Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

by Claudia Mair Burney

  He shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t know why you’re so sensitive. Looks to me like Zora is like any other sistah.”

  I don’t like how he says sistah. It feels wrong. Like he hasn’t earned the right to say that word. “What do you mean she’s like any other one?”

  “She’s got the tight jeans showing off all that tail, because she wants the world to see it. She loves it. And she loves me lovin’ it. Just look at the videos. Black chicks are totally into showing their stuff.”

  I want to hit Pete much harder than our usual horseplay allows. “What kind of racist crap is that, man? What? White women don’t wear tight clothes? Why are you singling out black women?”

  “C’mon, Nicky. The videos on BET and the ones on MTV are totally different. It’s the culture, man. They give it up more than white women. They do. It wasn’t a white girl that made up the bootylicious song. And personally, I like that. And I like that song. And I like Beyoncé. And I like Zora. You got her phone number? Because if you’re not interest in hittin’ that, I am. I hear sistahs are wild in bed.”

  Hittin’ that? He’s with a black person for an hour and he wants to throw around the vernacular. “You’re a Christian, Pete.”

  He laughs. “Oh, you can judge? What were you when you talked all those sweet sisters in the Lord into your bed? What were they? You nailed, like, half the youth choir when we were in high school, man. And the cherry on the top, no pun intended, was your declaration, ‘Once saved, always saved.’ Didn’t tell Reverend Parker about that, did you? But I said then, and I say now, ‘Amen, Nicky!’ ”

  I don’t say another word to Pete, because everything I want to say is so angry that I honestly believe we’ll come to blows and it’ll end our lifelong friendship. I sit there, stewing in my own juices, until he finally pulls up in front of my building, and I storm out of the truck, slamming the door behind me.

  But in all truth, Pete is holding up a full-length Nicky mirror, and I see myself with such startling clarity that it shocks me. I hate the self I see in Pete.

  He yells something to me. I don’t listen. I just keep going, trying to run as far away from myself as possible. By some mercy he doesn’t follow me.

  ZORA

  MacKenzie puts me in a headlock that I think she mistakes for a hug. Before Nicky’s even walked away she’s whispering, “Giiiiiiiiiiiiirl,” in my ear. “Where you get Halle Berry’s white boyfriend?”

  I chuckle. He does sort of look like that Versace model Halle’s been seen with. What’s his name, Gabriel Autrey, Aubrey? Who knows? He’s fine—and so is Nicky “Save the Negro” Parker.

  Okay. That was uncalled for, like most of my attitude these days. When Nicky walks away, Mac lets me breathe again.

  “He’s just some guy I know.”

  “Girl, that white boy looks good enough to chew on.”

  “He’s taken.”

  She puts her hands on her hips as if he’s standing in front of her and she’s getting her flirt on. “I’ll take him too.”

  “You can have him.” We start walking up the flight of stairs to our second-floor apartment.

  “Why didn’t you ask him to come in? Don’t tell me he’s all walkin’ you to your door and you’re not trying to holla.”

  “I’m not trying to ‘holla.’ I have a boyfriend.” A boyfriend that’s afraid of my father, who’s paying part of his salary too. But who’s counting paychecks?

  “Girl, I heard white boys are freaky. I’ll bet he can teach me some things.”

  “I doubt that, Mac.”

  “What you sayin?”

  “I’m saying you know a lot already. Don’t you?”

  “Look, don’t be salty with me just because you ain’t ready to go international. Girl, it’s a’ight. I’ll go before you. I’ll make the way plain. I’ll go to that mountaintop, though none go with me.”

  She starts preaching like my granddaddy, and I smile despite myself.

  “Where’s yo’ key?”

  “At my parents’ house. Along with the Lexus.”

  “You mean you ain’t even got Lexi? I thought you was just frontin’ ’cause you didn’t want that white boy to know how paid you are.”

