Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

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Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White Page 13

by Claudia Mair Burney


  “And say what? I’m sorry I want my own life?”

  “Yes. If that’s what it took. What’s wrong with ‘I’m sorry’? People say it all the time.”

  “It’s just stuff. He didn’t take anything I can’t get back.”

  “Without yo’ Daddy you can’t afford that stuff. Girl, you had it goin’ on. And you want to beef with him now? Call him and tell him you sorry and ask him for yo’ Cheryl Riley hookup back.”

  “I don’t want to do that, Mac. I just want to be who I am.”

  She takes my hand. “Z.” Squeezes it. “You listen to me, girl. We girls. We go back a long way. I don’t have to tell you that. You look out for me, and I look out for you. I know you don’t always agree with the choices I make, but princess, I don’t always agree with you.”

  I nod my head. I’m listening. Or I’m trying to.

  “Who you are is a spoiled brat, Zora. Most of the time, you ain’t thinking about nobody but yo’self, and right now, you ain’t even doin’ a good job with that.”

  Is this what my best friend thinks of me? The person who I’ve been helping make her dream—my own dream—come true? She thinks I’m selfish?

  “I don’t think that’s fair of you to say, MacKenzie.”

  She releases my hand. “I know what you thinkin’. You thinkin’ of how you let me live here. How you helped me with school. How you gave me your cast-off clothes when we was little. But I’m thinking about how small your life is, Zora. How you haven’t really had to reach out and get your hands dirty. Partly because your parents never encouraged that, but the other part was because, why bother when everything is yours already? You haven’t had to serve anybody. Not really, sweetie.”

  “I’ve always been your friend, Mac.”

  “You have. The best way you knew how. But it ain’t perfect, Z. You are not the perfect friend. You got a lot to learn about being a friend. And I’m telling you this because I am your friend. I’ve lived with nothing most of my life. It ain’t good. It forces you to make choices you wish you didn’t have to make. If I had something I’d have a preschooler right now. You have something. Hold on to it.”

  “You can’t use your mama making you have an abortion as an excuse for all the bad things in your life, Mac.”

  “And you can’t hide behind yo’ daddy because you afraid to grow up. Paint if you want to. You don’t have to give up everything in yo’ life. You had a closet full of paint supplies. What’s really the problem here?”

  “I’m not afraid to grow up.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Zora.”

  “Mac, I know you’re mad, but don’t say something you’ll regret.”

  “What I regret is not saying this to you a long time ago. I’m not The Bishop’s daughter. I didn’t have nobody quoting Scriptures over me since before I took my first breath, but I know enough about the Bible to know there’s something in there about the wounds of a friend being better than the kisses of an enemy. I’m gonna say this one more time, Zora. Put things right with your father.”

  Put things right with your father. Isn’t that what Nicky said?

  “But Mac. I’ve been praying that Jesus would teach me what it is to be poor.”

  She starts laughing. She collapses onto the floor she laughs so hard, and she wipes tears from her eyes. “Zora. Honey, you didn’t have to pray for that. I been telling you all my life what it’s like to be poor. I guess you wasn’t listening.”

  “I thought I was listening.”

  “I don’t think so, girlfriend. Look. I’ll stay. I’ll help you get this together.”

  “No. You can’t stay.”

  “The Bishop is even more stubborn than you, Z. I can’t leave you in this apartment with nothing. You won’t last the week.”

  “Jesus is going to teach me how to be poor.”

  “Oh, Lord, there goes my scholarship.”

  “Mac, you aren’t giving up your scholarship.”

  “Maybe I can get another one.”

  “You can’t.”

  “What do you know about poor, Zora?”

  “Nothing. But I know Jesus. At least a little bit. Can you trust me with Him?”

  I sit down on the floor with her. I don’t feel so full of self-righteous fury anymore. I know with all my heart that MacKenzie just offered me her widow’s mite. I think about all those dreams. All those hours we spent when other girls played Barbie, and we used reams of paper drawing all our dreams. She would have given that up until I felt ready to make a stupid phone call.

