“Get away from my door. You’re perpetrating the myth of the black whore.”
“Myth of the … Zora. I don’t even know what the myth of the black whore is.”
“Liar.”
“All right. Maybe I know it, but it’s a myth. Aw, man. Zora. Can you tell me exactly where I went wrong?”
“No, I hate you.” I cry like a babe in arms, only I’m not in anybody’s arms.
“May I come in there?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Do you still have your pajamas on?”
“Yes. And don’t you come in here.”
He opens the door, outraging me.
“You’re just going to barge in here anyway? Just do what you want. You’re such a white man!”
He looks around the space and laughs. “Wow. Your bathroom is, like, red.”
“I like to experiment with color.”
“It’s really cool.”
“What do you want, Nicky?”
He walks up to me. “I’m sorry, Zora. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“Do you think I’m a ho?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said—” I try to compose myself, which is impossible. “Do you think I’m a stank ho?”
“No, you said ho first. Plain ol’ ho. Let’s not add anything, okay?”
I guffaw through my tears. “You’re silly. You’re a silly, silly man.”
“Why would I think you’re a ho, Zora?”
“Why did you buy these clothes in particular? They don’t look like anything you’ve seen me wearing.”
“I got the clothes I thought you could wear and be as perfectly beautiful as you are. That’s all. I assure you, Zora, between the two of us, Nicky is the ho. Just ask Richard from Bible study. He’ll tell you. He wrote a book about it.”
He gets another chuckle out of me. “Richard wrote a book about you being a ho?”
“No, he wrote a book about God’s grace to people like me. It’s called Good News for Rascals, Rebels, and Whores. You’ll have to excuse us. We white folks say ‘whore’ instead of ho. Except the rappers. And the … wiggers.” He winces.
“Did you just say wigger?”
“I did. Forgive me.”
“Okay, you’re stupid. You know that, right?”
“When you say stupid, do you mean lacking intelligence, or funny? You know we white people have vastly different meanings for the same words.”
“You’re funny. You may be stupid too, but you’re funny.”
“I made you smile.”
And then I bawl again.
“Oh, Nicky. I don’t have a job now. What am I going to do? The rent is due in three weeks. I don’t have any savings. My parents gave me everything, including my job.”
“I guess you’re going to have to trust your heavenly Parent.” He takes my hands in his. “I don’t have any easy answers, Zora. But I really believe in this incarnational Christianity thing. And God really is with you. Not just in us, your friends, Zora. He’s with you.”
He squeezes my hands. His hands move to caress my face. Nicky wipes my tears with the backs of his thumbs. I was right. He does have magic hands, and I close my eyes and feel myself surrender to his tenderness.
His hands make their way to my hair, and I pull back.
“What?”
“Don’t touch my hair.”
“Why not?”
How can I tell him it’s because my hair is coarse and his is straight, and there’s too much painful history between the two textures? And that’s just one thing among way too many. I can sum it up in a rhyme from my childhood that is a perfect commentary of life in America between the races. If you’re white, you’re all right. But if you’re black, step back. After all these years I still haven’t discovered how to be happy I’m nappy. And I’m not alone.
How can I explain to him that I refuse to chemically alter my hair because I like to think I appreciate my natural hair texture, yet I use a flat iron to straighten it and hot curlers on it every day? That I feel conflicted because as much as I appreciate natural styles, my mother and father would be embarrassed by me in an afro. Or that it still stings to think about that swimming incident in Atlanta. How self-hate that didn’t start with us gets absorbed so deep into the skin you can’t tell its origins or endings. Or if it’s even self-hate at all.
“Just don’t, Nicky.”
“But I like it. It feels like a really soft kind of wool. Why do you straighten it?”
I push him. “None of your business. Stop playing.”
He’s reveling in it. Having himself a good ol’ time.
He can’t understand this anger surging in me. They made us feel the brunt of their hatred of our hair texture. Our black skin. Our thick lips.
“I like the way you feel, Zora. Let me touch you.”
The truth is, I like the way he feels. I like his boldness. And I like him liking my hair. I actually believe him when he says he likes the way it feels. At least I want to. I’ve never met a man that affects me like Nicky Parker. He’s so …
Sexy.
Dear God, is it because I feel so vulnerable? Is it because Miles is too afraid of offending The Bishop to run his hands through my hair? And here’s an irony. My nappy roots would probably offend Straight and Narrow “Why didn’t you dress for dinner?” Miles. I know I should stop him, but I let Nicky Parker’s hands continue to roam around the wild terrain of my head. He makes me feel free and easy as a bird in flight.
I think I moan.
“Oh, man,” he says. “You’re going to get me in so much trouble, Dreamy.”
It’s like my heart hiccups. I always call myself dreamy. And he does it. This amazes me, and I’m so touched. Nobody calls me dreamy. Spacey, yes. But that’s not a compliment.
He leans forward so slowly. His blue eyes locked with my brown ones. “You are stunning.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I part my lips expecting his mouth to descend up mine. With the pad of his thumb he traces my lips. I don’t think my heart could beat any faster and just when he makes his final move I screech, “Don’t!”
