Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

by Claudia Mair Burney

  Janelle cracks up like Linda did when I said I prayed Zora would never come to Bible study again. She even gets a few chuckles out of me she laughs so hard.

  I ask hopefully, “Can we try something in white, too? She’s darker than you. She’ll look good in white, with the contrast against her incredible skin. Don’t you think?”

  “I know just the thing.”

  She leads me to a rack of markdowns. And right there, at seventy-five percent off, hangs a white wrap, three-quarter-sleeve shirt. On the same rack, Janelle finds flowing black bottoms that I think are a skirt at first. She calls it a split skirt. I call them pants, but they’re beautiful, and Zora will look fantastic. Both are size eight.

  I save so much money with the sale prices I can buy her a spring dress that’s not on sale. It’s a gauzy number, but not sheer. White. And the skirt is made for twirling in. I buy her big silver hoops because Janelle says all bohemian types love those, and I finish the look with a simple sterling silver cross and the some underthings I hope she won’t think are too personal, but rather a necessity. I even try to keep my head out of fantasyland. Impossible while buying Zora bras and panties, but I tried just the same. Janelle gives me fifty percent off a pair of black leather ballet flats and a throws in a few more unmentionables for free to help with Zora’s losses, whatever they are. We pray together for Zora, and she sends me on my way.

  I don’t call Linda to report on how well I did. Somehow I have a feeling the Holy Spirit has told her all about it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ZORA

  I know I’m losing my mind. I tried to find Mac’s Bible without success. I doubt if Mac can find her Bible. I don’t want to raid her boxes, especially since my things have been pillaged.

  The feeling of being violated fills me with indignation. I want to stretch out having everything taken from me for as long as I can. Oh, I’m in solidarity with my ancestors now. And every violation I feel today is in remembrance of those for whom a simple apology would never suffice. Ever.

  I think of all the Scriptures I have memorized, and only one brings comfort. Over and over Jesus’ words in the Gospels play in my mind. “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” And again where He said, “Blessed are you poor.” Something like that. I meditate on them. My only deviation, in snatches, is to actually think on those poor. Those poor in spirit. And then back to the Scripture.

  I try not to think about myself. I try not to think about Daddy.

  I don’t cry.

  I have no idea how long I lay on the hard floor like that. But I’m sore from the assault the ground puts on my body. At some point I hear someone buzz my buzzer. It surprises me. I’m rarely home on a Friday morning. Or is it afternoon? Maybe it’s Miles. I think it is. Miles is going to help me stop thinking about slaves and masters and overseers and Daddy. He’s going to talk some sense into me. ’Cause I’ve lost it, and all I can think of is the poor.

  I don’t even ask who it is. I buzz him up, wishing he could fly up the stairs instead of walk. I run into the bathroom but I can’t do a thing with myself. Funky tank top. My hair nappy at the roots. I can’t even brush my teeth. Not that I’d have time to. Not now. I rinse my mouth and wipe my teeth with the tank top and smooth it back over my pajama bottoms. I hear Miles knocking, and rush to let my sweet boyfriend in.

  Only it ain’t Miles. It’s Nicky Parker.

  I’m so flustered I can’t get my mouth to work, and he’s leaning at my doorjamb.

  “Hey,” he says with an easy grin. Like my whole life hasn’t fallen apart.

  When I find my voice, I blast him. “What are you doing here? Did Linda send you? I knew I shouldn’t have called her. What are you supposed to be, my great white hope?”

  Nicky looks stunned. He bolts up from his leaning position. “Great white hope? Didn’t you call Linda? Did it occur to you that she’s white too? Or am I the only white person you’ve taken it upon yourself to torture with your ‘hate whitey’ crusade?”

  “At least Linda is nice.”

  “What? I’m not nice? I’ve been at the mall for hours for you. With my own money, mind you. And I don’t even know what’s going on with you. I took a personal day off work, for myself, Zora, and that is a rare and beautiful thing, by the way. I’ve spent it shopping for you because I heard you had trouble in Black American Princess land. So you’ll excuse me, but I think I’m pretty darned nice, especially since you’re so freakin’ salty.”

  Okay. Man at mall cuts across all racial and cultural boundaries. But did she have to ask him? I look a hot mess, and he’s looking all fine, especially when he’s mad. And he argues with me. Miles never argues with me. I thought his speech was over, but no.

  “You know, if you ever come back to our Bible study, and you should, since apparently you need it, you’ll find that we happen to think Christians should bear one another’s burdens. We love each other the way Jesus says we should. It doesn’t matter what color we are.”

  “All of you are white.”

  “You’re not white, angry black woman. And I’m here bearing your burdens.” He thrusts a beautifully gift-wrapped box at me. “Here are some clothes. And shoes. And even some other stuff that isn’t necessary—but just nice. Linda calls it being missional, and intentional, and incarnational. I don’t even understand all those terms, Zora. But when she says we need to be Jesus for one another, I get that. That’s pretty concrete.”

