Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (19 page)

“He was making a point. One I think you needed to be reminded of.”

“I don’t really think I need any reminders, seeing as all my stuff is gone,
but just to be nostalgic, tell me, what point is that, Miles?”

“Zora, you seem to be having a problem with authority.”

I stare at him. We’re alone. There’s no audience for him to impress. Daddy
isn’t around. So now I’m really scared, because this means he’s bought into,
and actually believes, Daddy’s hype.

“What authority are you speaking of, Miles?”

“Zora, you’ve been in church all your life. It’s just like with church. When
you’re a member of a church, there’s a headship. Christ is the head of the
church, and in our case, Bishop is the head of Light of Life. In the home,
Christ is the head of the husband, and the husband is the head of the wife and
the children. Zora, you are an unmarried woman. Right now, you are under
the protective covering of your father.”

“I don’t even live with my father, as you can see.”

“That’s not his choice. And I don’t think it makes a difference.”

He takes my hand. Says something he’s never said to me before. “I love
you, Zora. I know this isn’t the best time to talk about this, but you know I
want to make you my wife one day, and if you agree, when we get married,
you’ll come under my covering.”

He slips his arms around my waist. I’m completely horrified.

“Baby, you need to know your place. I don’t mean to sound chauvinistic,
but it’s your God-given place. There’s nothing wrong with being where God
wants you to be. I’m a man of God. Your father taught me to be a man of
God. You’re under his authority, and you need to submit to him. You had no
business walking out on him like you did, and I support what he’s doing. Out
of love, baby. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. You need to call your father
and apologize.”

Rebellion
? I think Nicky missed one! Apparently I’m not just a rascal! I’m
a rebel, too. I’m definitely going to have to read Richard’s book.

I start screaming at Miles. “Apologize for
what
?”

“I think you need to calm down, baby.”

I try. God knows I do. “Will. You. Just. Tell. Me. What. I’ve. Done.
That’s. So. Wrong?”

“You disrespected the man who supports you.”

“Define support. In fact, define
disrespect
.”

“He gave you a job. Is lavish with gifts. Money. Anything you need. And
all he asked you to do is watch your tone with him.”

“He doesn’t give me
anything
I need. Because I
needed
to go to Parsons,
not Spelman. I
needed
to do some meaningful work without him hovering
over me and telling me that what I do,
anybody
with some clip art and a PC
can do. And you know what the real problem is, Miles? He’s right.”

“I see what this is about. You’re upset because Mac went to the school you
wanted to go to. You’re having a tantrum.”

“This is about so much more than that. And if I’m having a tantrum,
what is he having?”

Miles turns away. Looks back at me. “Zora. Don’t do this. You have it so
good. Don’t you see what we can be together? Where is your vision, baby?”

“I want to paint.”

“You paint, Zora.”

“I want it to be my life’s work.”

“You’re not meant to be a painter, baby.”

“I am, Miles.”

“You’re not that good at it, baby.”

I feel like he’s just slapped me across the face. I can’t even form a reply.

Miles doesn’t even notice my jaw drop; he just keeps talking. “And here’s
another thing for you to think about: if you were really a painter, nothing—
including me or your daddy—would stop you from painting. What you are is
scared of growing up. You’re having growing pains, baby. You weren’t groomed
to be a painter. You were made to be a pastor’s wife—just like that prophet
who came to our church told you that time. He was right, baby. I knew it.
You’ll be just like your mother: beautiful, classy, godly, magnificent. We’re
going to be everything I wished—that my poor mother wished—I could be
when I was a little boy. You should have seen her, Zora. Every day, without
fail, that woman prayed over me. She confessed God’s word over me. I’m
just like you, Zora, the hope of my parents, only without the advantages you
had. But that never stopped my mother from having faith. She believed that
I had a call of God on my life, and now, I’m going to see the fruits of all those
prayers. I’m so close. Your father wants me to be his son-in-law. And I want
to do that. I want to be a good man. I do, Zora. Listen to us. We’ll take care
of you, but you can’t be in rebellion.”

His arms feel strong. Arms like my father’s. Miles holds me like my daddy
does.

“You don’t have to worry. Because as soon as your daddy lets you go, I’m
going to take over. I’ll be Daddy. And Daddy Miles is gonna take good care
of you.”

I don’t like the way that sounds. Something about it scares me.

