It’ll have to stay.”

For a few moments we’re both quiet and then he continues. “I mean, it
seems like my whole life is one big Sankofa. I went to UC Berkeley, far away
from Reverend Nicholas Parker Senior. And you know what? After a while, I
missed him. I’d burned all the bridges I could, and I had no idea how to get
back home again.”

I look into his eyes. He’s telling me his prodigal son story, an abbreviated
version, but the pain of eating with the pigs is still in his eyes.

“Talk about wanting to come back to your past to get what you lost. I
wanted to make amends. I felt like God said to me, ‘It’s time to put things
right with your father,’ but I suck at it. I should have just let it be.”

His words jar me. Put things right with your father.

Not today, Lord.

Nicky gets quiet on me. I guess it’s my turn to give my own father story.
“I guess I’m the prodigal daughter today. I don’t even know how all this
happened, Nicky. It’s so weird. Daddy invited me to dinner. Just a quiet night
with him, my mama, and my boyfriend. I didn’t even want to go. And the
next thing you know, he’s cut me off from all of his financial support. He
came here early this morning with a moving truck. And he’s taken what he’s
helped me buy, which is everything. He’s taken everything away from me.”

“That sucks, Zora.”

“It really does suck. And I can’t decide if it’s a blessing or not, because I
keep praying that Jesus will show me what the Scripture means—”

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

My heart quickens. “Yes. Yes! That’s it.”