He snaps back like a rubber band yanked him. Moves away from me and shoves his hands into his pockets.
We avoid looking at each other. A few endless moments pass. Finally he makes idle talk.
“So, what kind of shower curtain went with all this red?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“It was zebra. I know it sounds horrid, but I made it work.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“I had some African art on the wall. It was pretty fabulous in here.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Don’t try to kiss me again, Nicky.”
“Why, because we white people have no lips?”
“Not funny. You just can’t. Okay?”
“I won’t.”
“And we shouldn’t go out together.”
“I just want to get you out of the house. That’s it. I promise. Consider me terribly embarrassed now.”
“I don’t do white boys.”
“So I gathered.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend. He sucks, obviously.”
“Why do you say that?”
Now he looks at me. He has the nerve to look like he’s annoyed with Miles. “Why isn’t he here for you?”
“He’s our youth pastor. He’s still tethered to my father’s pocket and approval.”
“Sounds like you need to consider getting another boyfriend.”
“I just did.”
A smile creeps across his lips. He cocks his head to one side and looks at me with those sapphire eyes, one eyebrow raised.
He caught me while I was down. I need to put a stop to this little flirtation before it goes any further. “See what I mean, I’m not thinking straight. You start massaging my hair, and I
lose my mind. I need to stay clear of fine white boys with magic hands until I get right.”
“So, how ’bout we have Ethiopian food, Queen of Sheba? Is that African enough for you? There’s a great place downtown. The Blue Nile. In fact there’s one downtown Ann Arbor and downtown Detroit. You can take your pick, urban girl.”
“I’m not going out with you.”
“Plain ol’ American soul food it is, then. But you’ll have to pick the place. Hey, why do black people say chitlins instead of chitterlings?”
“You’re a mess, Nicky.”
“But Jesus loves me. You’ll know that when you read Richard’s book, even though you’re not a whore.” He looks me up and down with a mock critical eye. “Maybe you’re a rascal.”
When he’s got me grinning again, he takes my hand. Electricity, no, fire surges between us, and he doesn’t even hide that he feels it too. We stare at each other, his eyes full of mischief. He pulls me off the cabinet.
“You’re definitely a rascal. Get dressed, Dreamy. There’s an abundant life out there to be had, even if we are poor in spirit.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m not going out with you.”
“I heard everything you said. I’ll be sleeping in the shape of a cross for the next week because of it.”
“Sleeping in the shape of a cross?”
“It’s like your shower curtains. You don’t wanna know.”
“But I told you about my shower curtains.”
“Which means you’re terribly indiscreet. How can I trust you with my crosses?”
I get myself dressed, thinking I do want to know about him sleeping in the shape of a cross. I want to know more about Nicky Parker than I’d like to admit, no matter how indiscreet the details.
CHAPTER TEN
NICKY
Zora nixes the idea of both Ethiopian and soul food. In fact, she refuses to let me buy her anything else, which is good, because I already went way over budget anyway.
I’m determined to feed her, though. She leaves me no choice. I take her to Oasis of Love. The restaurant Billie helped found in downtown Ypsilanti.
Predictably, she’s never been here.
“What’s this place? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you buying me anything else?”
“This is different. It’s really a charity. The meal is going to be seventy-five percent off because I get a discount for volunteering, and you get a discount for being poor and destitute. We’ll eat like royalty for, like, four bucks.”
She laughs, the sound of it my own oasis. She waters all my dry, thirsty places.
“It looks like a restaurant. Not a charity.”
“That’s the whole idea.”
She looks around at all the southwestern colors. Soothing oranges, beiges, pinks with a little aquamarine blue. I watch the artist in her take delight in the desert theme. The Mexican textiles.
I watch the revolutionary in her delight in the multicolored faces sitting at the table. I let the poor-in-spirit Zora love the obvious brokenness of some of the people sharing crowded tables. Here, they can eat out in an upscale restaurant they’d never be able to afford for a little of nothing. It’s a way to give people back their dignity. Often kids come here who have it tough at home or who have no home. It’s a safe place. A few whispers to Bill, the manager, and you don’t even have to pay the little of nothing if you don’t have it. You’ll wash a few dishes. Or sweep the floor. Bill thinks in the end people feel better about themselves if they contribute in some way. But he doesn’t turn anybody away because they don’t have money to eat.
While Zora takes in the vibe, I tease her.
“Order whatever you want, baby. Money is no object.”
She laughs. “How many times have you been able to say that on a date?”
“Never.” I reach across the table and take her hand. “Is this a date?”
“Not if you’ve got a girlfriend. Remember her?”
I remember all right. As does Zora, and now that Pandora’s box is open, God help the both of us.
“Tell me about her. What’s her name?”
“Rebecca.”
“Rebecca what?”
“Rebecca Taylor. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Miles.”
“Miles what?”
“Miles Zekora.”
I peruse the menu, but I’m a writer. I do things with words. I can’t help but put her name with his. “If you marry him your name will be Zora Zekora.”
