Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (15 page)

“That’s a dangerous prayer, Zora. He may show you exactly what it means.
And you may not like it.”

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him. I know that my Redeemer
liveth.”

He takes a deep breath, like he drank in the Scripture. “I like a King-James-
only girl, even though you totally fused two different Scriptures. And does your
dad know you think God slayed you? I don’t think he believes in that.”

He’s so silly, I laugh.

He nudges me. “Can I take you out of the screaming blue abyss here,
pajama girl?”

“I’d like that very much.” I touch the beautifully wrapped box beside me.
“So what’s in the box?”

“I’ll surprise you. Open it in the bathroom, though. I can’t bear to see it
if you’re disappointed. If you hate it all, lie like a rug.”

I laugh again. He really is sweet.

“Nicky?”

“Yeah, Zora.”

“I’m sorry I was mean to you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was a little snippy myself. You forgive me, and
I’ll forgive you. Now go get fabulous and let’s get outta here and break bread
together.”

What he doesn’t realize, is that we’ve just broken bread. Maybe not on
our knees like the song I love says, but cross-legged on the floor, he gave me a
bit of his bread of sorrow, and I gave him a bit of mine. Now, I’m ready for a
little milk and honey for our journey. I stand up and look at him still sitting
there, and his face, so open and vulnerable, looks so beautiful that he takes
my breath away.

“Remind me to sketch you one day, Nicky.”

He grins at me. “Are you an artist, Zora?”

“Yeah. I am.”

I walk into my bathroom with the box in my hands, singing, “When I fall
on my knees with my face to the rising sun, O Lord, have mercy on me.”

And for a moment, I feel hopeful. That is until I realized that all my
towels and washcloths are gone. Along with the shower curtain.

I determine that God is with me despite my nightmare morning. God
may have come in the skin of a really cute white guy, but He came bearing
gifts, and if I ever needed to receive anything from God, in all the years that
receive, receive, receive had been drilled into me, it’s today.

Nicky said he practiced incarnational Christianity. This is from You,
Lord. From You.

Oh, God. I hope You have good taste.

Now see, there I go. Already I’ve got it all wrong. Do the poor get the
luxury of fine taste? Nicky spent his money on me. This isn’t even a taste of
real poverty. He didn’t come here with a pair of his sweats and an old T-shirt
for me.

God, when will I ever get living for You right?

I take a deep breath. I try to imagine the sunshine of Nicky’s face as
I untie the gossamer white ribbon holding the box together. He’d had it
wrapped in a simple floral paper printed with daisies. Wildflowers. I like him
a little more for that.

God, don’t let whatever is in here be hideous. Supernaturally make me
like it if You have to. I’ve had so much disappointment today. Can You just
not let this be something Britney Spears would wear?

I decide to close my eyes and feel around. You can tell a lot about a man
by the fabric he chooses.

First I touch paper. I make my way past it and feel cool cotton beneath
my fingers. It’s a gauzy fabric, and already my fingertips tell me my body is
going to at least like the feel of it against my skin.

I take a chance and open my eyes. It’s white. It’s amazing. A dress as
simple and lovely as an India.Arie song. It’s something the singer would wear,
in fact. I ain’t gon’ be no Britney today. It’s got a sweetheart neckline, and
three-quarter sleeves. I could wear it to church and to a picnic, and with heels
I can take it to the dance floor. It’s perfect.

For a moment I feel so happy I hold the dress to my heart.

Thank You, Jesus. And thank you, Nicky Parker.

There are other treasures in the box. Big sterling silver hoops and a simple
cross to go with them. Oh, somebody must have trained him well. He knows
a sistah’s heart. Black palazzo pants and a white wrap, three-quarter sleeve
T-shirt. How could he understand me so well? These aren’t just clothes I’d
pick myself, these are clothes I’d pick since I’ve met Linda. Her modesty,
even though, God help me, I don’t want to dress like her, well, it touched me.
And I’ve wanted to cover myself a little more. Just with a bit more style than
Linda. And he’s captured it beautifully.

Wait. Does he think I’m immodest?

I think about the other two times he’s seen me. Well, I certainly wasn’t
modest all over the floor when we first met. What did I have on that night?
Jeans. Tight jeans. And last night at the bookstore? More tight jeans, though
I doubt if he found the sweatshirt immodest. And his friend, saying I’m
bootylicious …

He’s gotta think I’m immodest.