  I so don’t deserve her.

  This time I go to her for the hug, and she doesn’t withdraw her love like my father withdrew his possessions. She takes me into her big bosom like she’s the mother she didn’t get a chance to be. In this, she lets me be a little girl.

  “I’m so sorry for not seeing how hard things really were for you.”

  “Girl. How were you really gon’ see that? Shoot. I ain’t sure I wanted you to see it all. Not really.”

  She rocks me until that snake inside falls asleep.

  “What am I going to do without you, Mac?”

  “I’m always gon’ be your girl. You remember that. You promise me you gon’ remember that I’m always here for you. We girls. A’ight?”

  “A’ight.”

  We hug for a good, long time.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NICKY

  She keeps calling me. I’m not supposed to resent it when my girlfriend calls and wants to get together, but I do. It’s the freakin’ call I made to her from the mall. She’s expecting a gift. Which I have for her. And now I have to give it to her.

  What am I talking about? She’s my girlfriend. She calls me. I’m supposed to call her. That’s a problem, because most days I don’t want to call her. And man, she’s hanging in there with me. That stupid necklace I bought is probably the most hope she’s had for us in weeks.

  I finally decide to do something decent for a change and go to her house for dinner.

  I get to her house Saturday night. It’s a modest, black-and-white A-frame near Eastern Michigan University. Her father is disabled. He got hurt on the job years ago and ended up losing a leg. Her mother teaches at one of the elementary schools. Rebecca’s family is just under middle class, so I’d be a real upgrade. Well, not me personally. The Parkers would be.

  My dad thinks she’s great. She’s kind. Earnest. Virtuous. I mean, she really is one of those Proverbs 31 types. Very pretty. You can totally see her on the cover of Today’s Christian Woman. She’s a photo op waiting to happen.

  Frankly, I thought she was cute and had a nice rack. I’d spent a long time being alone, and I wanted a warm body to pass the time with. Not that I’ve felt her warm body.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t want to feel Rebecca’s warm body, but I came home to put things right. As it was, Brooke Bennett broke my heart. I didn’t need to be distracted by sex. And upon the prodigal’s return, a lot of the handmaidens of the Lord I’d slept with before had fond memories of our trysts, and after a few painful slips—broken heart and all—I settled uncomfortably into celibacy. I’ve learned to steer clear of women. If it means steering clear of feeling, so be it. I’ve even learned to compartmentalize body parts for pleasure viewing.

  Pete had me right. We’ve discussed many a fine rear end in the past three years. Many a fine pair of twin fawns. That’s a good way to avoid having to love. Including Rebecca. But even if I didn’t love her, I certainly wasn’t going to let sexual desire blindside me. It was my way of staying safe, technically pure.

  Her mother answers the door, grinning at me. Maggie Taylor is a robust, mildly garish middle-aged woman living vicariously through Rebecca, her only daughter. I’m certain that every time she looks at me she sizes me up for the tuxedo I’ll wear when I take her Rebecca down the aisle to wedded bliss.

  Oh, God, help me.

  “Hiya, Nick,” she says. She kisses me on the cheek and spots the Eddie Bauer box. �
�Oh, my. Now what’s that you’ve got in your hand? Is that for my little girl?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Taylor.” I step into the house and glance at her husband. “Mr. Taylor.”

  He gives me a curt nod. The man hates me. He would shoot me dead on the spot if he could. I know he has a gun. He can’t chase me down, but he can shoot. All the men at my church hunt. They love guns. They are the scariest bunch of NRA-lovin’, Charleton-Heston-venerating … don’t make me think about it.

  No wonder Zora hates me. She probably thinks I’m just like them.

  Don’t think about Zora.

  I hold the box up. “I have a little something for Rebecca.” Thank God it’s bigger than a ring box. But they can tell it’s jewelry. Mrs. Taylor will be counting the days to our engagement now.

  Rebecca comes to the door. “Hi, Nicholas.”

  “Hi, Rebecca.”