“Shut up.”
“That sounds like a character in The Lion King.” And then I crack up. I end up laughing so hard that she starts laughing too. She kicks me underneath the table.
“You know you can’t stay with him. Not just because he’s a jerk. You won’t be able to live with that name, Dreamy. What does the Lion King do?”
“Stop calling him that. When he’s not youth pastoring, he’s an engineer.”
“He makes good money?”
“Yes.”
“Very good money?”
“Very good.”
“He’s an even bigger jerk than I thought. How can he let you go through this and not totally take care of you? What a fool.”
“Let’s talk about you, Nicky. What do you do?”
“Put snacks in vending machines. And now I must go kill myself.”
“Stop it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Didn’t you go to college?”
I laugh. “Yeah. I did go to college. Berkeley! That’s what makes me an even bigger loser. Maybe God can kill me right now, and I won’t have to commit a sin by committing suicide.”
“I don’t have a job at all, Nicky. And before that I did ‘clip art and stock photo arrangement’ for my daddy. Now that’s a loser. Tell me, what does Rebecca look like, besides blonde and stacked?”
She totally sees how shallow I am. “That’s it.”
“Is she tall?”
“No. Not like you are. You can almost look me in the eye. How tall are you anyway?”
“I’m five-ten. So she’s short and submissive. Cooks well. She’s a Republican. Wants the suburban house. The two-point-five kids. The minivan. And to be a pastor’s wife. She loves Kay Arthur Bible studies.”
“Hey, it’s Beth Moore Bible studies. Get it right.”
“I stand corrected.”
“You’re kinda spooky.”
She shakes her pretty head. “You know, I’m really disappointed. Couldn’t you surprise me just a little?”
Her words cut into me. In her little description, she’s just told me what my life with Rebecca is going to be, and both of us are bored to death with it already. “I’m disappointed too.”
I look down at my menu, almost too depressed to order now. I don’t even want to think about what must be going on in Zora’s mind. I can only imagine how shallow I sound. How hollow and dead.
Unfortunately, Zora has no respect for the dead.
“How often do you bring Rebecca here?”
“I don’t. I tend to keep my Bible study people separate from my True Believer Gospel Tabernacle people.”
She cocks her head. “Why would you do that?”
“I dunno. I need Linda, Richard, and Billie to be something else. Something my dad and the Tabernacle people can’t be.”
“I know precisely what you mean. Only I don’t have people like that. Except Linda. And now you.”
I like the way “And now you” sounds.
We order our food. She gets some chicken dish, and I have the same. But that Pandora’s box of Rebecca and the Lion King she opened brings discomfort and tension with it. We both pick at our food.
An hour ago, I was so close to her I had my hands in her hair. I almost kissed her. Would have if she hadn’t stopped me. Now there may as well be a million miles between us. Me and my milk-toast life-to-be. What did it have to do with her? And what was I thinking saying her name would sound like a character in The Lion King? I didn’t mean that to sound racist, but she probably thoug
ht it was. Maybe she was just too tired to challenge me on it.
I wish I knew what to say to her. I’d rather have her razzing me than this awful silence between us. But she surprises me and speaks.
“What is it, Nicky?”
“What’s what?”
“That thing you want that nobody gets?”
I know exactly what she means, but the fact that she asks unnerves me.
“What are you talking about, Dreamy?”
“You want to do something, but nobody in your life honors it. What is it?”
“How do you know I want something like that?”
“I know things. It’s like you said, I’m spooky.”
“I want to write.”
“Are you a writer, Nicky?”
I hesitate.
“Are you?” she insists.
“Yes.”
“What kind of things do you write?”
“All kinds of things. Novels. Poems. Essays. Psalms. I just write.”
She smiles at me. And there is more generosity in that smile than in all the meals Oasis serves in a year. She gives me a single word blessing. The same one God uses again and again in the beginning of Genesis.
“Good.”
I smile back at her. “Good.”
Then the grief I can hardly contain begins to spill out of my mouth in too many words.
“Or I should be writing those things, but I don’t. I don’t write anything anymore. I’m blocked. I haven’t written anything for at least six months, and that, a little villanelle, sucked. I haven’t tried anything serious in two years, Zora. I just think about writing and miss writing and buy writing books and Writer’s Digest and wonder why I spent all that money to go to Berkeley when I knew I wouldn’t have begun to get what I needed without an MFA, and anyway I’m going to be Nicholas Parker Senior only with a junior behind my name. I don’t even believe in Nicholas Parker. And why should I? He never believed in me.”
I just disclosed way too much. I laugh to shake off the embarrassment I feel. “Sorry. I don’t seem to know who I am anymore.”
“Same here.” Her gaze goes to her hands, and then back to me, but her eyes seem softer somehow. I find a gentleness in them that moves me. She cradles her chin in the palm of one hand, while her elbow rest on the table. She sighs, looking like a little girl. “Sunday morning I walked out in the middle of my father’s sermon. Suddenly it just became unbearable, and I left.”
Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White Page 11