“That sounds incestuous, Miles.”

“I promise you’ll like it.”

Miles is trying to comfort me. I just turn and stand in the corner. He says I
don’t want to grow up. I’ll prove him right. I turn around and stand there facing
the wall while he rubs my shoulders and begs me to call my daddy,
The Bishop
.

I want him to kiss me. Finally. I want this big, chauvinist pig to take me
in his arms and be my hero. Make everything feel better—take me off into
the sunset on his white horse. That’s how vulnerable I feel.
Miles
, who’s been a
jerk since all this happened, looks good to me. But he doesn’t do any of that,
lest his actions get back to
The
Bishop
, whose covering must still apply, despite
all evidence to the contrary. Miles just rubs my arms, though he stands closer
than usual. I can tell he wants to do more, but he restrains himself. He leaves
me with these parting words: “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.”

He leaves me standing there in the corner, mute and chastised like a little
girl.

For a few hours, I sit on the floor in my apartment, truly empty except
for the box of clothes Nicky bought me and the food and necessities Linda
and Billie provided. More hours pass, and I try to sleep but dream about a
big plantation, only the slave masters are black and they’re all people in my
life. Ms. Pamela is in the field with me, and she’s dying, but we keep getting
whipped, and we have to keep going. I’m so scared. I don’t know how to keep
her from dying, and I start feeling sick too. I start coughing and thinking I’m
going to die, me and Ms. Pamela right here on this plantation.

I wake up, and I don’t know how I’ll endure all the silence. All the nothing
around me. It feels like the blue walls are caving in on me. The Sankofa bird
mocks me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to go back and find. I don’t know
what I’ve left behind.

I have to get out of here. I think maybe if I just go to the mailbox I’ll feel
better. Maybe. Please, God, let that small thing, because it’s all I’ve got, help
me feel better.

I get up and go to the door. Open it. My door is covered by a huge canvas.
It’s almost as tall and wide as I am. And there’s paint. All kinds of paints.

Maybe Miles has come through. Maybe this is his way of showing me he’s
with me. He’s going to support my desire. Maybe I can be The Bishop’s wife
one day and paint on this amazing canvas. Miles has provided everything.
This huge canvas. Oils, watercolors, acrylics. There are brushes and pads,
paper, charcoals, and pens. It makes me so happy that I laugh and laugh.

He’s taped a note on bright red paper where I can see it. “Zora” in big,
bold letters with a smiley face.

Wait a minute. This isn’t Miles’s handwriting.

My heart pounds. Did MacKenzie do this? She couldn’t. She had to use
everything she had to get to New York. Even if she could sacrifice something,
she’d never be able to do this. Besides, it’s not her handwriting either.

I tear open the envelope. That snake in the garden of my heart, I can’t
find it anywhere. But I feel a butterfly. A tiny one, released from its just-born
wings, now freed from its dark chrysalis. Fluttering. Fluttering. Fluttering.

Inside is a poem about the earring, and after the poem this note: “Okay,
so it looked like me. What else can you do?”

I’m not the dreamy one. Nicky is. He must have written the poem right
after he left me.

I don’t get you, Nicky Parker. But I like you. I like you way too much.

And what is this thing emerging between us?

You’ve gotta be kidding me, God.

I spend a few hours sketching on that enormous canvas. Little children. I
don’t know why children. I think they’re going to be of every color. Some of
them are holding hands.

Maybe I’ll just paint Dr. Martin Luther King’s dream right there on that
canvas, where it’s safe.

N
ICKY’S SUPPLIES
have given me a bit of freedom. And what do you do with
freedom? I have no idea.

I think maybe I should go to Meijer to get a flat iron for my hair. For all
their kindness, Linda and Billie didn’t think of what I need for my hair.

I still don’t have any cash, but I can walk right down Ellsworth to get
to Meijer by way of what MacKenzie calls Pat and Turner: pat your feet and
turn the corner. It’s late, but Ann Arbor is pretty safe. I don’t normally walk
around at night, but I don’t think much will happen. Ellsworth is a major
street. There’s a sidewalk I can walk on, and traffic. I don’t have a cell phone,
but I can pray. I think it’ll be okay. I want to do something to my hair. It’s
getting pretty ratty. I want to look pretty. Maybe just get some cheap lipstick.
I don’t want to buy any MAC. Just something so I can look decent the next
time I see him.