Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (36 page)

John holds the cup of wine in his hand to his lips and takes a long drink.
He gives the cup to Billie, and she drinks, and then he offers the cup to me.

For a moment I hesitate. What’s it gonna be, Zora? Think about how
you’re going to live your life. Symbolically? Or will you get down to the
messiness of being involved with something real for a change? I take the cup.
I take a drink as long as the one Father John took. The wine is sweeter than I
imagined it would be and, though it’s cold, the alcohol warms my throat.

John tears a piece of bread from a single loaf in the basket.

“At that same table, Zora, Jesus said to His disciples, ‘This is my body
which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.’”

He eats the bread. Father John lifts the basket and extends the loaf to me.
“Please. Break bread with me.”

He asks with such sincerity. I don’t even know if I’m having some kind of
Orthodox communion or not, but I want to share with them. I take the bread
and pull a small piece from the loaf. I thought it’d be bland, but it tastes better
than I expected. I pass the basket to Billie, and she too eats.

John surprises me and takes the wine again. “Finally, Jesus passed the cup,
once again. He said, ‘This cup is the new testament in my blood, which is
shed for you.’” He pauses for a while, as if this is a marvel to him. He drinks
deeply of it. I’m so moved by his passion, I take another long drink, and I pass
it to Billie, and we all sit quietly for a few minutes.

“What does this all mean?”

“It’s full of mystery, baby,” Billie says. “We don’t even know what it all
means. We just know it begins with Christ. Him becoming our feast and
telling us to share Him with each other, and we all come to one table where
we can partake of Him. At least that’s how it should be. It’s not yet. Christ’s
body is broken apart. Every time I serve communion, I weep for all the people
who can’t partake of it with me. But I do what I can. I leave it to God to bring
us all back together. We’re His body, broken or no.”

John seems to ponder what she says. He adds, “But I believe regardless
of what we believe about the Eucharist, we are all to feed off Christ. Because
we all must feed off Christ, He is present inside all believers, so the stranger is
always Christ, and Christ is always welcome.”

“But what about crazy people? What about sociopaths? What about
people who don’t take communion at all and who haven’t fed off Christ?”

“Seems like to me, at that very table where the Lord instituted the Eucharist,
a sociopath sat among them who would sell the Son of God for thirty pieces of
silver. And Jesus washed his feet. It’s Jesus who said, ‘Judge not.’ ”

“He also said, ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits.’ How can you protect
people in your community who are vulnerable?”

Father John answers, “Love is the biggest rule here, Zora. We have houses
that are more equipped to deal with mentally ill people. And homeless people.
People who could harm children. Part of living in love is making room for
everybody. Sometimes love is asking someone predatory to leave. It’s hard,
but we have to do it sometimes.”

Billie nods. “I’m not sayin’ we’ve got it down perfect. We take a
little wisdom from the Romanian Orthodox monks, and some from the
Benedictines, and some from the Catholic Worker Houses of Hospitality.
And we pray, and screw up and try again. But we give coffee. And soup. And
love, wine, and bread.”

“I like it.”

“We like it too,” John says.

“Sometimes,” Billie says. He shoots her a look, and she winks at him. He
smiles despite himself.

“How do you get money?”

“Donations. And what we earn using our skills and talents. We don’t
get any government grants or assistance,” John says. “We trust God and His
people. We seem to get by.”

“It’s not easy,” Billie says.

“You probably noticed my wife speaks her mind.”

“I noticed.”

Billie gets up. “Then let me speak my mind and say how shabby this place
looks. I’m hoping Zora can give me some decorating tips so we can fix the
place up without scaring Father John half to death with Day-Glo colors.”

“Please, Zora. Don’t let my wife’s colorful personality sway any good
ideas you have. We’d love to get any insights you want to offer that will make
our home more inviting, but not any concepts with the words
Day-Glo
, or
hot
, or
screaming
in front of them.”

“You can count on me.”

“Be careful what you say, Zora. I just may do that,” he says.

And I smile, because somehow, I don’t think I’ll mind him counting on
me at all.

NICKY

So, it’s eleven thirty at night when I get to her apartment. I sit in her parking
lot another freakin’ half hour because I look like a monster, and I don’t want
her to see me like this. But I gotta see her, or more to the point, I gotta see
her see me.

