Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “Cut it out, Zora.”

  “Are you trying to get sensitive on me now? Did that one ethnic-sensitivity training class you took at Berkeley just come to mind?”

  “It might surprise you to know that maybe the fever I have burning for you is not about sex. And maybe I want to take you away because I don’t really want them to think you’re my little black plaything.”

  She narrows her eyes, but they’re sparkling and playful. “Are you sure you just don’t want them to know you got you a little chocolate swirl to go with that vanilla ice.”

  I tease her back. “I would never have guessed such a sweet girl, a bishop’s daughter like yourself, would have such a wicked sense of humor. The stereotype that white women are frigid—I’m appalled by your lack of sensitivity, Zora. I shouldn’t encourage you.”

  “You didn’t encourage me.”

  “Maybe that’s because you aren’t my chocolate swirl.”

  I want to add, “but you can be. Have mercy!” But I don’t say it aloud.

  “I’m not your anything,” she reminds me.

  “Then you probably shouldn’t be singing that we’re in love.”

  “Oh, come on, Nicky, your parents and girlfriend didn’t hear me.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Did it bother you?”

  I take a long and very serious look at her. “Maybe it made me reflective.”

  “And what did it make you reflect on?”

  “The possibilities.”

  “Is falling in love a possibility?”

  “You just convinced three people that it is.”

  “Three people, or four?”

  “Three. One person standing there already knew he could love you.”

  In a bit of shock that I’d just said that, I put one hand on the steering wheel and turn the key with the other. “We’d better get going or Rebecca’s going to be knocking on the window.”

  “Trying to climb into the truck.”

  “Lying across the hood.”

  “You suck as a boyfriend.”

  “Maybe I’ve just got the wrong girlfriend, Zora.”

  I glance across the parking lot, and I can see that my parents have stayed to speak to a few more people, but Rebecca, to her credit, has gone on. I wonder if she went somewhere to compose herself. Pick up some heavy artillery? Get a passel of girlfriends for reinforcements?

  Like I’m really deeply concerned. Zora is right. I do suck.

  “Hey, Zora.”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for coming to church.”

  The truth is, I’m really glad she’s here. I put the truck in drive and we pull out of the parking lot toward my parents’ place. When I reach out and take her hand, she lets me hold it.

  God, what are we going to do?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ZORA

  Nicky and I have families full of odd contrasts. He is the product of generations of genteel Southern Baptists, now Northern bred, and we are first generation Word-Faithers from a crop of the independent Apostolic heretics that grew out of organic slave religions, whatever we could piece together. We are from one of the oldest black families in Ann Arbor, a largely white, liberal community. Nicky grew up in Ypsilanti, which now is known for having the larger black population of the two cities.

  The Parkers live in historic Ypsilanti in a house built in the 1800s, a breathtaking masterpiece of Americana they show off each year in the historic homes tour. When Nicky pulls up to the house, he is obviously horrified that he didn’t remember the wide-eyed, jet-black lawn jockey greeting us with huge, smiling red lips.

  “I forgot about that.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  “I’m sorry, Zora.”

  “Anything else I need to know about, Nicky? Got a mammy in there? Couple of slaves?”

  “They don’t have slaves, Zora.”

  “Not since it was outlawed.”

  “You didn’t have to accept their invitation.”

  “But I did. You should have told me I’d find soul brotha here upon arrival.”

  “My parents are mostly nice people. They’re kinda scary, but they’re … I don’t even know how to describe them.”

  “Let’s just go in.”

  “I tried to get you not to come. And now you’re feeling defensive.”

  “I’ll be a good Negro, boss.”

  “That’s not nice, Zora. I’m not your enemy.”

  “You look like them.”

  “I can’t change my skin, Zora. If I could, I’d make it real easy on you today. I’d go for something kinda Wesley Snipes. That African American enough for you?”

  We sit there for a few moments. I don’t even know why I’m acting this way. I can handle his parents. If I know anything, it’s how to work a room. I’m just nervous. I was stupid enough to want to be liked, and now that I’m the whore anyway, I may as well shoot for high-class whore and hold it down for the next sistah he brings home. You know what they say. Once you go black, you can’t go back.

  What a dumb saying. God, what’s the matter with people? I decide to take a teeny little risk.

  “Nicky?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve had a few bad days, that’s all.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll say.”

  “I’m feeling really defensive. I just wanted to be with you.”

  “I should have just knocked on your door last night. I didn’t want to … I don’t know, Zora. I didn’t want to do anything unacceptable. I’m actually trying for gentleman with you. ”

  “It was probably late when you left your girlfriend.”

  “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m not a player. I was, but I’m not now. And believe it or not, I want to tell you what I’m feeling for you, but I don’t know. It seems wrong what I’m feeling. I mean, beyond wrong in some ways. I’m feeling a lot toward you, Zora. I didn’t expect you. And I have no idea what to do with you.”

  “You don’t have to do anything with me, regardless to what either of us is feeling.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s true. You’re already meeting the parents.”

  “I don’t think I’ve impressed them.”

  “You impress me every time I look at you, Dreamy.”