  We reach the apartment, the door is open, and I’m welcomed in bohemian BAP paradise. Truly. I live in high style, thanks to my parents’ money, B. Smith, MacKenzie, and our collection of design books. I’ve achieved an eclectic-influenced, though always African-inspired, visionary style for our little apartment. I love all things black couture. Everything is class, culture, and refinement with a whole lotta funk thrown in for good measure.

  I kick off my shoes and sink into my buttercream-colored leather sofa with mudcloth accents. MacKenzie and I designed the pillows with Ashanti gold weights for charms.

  “Oh, Mac. I had dinner with Daddy, Mama, and Miles, and it turned into a nightmare.”

  “It had to turn real bad if you came back here with a white boy.”

  “Can you stop calling him that?”

  “Well, he is white.”

  “Yes, but you’re saying it like that’s some kind of personal defect.”

  “Shoot, girl, it is a personal defect. That boy ain’t got enough melanin.”

  I look at her, and she’s dead serious. “You know you’re out of your mind, right, Mac?”

  “I’m just saying. I’m not the one that came from the Caucus Mountains. Some people got melanin. Some don’t. He don’t.”

  “What is up with you, Malcolm X? Why you gotta be dissin’ him because of his skin color? Would you like it if he was with his buddy talking about me being a jungle bunny?”

  “He probably is talking about you to his buddy. He’s probably telling his buddy how bootylicious you are.”

  I laugh.

  “What?”

  “Mac, his friend said I was bootylicious all in my face, like he knew me like that.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. They talk about us, and we talk about them. It’s like Earth, Wind & Fire, sings, baby, ‘That’s the way of the world.’”

  “The world is a very bad place to be. What if he’s nice? He stood up for me, you know.”

  “Honey, he ain’t nice. Look at him. He ain’t gotta be nice. He’s got ‘bad boy’ written all over him. In fact, I don’t want to know anything nice about him. I want to know the bad stuff. The nasty stuff.”

  “You’re just saying that, Mac. Why don’t you stop frontin’ like you’re so cool with all that sex and deal with your brokenness?”

  Mac snorts. “What brokenness? I like sex, Zora. I like men. You haven’t had a taste yet. Come back to me when you do, and then we can talk. In fact, come back to me when that white boy turns you out. I got a feelin’ he gon’ be the one. ’Cause you know that’s what he’s sniffing around you for.”

  “He’s not sniffin’ around me. I asked him to give me a ride home. I saw him at Barnes and Noble. I walked over there after I walked out on Daddy.”

  She fakes coughing. “Shut up! You did not walk out on The Bishop.” MacKenzie starts strutting around with her chest poked out with such a dead-on imitation of my father I’d be mad if she wasn’t my best friend forever. She uses his pet Scriptures in an exaggerated male voice.

  “Turn your Bibles to Genesis 1:26–28. God gave Adam total dominion over the earth. If you’re going to exercise your dominion of creation and over your enemies you need to activate God’s Word in your mouth. Activate it.”

  Then she really gets silly, jumping up and down. “You got to activate that Word. Like that stinky pink stuff you put in a perm. Pour it in yo’ mouth. Let it burn up yo’ doubt and negativity. Activate that Word and enjoy the soft curls of salvation. Halleluuuuuuuu-yah!”

  We both crack up, and she sits down next to me. “Did you really walk out on him?”

  “Without my car or my purse. He said everything I have is his. And he’s right.”

  “Heifer, you better call him and apologize.”

  “I don’t know if I want to do
that.”

  “Oh. Okay, you trippin’.”

  “I’m serious, Mac. I’m tired of being chained to his pockets.”

  For a moment she’s quiet. “You don’t know what you sayin’, girl.”

  “I do know.”

  “No, you don’t know. See, you ain’t had no hungry days in yo’ life, princess. You ain’t had to worry about where you gon’ stay, cause yo’ mama done left with some niggah and you don’t know where she is.”

  “Don’t use that word, Mac.”

  “Look, just cuz you got you a white boy don’t mean you ain’t down no more.”

  “I’ve never liked that word, no matter who is using it, and I don’t have a white boy.”