I think about Jesus while I’m in my truck. The Good Shepherd. I
wonder if He’s calm when He goes after the one. Does He whistle a psalm
or something and walk with slow ease? Does worry crease His brow? Does
He think about any of the bad things that could happen? Or does He hurry,
like disaster could strike at any moment if He doesn’t get there in the nick of
time?—pun intended.

And the worst thing? My father did come after me. He came with my
so-called best friend to save me from the black woman he thought would ruin
me. Like Zora was some kind of she-wolf out to destroy me. My father who
doesn’t like to hit has done so twice in a single day to get my attention. He
came with the sternest of warnings today, sparing not the rod for his spoiled-
rotten child. Maybe that’s his version of love and it’s as real as it’s gonna get
for him—or me.

I can’t think about this. How small is his world if I can’t fit one black
woman in it? I have to see her.

I tell myself how amazing she was to walk what—seven or eight miles?—
just to get to my church. How brave she was to have dinner with me after
she saw Rebecca connected to me like we’re conjoined twins. And how sassy
and courageous she was at the dinner table, the way she stood up for me, how
classy she was when she dealt with my family’s ignorance.

I tell myself that I need to see her badly enough that I can push her
buzzer, even if Miles is in there and his arms are curled around her and he’s
whispered to her that he loves her after he’s made love to her maybe better
than I can, because everybody knows what they say about black men and—

Man.

I don’t know where this courage is going to come from. I’m just a lust-
filled sinner. I don’t even know for sure if I’m in love. But I know this: It
enrages me that he hasn’t done anything for her. And she’s not wearing a ring.
And he doesn’t think she’s an incredible artist. I don’t want anything but what
is best for that angel.

Just thinking about him enjoying the full benefits package ticks me off.
And I’m getting smacked around because I kissed her. I don’t think so.

I get out of my truck, march up to the door, and press the buzzer long
and hard. Anger and adrenaline surge through me, and I can feel a manly urge
to do something destructive. A good old-fashioned brawl is in order, and not
with my father or grandfather.

Nothing.

I nearly lie on the buzzer this time. Then I press on all the buzzers, which
doesn’t please the occupants since by now it’s after midnight. I press on Zora’s
buzzer again and again until it finally dawns on me. Zora isn’t home. She isn’t
lying on the floor amid the blue and red walls. He’s taken my Zora home
with him.

I pull my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and dial 4-1-1.

“Information. City and state, please.”

“Ann Arbor, Michigan, I think. Do you have a listing for Miles Zekora?”

“Hold for the number.”

I hold all right. I tap my foot and ball my free hand into a fist and when
she comes back, I say, “Yes, please,” after she asks if I’d like for her to connect
me to that number.

The phone rings nine times. I would have waited if it had rung nine
thousand. I would have waited if it took nine days for him to answer it.

He sounds sleepy, no doubt from a vigorous session of lovemaking to
Zora.

“Hullo,” he says.

“Miles!”

“Who is this?”

“Where is Zora?”

He pauses. “Who is this?”

“Put Zora on the phone.”

“Zora isn’t here.”

I don’t have the patience for this. “Don’t play with me, Miles. I’ll come
over there and get her if I have to.”

Now Miles sounds ticked off. Really ticked off. “Who is this?”

“This is God’s soldier. You shouldn’t be having sex with God’s
handmaidens.” Man, what a freakin’ hypocrite I am.

“I’m not having sex with anybody. I’m going to marry—I don’t even
know who this is.”

“This is the voice of prophecy. You can’t keep having sex with Zora. You
don’t deserve her. You don’t even have a ring for her. You suck, Miles.”

“Is this that white boy?”

“What white boy?”

“That white boy that was at … this is Nicky. The white boy with the
comedienne’s name.”

“Yeah, this is Nicky Parker. And you still suck.”

“Man, why you callin’ me?”

“Because you don’t deserve her. You don’t know her. You don’t even think
she can paint, and that’s just crazy, Miles. How can you not think she can
paint?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. You don’t be calling me, white boy.
I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t know me like that.”

“No, I know you like
this
: I know you were at the dinner at her dad’s
house, and she ended up walking to the bookstore, and it was me who gave
her a ride home that night. I know you left her in pajamas on Friday, and it
was me who brought her the white dress you took off of her today. I know it
was me that fed her Friday. And it was me that gave her cab fare, and if she
were in my bed, I’d have a ring on her finger, unlike you. That’s what I know
about you, Miles.”