  “Let’s just go inside, Nicky. The lawn jockey thing threw me off. Among other things. I’ll make this work. I’m good at that kind of thing. Well, my last dinner with my parents was a bust, so if tomorrow your apartment is empty, disregard what I just said. Deal?”

  He grins. “Deal.”

  He opens the truck door for me. Together we pass Jocko. Nicky whispers “I’m sorry” to me one more time, and I accept his apology. Before we go inside, I stop.

  “Did you ever hear the legend of Jocko, Nicky?”

  “Jocko?” he says. He has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “Your pal here? The lawn jockey.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about him. I’m ashamed to say he’s something I just took for granted. Never thought to ask.”

  “Don’t feel bad. A lot of people don’t know, including black people. In fact, there’s no evidence that it’s really true. It’s a legend. You wanna hear it?”

  He shugs. “Sure.”

  “The legend goes that Jocko was the twelve-year-old son of a free black man named Tom Graves. During the Revolutionary War, Graves joined George Washington’s army. Jocko wanted to go to war also, but he was too young. Little Jocko was a spunky kid, however. He went anyway.”

  Nicky shakes his head. “That was some twelve-year-old. I sucked at twelve.”

  “Me, too. I was totally self-absorbed, much like now, God help me. Anyway, according to the legend, just as Washington was about to cross the Delaware River for the battle of Trenton, he realized there was no way he could transport his horses by boat, and his steeds would have to be waiting on the other side. Young Jocko volunteered to hold the horses and make sure they were ready when the troops arrived.”<
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  Again, Nicky shakes his head. “Why do I have a feeling this is going to end badly?”

  “Because it will. Here comes the hero part. During the night, vigilant Jocko froze to death, and the poor kid never let go of the horses’ reins. General Washington was so touched by his sacrifice that he erected a statue in Jocko’s honor. That statue was the precursor to lawn jockeys.”

  “Which would later become racist symbols of slavery.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that truly sucks.”

  “It truly does, Nicky.”

  He takes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Zora.”

  “On the bright side—”

  “And you would find a bright side in this.”

  “Lawn jockeys were also used in the underground railroad to alert runaways to safehouses. A lit lantern in his hand or a bright ribbon tied on his arm meant the house was safe.”

  “Uh oh,” he says. “That one doesn’t have a lantern or a ribbon. I think we should turn around. Let’s blow this pop stand, baby.”

  “Your parents are expecting me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

  The smile, if one could call it that, he pastes on his face is so full of bitterness and irony it’s almost frightening. “It’d be me they’d be disappointed in. As always. Not to worry.” A sigh escapes his mouth. “I guess I’ll have to keep you safe today.”

  He squeezes my hand, and the gesture makes me feel as safe as a little girl holding a grown-up’s hand.

  I tell myself I’m ready. I can do this.

  I tell myself one more time for good measure, “You can do this, Zora.” I take another look at Jocko. I don’t think he’s smiling at all. I think that’s a grimace on his face.

  NICKY

  You’d think I’d have remembered Jocko in the yard, wouldn’t you? I’d even read Flannery O’Connor’s The Artificial Nigger in college. But no. I didn’t even think about it until, to my horror, there he was, smiling at Zora with those big red lips. I wanted to drive far, far away, but I couldn’t.

  You know, I never think about these kinds of things. I never think about Aunt Jemima or Uncle Ben or the myth of the black whore or the BET video girls, pimps, hos, and the hundreds of negative images that must assault Zora every day. No wonder she’s so freakin’ sensitive. I see a hillbilly image and I laugh, but I don’t think about hillbillies again unless I see Jeff Foxworthy on TV or something, and there are a million positive images to reinforce that I’m good and right and beautiful. Zora didn’t laugh at the lawn jockey. And it’s not funny. I see why she says it’s hard for her to turn it off, and the lawn jockey is just one thing—that I’ve noticed, that is.

  I remember when I first saw her, and how I mused about how I’d have to marry her, and then I dismissed the idea when I couldn’t figure out why black people pronounce chitterlings the wrong way. And who’s to say the way they say it is wrong? I said to myself then that it’s too complicated. I’ve known her for almost a week and already I don’t see the world in the same way. And the complications haven’t even begun. But they’re about to. I don’t doubt that at all.

  I open the door, and we’re in white people’s paradise. There’s a flag in the corner and a gun rack and early American furniture, and I’m embarrassed it’s so freakin’ white.

  “This is a lovely old house,” Zora says.

  “Ummm.”

  “You grew up here?”

  “Um hmmm.”

  “I’ll bet there are all kinds of nooks and crannies you played in.”

  “I could tell you stories.”

  She looks at me with those brown doe eyes. “I’d like that.” And it looks like she means it when she says it. “Show me your room when you were a kid.”

  “It’s my mother’s sewing room now.”

  “Please.”

  This woman absolutely delights me. I can’t deny her anything she asks. And much of what she doesn’t. My folks aren’t here yet and neither is Rebecca, so I take her upstairs and show her what used to be my bedroom. I can’t stop talking.

  “Everything is different now. The whole house is different. Back then this was just a crappy, drafty old house. We had this awful wallpaper.” I laugh, remembering it. “It had these big, horrible flowers. Like huge cabbage roses.”

