Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (37 page)

“I’m gon’ say this one more time, white boy. You don’t know anything
about what’s going on with Zora and her family. You need to keep your white
nose out of black folks’ business. And here’s another thing: I think what you’re
most upset about is that it
ain’t
you taking that white dress off Zora, and it
ain’t never gon’ be you. So you need to step off. Don’t call me no more, and
stay away from my wife.”

“Is she there? Because if she’s there I’m coming for her.”

“Yeah. She’s here. Come and get her.”

“I’m on my way.”

I call information again and find out his street address. I’m in such a rage
I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m a lot worse off than I felt earlier. I feel like I’m
going to both implode and explode all at once.

I keep thinking I should call Richard. I don’t want to bother him again,
but the desire becomes so insistent that I can’t ignore it anymore. It’s late, but
Rich is a night owl. I’m so frustrated I pull over and get out of the car. I punch
in his number. He answers on the first ring.

“Nicky, hey.”

“Rich.”

“You okay, son? You sound upset.”

“I’m on my way to beat up Zora’s boyfriend and take her out of his
apartment.”

“What are you talking about, Nicky?”

“I called Miles. Zora is over there. And they’re probably making mad,
passionate love. I’m going to go get her.”

“Nicky, are you certain?”

“He said she was there.”

“Did you speak to her there?”

“He wouldn’t put her on the phone. Why would he let me talk to her
when he’s making mad, passionate love to her?”

“Zora is not at her boyfriend’s house making mad, passionate love, Nicky.
She’s at the Beloved Community.”

“What?”

“I talked to Linda fifteen minutes ago. Zora went home with Billie.”

“Richard, are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“Could Billie maybe have taken her over to Miles’s?”

His laughter explodes into my ear. “Are you kidding? Billie Jordan?”

I have to laugh with him. What a clown I am. “She’s at The Beloved
Community? And I’ve probably gotten her into a lot of trouble with her
boyfriend.”

“Go home and go to bed. It’s after midnight.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to see her. I just need for her to look at me. That’s all. If
she sees me, I’ll stay together, Rich.”

“You’ve got it bad, Nicky.”

“I need her.”

“I guess you’d better go see her then.”

I hang up the phone, say a prayer of thanksgiving, turn around, and head
back to Detroit.

ZORA

After Father John and Billie’s impromptu lesson on hospitality, Billie pulls
out a photo album and shows me pictures of her children. She and John have
a whopping eight of them. They’re a house of hospitality unto themselves.
Again, questions about entertaining strangers plague me.

“The Beloved Community is all our kids have ever known, baby. They’ve
seen Christ in the stranger from the time they’ve seen me, and they’ve always
shared all they had. Of course, as you can imagine, it’s hard on them when
they get to be teenagers, and they want the trendy clothes. I had to get real
creative about knowing what to look for in the donations, especially for my
girls. But sweetie, it ain’t always easy when people give clothes that should be
recycled into rags. We’re grateful for it. But it’s hard to explain to a teenager
why she can’t have Baby Phat.”

“Baby Phat isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I had all those things, and I
found out later they affected other people in my life—namely my best friend,
MacKenzie—in ways I never dreamed of.”

“I’ll bet.”

“And you know, Billie, I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about that
stuff. I know I can get it all back. This is just a taste of what disenfranchised
people go through, but Mac was right. One call and this can all go away.”

“But you haven’t made that call. Why not, baby?”

“I don’t know. I’m not trying to play games. Trying to see how the other
side lives. Not with people who have less money than we Hampton-Johnsons,
and not with Nicky Parker. I don’t know what’s going on with me, quite
frankly. All I know is that life as it was just seemed unbearable one day, and I
walked out of my church. And then I came to your Bible study, and it’s been
all upheaval ever since.”

“Sounds like God is moving.”

“I remember when I thought God moving felt good. It just feels scary
now.”

“Baby, who said God was safe? We’ve got this warm fuzzy image of God
in our heads, and don’t get me wrong, God is loving. But He’s also mystery.
And He’s sovereign. Does exactly what He wants and isn’t real invested in
explaining Himself.”

“I feel like I’m one big paradox.”

“The kingdom of heaven is full of paradoxes. To live you gotta die. To
win you gotta lose. The last are gonna be first, and the first last. It goes on
and on.”

“I always thought it would be easier. My dad’s preaching makes living
a life of faith sound so easy. You say the right words and God gives you
everything you need.”