Should I ask him? Should I be mortified?

I sit on the countertop. His friend has jungle fever, and Nicky thinks I’m
a stank ho. He’s over here being Jesus so he can tell me in a nice way that I’m
a ho.

All of a sudden this is all too much for me. All my clothes gone. All my
stuff gone. This guy I just met having to come and rescue me. Me wondering
what he thinks about all of this. About me. My father. An ocean of sadness
and confusion pours out of me and I begin to sob into the white dress.

He hears me. He knocks on the door.

“Are you okay, Zora?”

“Go away.”

“You can’t send me away. I’m the great white hope.”

“That’s not funny, Nicky.”

“You hate everything I got, don’t you?”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

“Aw, man. I suck. But I tried. I really did, Zora. I can’t afford you. And I
just didn’t think I should get you Eddie Bauer or Apple Bottoms.”

“
Apple Bottoms
? You were thinking of getting me
Apple Bottom
clothes?”

“Okay. I’ll admit it. The name compelled me. Would you have rather had
Baby Phat?”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

“Zora, you’re really damaging my self-esteem here. Cut me some slack.
I’ve never shopped for a black woman.”

“You’re damaging my self-esteem, you wretched man.
Apple Bottom
! You
think I’m bootylicious too, don’t you? You’re just like Pete.”

“I’m not. Okay I am, but, not really. Yes, I am, but in a different way.”

I hear him make a groaning sound. It sounds like he’s banging his head
against the door.

“Zora, listen. What I mean to say is, you do have a nice butt.”

“What?”

“Okay, that sounded worse than I meant it. It sounds awful, but please
bear in mind I’m of the male species, and we tend to be visual. It’s a biological
flaw.”

“Get away from my door. You’re perpetrating the myth of the black
whore.”

“
Myth of the
… Zora. I don’t even know what the
myth
of the black whore
is.”

“Liar.”

“All right. Maybe I know it, but it’s a myth. Aw, man. Zora. Can you tell
me exactly where I went wrong?”

“No, I hate you.” I cry like a babe in arms, only I’m not in anybody’s
arms.

“May I come in there?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Do you still have your pajamas on?”

“Yes. And don’t you come in here.”

He opens the door, outraging me.

“You’re just going to barge in here anyway? Just do what you want. You’re
such a
white
man!”

He looks around the space and laughs. “Wow. Your bathroom is, like,
red.”

“I like to experiment with color.”

“It’s really cool.”

“What do you want, Nicky?”

He walks up to me. “I’m sorry, Zora. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Do you think I’m a ho?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said—” I try to compose myself, which is impossible. “Do you think
I’m a stank ho?”

“No, you said ho first. Plain ol’ ho. Let’s not add anything, okay?”

I guffaw through my tears. “You’re silly. You’re a silly, silly man.”

“Why would I think you’re a ho, Zora?”

“Why did you buy these clothes in particular? They don’t look like
anything you’ve seen me wearing.”

“I got the clothes I thought you could wear and be as perfectly beautiful as
you are. That’s all. I assure you, Zora, between the two of us, Nicky is the ho.
Just ask Richard from Bible study. He’ll tell you. He wrote a book about it.”

He gets another chuckle out of me. “Richard wrote a book about you
being a ho?”

“No, he wrote a book about God’s grace to people like me. It’s called
Good
News for Rascals, Rebels, and Whores
. You’ll have to excuse us. We white folks say
‘whore’ instead of ho. Except the rappers. And the … wiggers.” He winces.

“Did you just say
wigger
?”

“I did. Forgive me.”

“Okay, you’re stupid. You know that, right?”

“When you say stupid, do you mean lacking intelligence, or funny? You
know we white people have vastly different meanings for the same words.”

“You’re funny. You may be stupid too, but you’re funny.”

“I made you smile.”

And then I bawl again.

“Oh, Nicky. I don’t have a job now. What am I going to do? The rent is
due in three weeks. I don’t have any savings. My parents gave me everything,
including my job.”

“I guess you’re going to have to trust your heavenly Parent.” He takes my
hands in his. “I don’t have any easy answers, Zora. But I really believe in this
incarnational Christianity thing. And God really is with you. Not just in us,
your friends, Zora. He’s with you.”