  “We got a right to use it. Take that junk back and turn it on them. Make it something other than what they said we was.”

  “Is that what you just did? Because it didn’t sound like you used it as a term of endearment just now.”

  “I ain’t trying to argue the merits of the ‘n’ word right now, Zora. I’m just saying. It’s a blessing to have the help you have. If you didn’t have yo’ rich-as-sin daddy, you wouldn’t have been able to help me out.”

  “You’re on your way to Parsons, Mac. This weekend. That little piece of change I squirreled away here and there for you. That was nothing.”

  “Girl, you trippin’. You had my back all my life. I wouldn’t know there was a Parsons School of Design in this world without you.”

  “You would have figured it out, Mac.”

  “That ain’t likely. So you really left him the Lexus? When you gon’ call and be like a Hallmark card commercial?” She sniffles with all the melodrama of a silent movie queen, though I doubt Mac has had a conscious moment of silence since she emerged from the womb. “Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

  She pretends to be my daddy. “Baby.” Then she mimics me, again with wonderful funny gestures of flinging herself toward an invisible father. “Daddy.” Then an exaggerated him toward me. “Baby.”

  She gets serious on me. “You got a perfect life, Zora. You don’t go walking away from all those blessings just ’cause you mad.”

  “I know. I mean, I don’t know. It’s not like I meant to disrespect him. It’s just …”

  “What?”

  “I want to paint.”

  “Did he say you can’t paint?”

  “He thinks it’s a hobby. So does Miles.”

  “Welcome to being a woman. Listen, you gotta deal, girl. Painting ain’t nothin’ compared to the security you got. Paint, Zora. Paint without permission, even if you don’t go to Parsons with me. But don’t lose your support system. You are a black woman. You at the bottom of the pile, baby. I know they say the black man is at the bottom, but who be the ones stuck with the babies when Raheem an’ ’em gone on to pursue they rap career? You know how hard it was for me to get all this together to go to school. You know more than anybody. Call yo’ daddy and tell him to bring Lexi back. Then again, wait a few days so Halle Berry’s boyfriend can give you rides again. What’s his name?”

  “Nicky. As in Nicholas Parker, son of Reverend Nicholas Parker.”

  “The abortion guy?”

  “You guessed it.”

  Her face collapses in disappointment. “Dang.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  NICKY

  Can’t sleep. It’s three o’clock in the morning.

  I keep thinking about how I drove all the way to Ypsi just because Dad thinks if I don’t darken the doorway of his church every time he opens the door, the wrath of God will descend upon me. Or maybe he thinks I’ll change my mind and not let him turn me into Nicholas Parker, which is who I am and who I’m not at the same time.

  My family never calls me Nicky. Well, they did, but stopped when I was twelve. I like being called Nicky. They say it sounds childish. That’s what I like about it. It reminds me of my best days. Days when we went to Lake Superior in the summers. Days of picnics and cookouts and the promise that everything good would stretch out before you like grains of sand. Like Abraham’s promised sons, so good, so numerous you can’t even count ’em. This was before my first kiss and first sexual encounter. Before I was a grown man with a bachelor’s degree and a head full of poems flitting around like blinking fireflies too free to place in a glass jar. Before I started pushing freakin’ potato chips into machines.

  I want to sleep here in the silent darkness of my room, but I keep thinking about Zora. All kinds of crap. About when I met her and it was me being unnecessarily rude, trashing her because she voted for my dad. But I didn’t like it when I felt she tore into me for no reason.

  Who am I kidding? I don’t attack my father’s supporters. I lit into her because she stunned me. Because I felt something when I looked at her, and it scared me. Linda was right. In two minutes she got more out of me than Rebecca has in the six months I’ve dated her.

  Whether or not I want to admit it, I knew then if I gave in just a little bit to the feelings she stirred in me, my life would change. The conversation with Pete will be the first of many talks like that, and all of the ugliness of the people around me—all the ugliness in me—will come to light, just like it’s doing tonight.