“Is that how it’s worked out for you?”

“If it doesn’t work out you don’t have enough faith.”

“I guess that covers everything then.”

“Thanks for letting me come here, Billie.”

“Just like Jesus, you’re always welcome here, baby.”

“John is great.”

She nods, and for a moment she’s quiet. “Zora? I didn’t mean to embarrass
you. I saw the look you had when you saw he was black. I just didn’t want to
act like I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t think that would serve any
of us. I couldn’t do anything toward reconciling with you by pretending it
didn’t exist, and I’m glad I took that risk.”

“I’m glad too.”

We hear the doorbell ring. I look at Billie. She doesn’t move. “We let one
of the men answer the door this late at night.”

“I see.”

John welcomes whatever stranger in. Voices are muffled, but I hear John
say, “Can I help?”

And maybe … something, something, something.

John sounds surprised. “Zora?”

I startle at the sound of my name and bolt upward. “Someone is here for
me?”

Billie stands. She looks all tough and ready to brawl. “Did you tell anyone
you were coming?”

“No. I don’t have a phone.”

“Well, who would know you’re here?” She doesn’t wait for my answer and
goes charging out to the foyer with me on her heels.

“Nicky!” she says. “What are you doin—you came for
Zora
?” She puts
her hand on her hip like she’s about to tell him off and then softens. That
same hand goes over her heart. “Awwww. That’s sooooo romantic. Isn’t it
romantic, baby?”

She calls me so many endearments I can’t tell if I’m baby or her husband
is.

“It’s romantic,” John says, answering at least that question.

If I could just get my stomach from off my feet where it’s dropped. If only
my heart would slow down a few thousand beats per minute so I can give
Nicky a proper greeting.

The poor baby. He looks a hot mess. His face is a little more swollen now,
and his eyes have such shameless misery in them my body moves on its own
accord until I’m closer to him.

“Hey,” I say. It’s not poetry, but he accepts my greeting as if it were.

His eyes take me in as if I’m bread and he’s a starving man. He whispers,
“Dreamy, hey.”

I can’t help myself. My fingers graze his red, swollen cheeks.

“What happened? You get hit again?”

“I wanted to look like that lawn jockey. The black skin part didn’t work
out. But what do you think about the lips?”

“I think that’s a terrible joke.”

“It’s better than what really happened.”

“Who did this to you?”

“My dad. And I didn’t get to tell you my grandfather pulled a gun on me. I
thought he was going to shoot me. I won’t even mention what he called me.”

He just stands there looking at me. I think I hear Billie say she and Father
John will let the two of us have a few minutes alone, but I can’t say for sure
that’s what she said. They leave us. I only know I can’t take my attention off of
him. I have to work hard to find those model good looks in his face.

“Your lips don’t look as big as the lawn jockey’s. They’re not even like
Angelina Jolie’s. This is nothing,” I say to make him feel better.

He doesn’t respond. Just whispers my name. “Zora?”

“What is it, Nicky?”

“Can you still see me?”

I gaze at him, confused. “What?”

“Can you still see me, Dreamy?”

What kind of foolish question … “Of course I can. I’m—” Suddenly,
understanding dawns. It’s not a foolish question at all. It’s simply a strange
one—a question a stranger, someone cut off from love, would ask.

I take a deep breath. It’s like Nicky is tiny particles floating around in the
air and I want to inhale him into myself. I feel if I could make him a part of
me, I could keep him safe and loved inside of me. And happy.

“I see you.”

I stand very close to him. Lift up just a bit on my toes and put my
forehead against his. His forehead meets mine and for a moment we stand
like that. His breathing is labored.

“Are you okay, Nicky?”

“Do you ever feel like you’re going to implode and explode all at the same
time? Or like maybe it’d be okay if your grandpa shot you?”

“Is that what you’re feeling right now?”

“I feel sick.”

He doesn’t feel feverish. I put my hand in his hair. It’s soft and loosely
wavy, conjuring images of me touching my mother’s auburn mane. I loved
the silky texture of her hair and her almost-ripe peach skin, but I was never
allowed to have a doll that looked like her. She looked too close to white.
There was a study done about black and white dolls. And little black girls kept
choosing the white dolls over the black ones. My parents didn’t think I’d love
myself if I had white dolls. But I just liked my mother’s hair and skin. I just
loved my mama. I felt guilty about that for a long time.