  Why doesn’t my girlfriend call me Nicky? Why don’t I call her Becky or something?

  I hand her the box.

  “For me?” she says, grinning.

  I grin back to keep something sarcastic from coming out of my mouth. She really is very pretty. A really nice girl.

  I sniff the air. “Something smells nice. What did you cook?”

  “I made your favorite. Pot roast.”

  I smile. She takes my hand and drags me into the kitchen so we can be alone. Her mother almost cheers; I can just tell. Meanwhile, her father plans my death.

  What makes her think pot roast is my favorite food? Did my mother tell her that? My father? I grew up eating pot roast. All the time. I was in pot-roast hell. When I was in California, I tried to eat everything imaginable other than pot roast.

  “Thanks, Rebecca.”

  But it does smell good. She actually makes a fine pot roast. What’s one more when I’ve had millions anyway?

  She stands by the sink, and I’m next to her. She opens the box, and unlike Zora, Rebecca doesn’t cry. I chuckle thinking of those tearful brown doe eyes, and her asking, “Do you think I’m a ho?”

  I bought Rebecca a fake pearl necklace. They didn’t have the real deal at Eddie Bauer. They only had costume jewelry. Not that I would have bought her real pearls anyway.

  “Nicholas, it’s beautiful.” She looks up at me with pale blue eyes, and she’s so happy, I feel horrible. It isn’t beautiful. I paid twenty bucks for it, and I didn’t even want to. I spent a lot more on Zora, and took more time and thought doing it. I would have spent even more on Zora if I could have.

  “I love it,” she says. And what’s worse, she does.

  I take her hands. It occurs to me that I rarely even hold her hands. “Rebecca?”

  “Yes, Nicholas?” Her eyes are shining. She’s full of expectation, and I don’t want to disappoint her.

  “Do you really want to be with me?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I just care for you. I pray for you all the time.”

  “You don’t really know me.”

  “We can get to know each other.”

  “We’ve been dating six months, Rebecca.”

  “You’ve been a gentleman.”

  “I’ve been a coward.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I could end it right now. I could tell her that she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and that she makes a mean pot roast. I could tell her she’s gorgeous, and she has a nice rack, but I don’t feel anything for her. I think about my father. And my mother. And how disappointed they’d be. And I think about Dreamy, who can see right inside of me. Who asked me what my thing was that nobody got, the first time we were alone together.

  You’ve got some sense of humor, God.

  I do something I’ve never done. I lean down, and I kiss Rebecca.

  Her lips are soft and welcoming, even though I surprised her. I shouldn’t, but I part her lips with my tongue and deepen the kiss, and she allows me. We stand in her kitchen, kissing over pot roast, and I pray that I feel something other than my mouth on hers, but I don’t. I felt more just wondering if I should kiss Zora.

  I let her go. She’s so freakin’ happy she squeezes me.

  “I love you, Nicholas,” she says.

  And I lie. “I love you, too, Rebecca.”

  She holds my hand. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Rebecca, I want to be a writer.”

  She looks up at me like she’s got this all figured out. “Well, I know you went to school for that. And I know your father thinks it’s nonsense, but personally, I don’t think there’s any reason for you not to write.”

  For a moment, I feel hopeful. “Really?”

  “Of course. You can be just like Max Lucado: a writer and a pastor.”

  “Like Max Lucado. Right.”

  She smiles at me. Gives me a peck on the lips.

  I feel sick to my stomach. “I’m going to go in the living room and sit with your dad.”

  “Okay, honey bunny.”

  She just called me honey bunny. Honest to God, I hope that crazy man blows my head off.

  ZORA

  I’m lying in the middle of what Nicky called the screaming blue abyss with my head on the box he gave me. It’s been my pillow all night. Just before dawn MacKenzie crept into the room and kissed me on the forehead. I pretended to be asleep. I couldn’t bear to say good-bye to her.

  God, I couldn’t bear it.

  Maybe I am selfish. Okay, I am. I should have helped her load the few boxes she had left into her car, but I couldn’t. I’m too sad. I was afraid I might beg her to stay with me because I’m still not ready to make that call, and I don’t even know why.