  I stand there looking at him until he fusses some more.

  “Take the box.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Jesus wouldn’t be standing here yelling at me.”

  “Jesus would probably take a switch to your behind.”

  He runs his hand, with those delightfully long fingers, through his hair. It looks like he’s done that gesture several times today, probably at the mall. For me. It falls back in soft layers around his face. It’s a little sun kissed in places, blonder in some spots than others. Nicky is crazy fine, and he’s standing so close I can smell CK One. I used to have a bottle before The Bishop confiscated it. I haven’t even asked Nicky in.

  He tucks the package under his arm.

  He takes a step back like he’s going to walk away, and then steps up to me again, as stealthy as a lion. But he doesn’t roar this time. His voice is soft.

  “Zora, I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t really want to do this. But I honestly want to be Jesus’ hands, and feet, and heart, even if that means I have to go to Briarwood Mall. And Puffer Red’s.”

  I smile when he says he’s been to Puffer Red’s.

  “And Janelle’s. I don’t know what happened to you, but I can see your apartment is empty, and you’re in your pajamas, and you don’t look like yourself. Linda said you’re in trouble. Will you take this package from Jesus, and not turn Him away because He happened to come to you looking like a ticked-off white man today?”

  Again, he stretches the package out toward me. I take it this time.

  “Come in, Nicky.”

  He hesitates.

  “Come on.”

  He follows me inside. I don’t make a show out of what’s left in here. Nicky notices my work on the walls.

  “Did you paint in here?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s beautiful work, Zora. What a rich blue color.”

  “I love this color. It looks just like your sapphire eyes.”

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  He actually laughs. “You mean you like my eyes? Me, the blue-eyed devil?”

  “Okay. You get three cool points for knowing some early Malcolm X. But why don’t we cool it with the militant stuff? I’m sure you’ve had your fill for now. So have I.”

  I sit on the floor. Beckon him to do the same, and he does.

  We both sit cross-legged. He seems to look everywhere but at me. I tease him for avoiding my gaze. “You must really like that paint job.”

  “I like more than that.” And then
that sweet baby turns red on me.

  “Didn’t mean to let that one out, did ya, Nicky?”

  “No, but if you’ll forget about it, I’ll pretend you didn’t say I have sapphire eyes.”

  Oh, yeah. There’s definitely something wild and sweet about him. I like him despite myself. He finally looks at me.

  “I feel a little nervous around you, Zora. Nobody has challenged my white guilt like you do.”

  “I can’t turn off the militant in me sometimes. I wish I could.”

  “I can’t say I understand that, Zora. But who am I to judge you for it?” He points to the ceiling. “What’s that symbol that looks like a bird? I’ve seen it before.”

  “It’s Sankofa. It means go back and fetch it.”

  “I don’t understand. Is it like, some kind of flying thing? Some kind of freedom thing?”

  “In a way. You see how its head is turned? It’s looking back, behind itself. Its lesson is that what we’ve lost is in our past, and only in going back can we truly go forward. So maybe there is a kind of flying lesson. Maybe we have to fly back to where things began. Flying back, looking back, maybe they’re the same thing, just going at different speeds.”

  He looks uncomfortable. “I don’t want to look back at anything. I definitely don’t want to fly back to my past. I’d just as soon leave everything behind me right where it is.”

  “Sounds like you have a reason to go back. Maybe you left something important there.”

  “It’ll have to stay.”

  For a few moments we’re both quiet and then he continues. “I mean, it seems like my whole life is one big Sankofa. I went to UC Berkeley, far away from Reverend Nicholas Parker Senior. And you know what? After a while, I missed him. I’d burned all the bridges I could, and I had no idea how to get back home again.”

  I look into his eyes. He’s telling me his prodigal son story, an abbreviated version, but the pain of eating with the pigs is still in his eyes.

  “Talk about wanting to come back to your past to get what you lost. I wanted to make amends. I felt like God said to me, ‘It’s time to put things right with your father,’ but I suck at it. I should have just let it be.”

  His words jar me. Put things right with your father.

  Not today, Lord.

  Nicky gets quiet on me. I guess it’s my turn to give my own father story. “I guess I’m the prodigal daughter today. I don’t even know how all this happened, Nicky. It’s so weird. Daddy invited me to dinner. Just a quiet night with him, my mama, and my boyfriend. I didn’t even want to go. And the next thing you know, he’s cut me off from all of his financial support. He came here early this morning with a moving truck. And he’s taken what he’s helped me buy, which is everything. He’s taken everything away from me.”

  “That sucks, Zora.”

  “It really does suck. And I can’t decide if it’s a blessing or not, because I keep praying that Jesus will show me what the Scripture means—”

  “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

  My heart quickens. “Yes. Yes! That’s it.”

  “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 counter
top. 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.”