  I wonder if she can see cabbage roses where hunter green walls are now. Then we walk down the beige hallway. “This had bad wallpaper, too. More awful flowers from, like, the thirties or forties.”

  Zora laughs. We reach my mother’s sewing room, a shrine to Martha Stewart Living. It’s all white, glass jars, buttons, and notions.

  “This is it.”

  “What color was it?”

  “Blue. Cowboy theme.”

  “Nicky the cowboy. Did you sleep in here alone?”

  “Yep.”

  “You have brothers and sisters?”

  “Nope. I’m an only child. All bets are on me.”

  “Is that why you’re on Prozac?”

  “Nah. That’s why I need Prozac though.”

  “Were you lonely?”

  “All the time. Especially at night.”

  “I had two brothers and a little sister, but I used to be lonely too. If we were neighbors, we could have strung two cans from out our windows and talked even though I lived far away. Mine would have once been a can of collard greens.” She winks at me.

  Princess probably didn’t even have canned goods. We did! “Mine would have been a string-beans can. And we could have talked a lot because I’d have had plenty of those cans.”

  I lean against the doorway. I like the thought of us being kids together. I take her hand again, and she lets me. “What would we have talked about, little Miss Zora?”

  “Horses, since you were a cowboy.”

  “And what would you have told me about?”

  “I would have told you all about princesses, of course.”

  “I so wouldn’t have talked to you anymore after that.”

  “You would have if you were lonely.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have. You probably would have made me pretend to be the prince. I can tell.”

  “Whatever. I would have thought you had cooties anyway.”

  I rub her hands and am struck by the contrast. Her skin is so dark. Mine so fair. But we keep holding hands. Dr. Martin Luther King’s dream. I don’t want to let her go. I don’t want to stop seeing this black and white of us together, the stark contrast of our intertwined hands.

  I can hear my family come in with Rebecca. “They’re here.” I have an impulse to snatch my hand out of hers as if we’ve done something wrong. I resist it.

  Her voice sounds full of longing, the same longing stirring within me. “It was so nice just being kids up here, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe we could stay. I really do know places we can hide. I could tell you some of those stories I mentioned.”

  “They’d think we found a bedroom and were gettin’ busy.”

  “Yeah, especially with your reputation.”

  She hits me with her free hand.

  “This is going to be all right, Zora.” I know it’s a lie, but I want to believe it.

  “Okay, Nicky.”

  I don’t think she believes me. “I’m with you, okay?”

  She smiles at me. “You be here for Rebecca.”

  But I want to be here for her. Rebecca has her team.

  And at that, she lets go of my hand.

  I lead her back downstairs, and everybody glares at us, especially my grandfather. What? Do they think we got a quickie in since we left the church fifteen minutes ago? I just want to get her out of here. I can tell by the obscene way they look at us together this is going to be even more of a nightmare than I imagined, and I’m beginning to get the feeling she knows it too. That lawn jockey knew what was coming.

  I didn’t get to introduce her to my grandfather at the church. Now he’s standing there with my parents, freakin’ leering at her, the old pervert.

  “Who�
�s this, Nick?”

  “This is my friend.”

  Rebecca offers her up like a lamb to the slaughter. “Her name is Zora.”

  He gives me this look. It’s the look he gave my cousin Robbie when he shot his first deer.

  “Where’ve you two been?” he asks.

  “I showed her mom’s sewing room.”

  “You mean your old bedroom?”

  Dirty old …

  “It’s not my bedroom anymore.”

  Mom whisks Zora off for a tour of the house, and I follow them, even though I know Rebecca wants to ask me what Zora and I were up to. I’m trying to scope out any more signs of white supremacy in the house, and I don’t have a clue how. Now I’m freakin’ hypersensitive, and worse, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for. We don’t have lawn jockeys in the living room. I feel a little sick to my stomach, and the smell of the pot roast gnaws at my gut.

  Can’t they ever serve chicken for heaven’s sake? Spaghetti? Veal? Turkey? I’d take a can of Spam! A bologna sandwich on stale bread with no condiments.

  After what seems like six weeks, we finally settle into the dining room, and my grandfather parks himself right across from Zora. I sit beside her. Rebecca beside me. Of course.

  I don’t think this dinner could feel more ill at ease if we were all trying to sell each other Amway. There are a lot of uncomfortable silences between awkward questions like …

  “So, Zora, what do you do?”

  “I’m unemployed.”

  Endless silence.

  “So, Zora. How are things going over at Light of Life?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not going there anymore.”

  Pindrops. Crickets. Silent screams.

  Then Rebecca gets nosy. “So, uh, Zora. You and Nicholas went out to a restaurant Friday?”

  Oh, man.

  “Yes. He took me out after he went shopping for me. He bought me a lot of things.” She sees Rebecca’s stunned expression and becomes more nervous and information pours out of her. “I mean he just got me things I needed mostly. He got me some outfits. I guess I didn’t need the jewelry. That was just kind of him. It was innocent.”

  And of course my dad says, “It sounds innocent. Nicholas buying you jewelry.”

  “Then he came over late Saturday with art supplies for me.”