  Some things are better left in the dark.

  Not only is she in my thoughts, my body burns for her like it’s taken to heart everything Pete said, and I hate that about myself.

  I’ll never be able to take her home. So I think maybe I should let myself imagine bedding her. Relieve myself of that particular pressure, and be done with it.

  This is craziness. I pick up the phone and call Richard from our Bible study. He’s a friend of Bill—he knows what it’s like to have a temptation and need somebody to talk it out with. Richard, a writer, used to be an AA sponsor before he started drinking again. He always said he wasn’t afraid of a call in the middle of the night.

  I read his book when I started the Bible study. It’s called Good News for Rascals, Rebels, and Whores. I had to laugh at the title because I’m certainly a rascal. Come to think of it, I’m a rebel and a whore, too. Richard’s book is one long, clear grace note to the imperfect, and I can hear its sweet and mellow tone through the noisy discord inside of me. And I’m still trying to process what he’s written.

  Dialing with a little fear and trembling, I feel ridiculous calling him up to say I want her so much I could burst. Literally. But who else am I going to talk to about this? Linda? Or Pete?

  He answers after three rings. Wasn’t even asleep. Richard’s got the coarse voice of a man who smokes too much and drinks even more, but the colossal mess loves Jesus more than anybody I know.

  “Rich.” God knows I feel like I want to cry just to think I can unburden myself.

  “Nicky?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, man. I needed to make that middle-of-the-night call.”

  “You want to drink?”

  “No, I want to masturbate.”

  I’m glad he can’t see my face, but he has to hear the shame. It plays like white noise when the TV set stops broadcasting and no voices are left to drown out the pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed, but I need to talk about this to somebody.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, you know a lot more about me than I know about you. My books lay my life out for the world to see. Everybody knows my crap that bothers to read ’em. If you tell me some of yours we’ll balance the scales of the universe.”

  I take a deep breath and decide to plunge deeper into the scary waters of honesty and confessing our faults one to another. Man, I miss AA meetings sometimes. Richard has been the next best thing. He doesn’t go anymore because he feels guilty he’s still drinking, but I’m so grateful for his conversation. I need this. I miss it.

  But this isn’t about taking a drink.

  “Remember the new girl that came to Bible study yesterday? Zora?”

  “I remember her.” There’s a smirk in his voice.

  “What?” I say, heat rising to my face.

  “
Nothing. I’m waiting for you.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No. I was laughing at you at Bible study. I’m just listening now, my friend.”

  “Richard!”

  “Oh, come on, Nicky. That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages. You should have seen how flustered you were around her. Let an old man have some laughs.”

  “Glad I could help. I saw her tonight.”

  “I hope it went better than last night for you.”

  “It did. I didn’t end up tearing out of the parking lot doing ninety.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I don’t even know, Rich. That’s the thing. We just seem to clash.”

  Richard hacks a cough into the phone. I wait until he’s done. “My friend Pete was with me, and he gets all jungle feverish when he meets her.”

  “Jungle feverish?”

  “Yeah. It’s that movie by Spike Lee. It’s about a black guy that has an affair with this white woman. Jungle fever is supposed to be that thing where white people think black people … well, you know.”

  “I’m not sure I do, Nicky. Tell me.”

  “Oh, come on, Richard. You know.”

  “Do I?”

  “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  “I just want to know what white people think. What’s jungle fever?”

  “It’s when white people think black people are, you know, kinda wild in bed.”

  He’s quiet for a moment.

  I’m glad he can’t see how embarrassed I am. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. “Rich? Have you seen that movie?”

  “Yes, I have, Nicky.”

  “You suck, Richard. Why did you make me tell you all that?”

  “I’m just listening, son. Why don’t you tell me what you’re feeling?”

  “Pete really ticked me off. And he wasn’t even subtle.”

  “Go on.”

  “And then I thought about what a racist jerk I’ve been because I wasn’t a stranger to that thought.”

  “So you get home, and then what?”