  I want my friend. I don’t have another one.

  Jesus, have mercy on me. This is the worst time of my life, and as much as I’ve been trying to forge a solidarity with the poor, I have no idea how to really do that. What’s going to happen to me? I have no idea how I’m supposed to grow up, or how I’m supposed to deal with my father.

  I just lay here with my head on a box, while my thoughts scream and wail at me.

  Sometime after noon, I hear a knock at the door. It’s not MacKenzie because she’s gone, and—if she’s smart, and she is—she’s not coming back.

  It’s Miles. Finally.

  I open the door. “Who buzzed you up?”

  “I came in with someone else.” He gathers me in a hug. It feels good to be in his arms, or at least in somebody’s arms. “How are you, baby?”

  “Take a wild guess, Miles.” I step out of his embrace.

  How are you, baby? What kind of dumb question was that? He knows MacKenzie went off to art school, and all my stuff is gone.

  He whistles. “You really pissed The Bishop off.”

  “Thanks for your insight.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. It doesn’t suit a woman of God.”

  “Pardon me, Bishop Junior.”

  “Zora, I came by here to see if you’re okay. I didn’t come for your attitude.”

  Man. He really is Bishop Junior.

  “Does it look like I’m okay, Miles? And why weren’t you here yesterday to see if I was okay?”

  In fact, why are his hands empty today?

  “I thought I’d give you some time to cool off.”

  “I’m not the one so angry that I stripped somebody of all their stuff.”

  “He was making a point. One I think you needed to be reminded of.”

  “I don’t really think I need any reminders, seeing as all my stuff is gone, but just to be nostalgic, tell me, what point is that, Miles?”

  “Zora, you seem to be having a problem with authority.”

  I stare at him. We’re alone. There’s no audience for him to impress. Daddy isn’t around. So now I’m really scared, because this means he’s bought into, and actually believes, Daddy’s hype.

  “What authority are you speaking of, Miles?”

  “Zora, you’ve been in church all your life. It’s just like with church. When you’re a member of
a church, there’s a headship. Christ is the head of the church, and in our case, Bishop is the head of Light of Life. In the home, Christ is the head of the husband, and the husband is the head of the wife and the children. Zora, you are an unmarried woman. Right now, you are under the protective covering of your father.”

  “I don’t even live with my father, as you can see.”

  “That’s not his choice. And I don’t think it makes a difference.”

  He takes my hand. Says something he’s never said to me before. “I love you, Zora. I know this isn’t the best time to talk about this, but you know I want to make you my wife one day, and if you agree, when we get married, you’ll come under my covering.”

  He slips his arms around my waist. I’m completely horrified.

  “Baby, you need to know your place. I don’t mean to sound chauvinistic, but it’s your God-given place. There’s nothing wrong with being where God wants you to be. I’m a man of God. Your father taught me to be a man of God. You’re under his authority, and you need to submit to him. You had no business walking out on him like you did, and I support what he’s doing. Out of love, baby. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. You need to call your father and apologize.”

  Rebellion? I think Nicky missed one! Apparently I’m not just a rascal! I’m a rebel, too. I’m definitely going to have to read Richard’s book.

  I start screaming at Miles. “Apologize for what?”

  “I think you need to calm down, baby.”

  I try. God knows I do. “Will. You. Just. Tell. Me. What. I’ve. Done. That’s. So. Wrong?”

  “You disrespected the man who supports you.”

  “Define support. In fact, define disrespect.”

  “He gave you a job. Is lavish with gifts. Money. Anything you need. And all he asked you to do is watch your tone with him.”

  “He doesn’t give me anything I need. Because I needed to go to Parsons, not Spelman. I needed to do some meaningful work without him hovering over me and telling me that what I do, anybody with some clip art and a PC can do. And you know what the real problem is, Miles? He’s right.”

  “I see what this is about. You’re upset because Mac went to the school you wanted to go to. You’re having a tantrum.”

 

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