Rebecca squeaked. “After you left me you went back to her with more stuff? And all I got was this necklace?”
I shove a fork full of pot roast in my mouth to keep from speaking. Don’t even bother to look at Rebecca because what Zora described sounds far from innocent, regardless of the real facts.
My father gets interested. “Why, you certainly have taken an interest in Zora, Nicholas.”
“She’s had some losses, Dad. She needed help. She and some other Christians I know have been helping her. Zora lost everything. We’ve helped her.”
“It’s true, Reverend Parker. It’s all been Christian charity.”
He snorts at her.
“I don’t think a man buying a woman jewelry is charitable. Neither is giving her art supplies.”
“It is if she’s an artist. Zora is a painter. She did an amazing sketch of me. I happen to think her doing her work is healing—and good for her soul.”
My dad gives me the contemptuous look I’m so accustomed to. “What would you know about what’s good for the soul, Nicholas?”
“Good point, Dad. Not much. I wasn’t taught about that, was I?”
He opens his mouth to say something to me, but must think better of it. After all, we have company. He turns to Zora.
“So you’re an artist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s very good,” I say.
“Nicky’s quite an artist in his own right,” Zora says.
My mother chimes in. “What do you mean by that, Zora?”
“Nicky is a wonderful writer.”
Rebecca seems to find the way Zora says my name bothersome. “Why do you call him Nicky?”
Zora leans over me and looks her in the eye. “Why do you call him Nicholas? That sounds rather formal for his girlfriend.”
Of course my mother comes to Rebecca’s rescue. “We find the name Nicky rather juvenile.”
I wonder if Zora is going to be rude to my mother. My mouth goes dry. But she sits back in her seat. “Really? To me it’s playful and charming, as delightful as he is. He was introduced to me by older, wonderful people as Nicky, and he seems to prefer it. I like it. I think he likes it. I certainly don’t mean any disrespect to any of you, but if Nicky enjoys it, that’s what I’ll call him.”
My mother clears and touches her throat as she does when she is losing control of a situation. My father comes to her aid.
“You were saying something about Nicholas’s writing.”
“I think he has a wonderful sense of joy and sorrow, whimsy, reverence, and beauty in his work. And I’ve only seen one thing.”
“And what was that?”
“It was a poem.”
Rebecca huffs. “I’ve never seen any of his poetry.”
“I have,” my father says, his face reddening. “It’s a waste of time. He spent all that money writing poems and short stories when he should have been going to seminary, or at least getting a degree that could prepare him for the real world.”
“Isn’t being an artist real work?” Zora asks.
“They don’t think so,” I say.
My mother speaks. “I think creating art is one thing, like what you do, Zora. I think God can use that, like that wonderful painter—what’s his name, honey? We always see his work at the Christian bookstore.”
Oh, no. Don’t let them say it.
“Thomas Kinkade,” my father says.
Dear God. They said it. Rebecca squeals. “I love his work. Are you familiar with him, Zora?”
I can’t even look at her.
“Yes, I am. The painter of light.”
“He has light,” I say.
“And paint,” Zora adds.
That’s it. I’m really, truly, madly in love with her.
Zora goes on. “But Nicky makes art, too. When he writes poems, or novels, or even his own version of Psalms, he enters into the human drama and records the beauty and terror, all of it. Unflinchingly. He’s going to turn the world on its ear.”
Rebecca adds, “I think he will too. He’s going to be just like Max Lucado.”
I think I’m going to have a heart attack when she says that.
Zora looks over at Rebecca. “Max Lucado?” She actually laughs. “Girl, my father is a preacher. He’s got nine books out, and hasn’t written any of them. Max is a preacher. Maybe he writes his own books. I hope he does, but whether he does or doesn’t, those aren’t the kind of books Nicky’s going to write. Nicky isn’t a Max Lucado. He’s a J. D. Salinger, full of righteous anger and sadness and longing for authenticity. He’s a Rilke, full of beauty and God hunger. He’s a King David, singing his prayers, his praises, his penance.”
I’m astounded at what I’m hearing. Because of one bad poem, she’s standing up to my family on my behalf, and I have had no such courage in a lifetime. My heart is so overwhelmed I don’t know what to do with myself.
My father looks angry. He stabs at his potatoes. “You’re talking nonsense, young lady.”
“That’s the kind of writing he’s made for, Reverend Parker. It’s not nonsense. It’s his gift.”
My grandfather, who has been blessedly quiet the whole time, mumbles some bit of profanity, but we all hear him. He follows it with, “Uppity gal. I remember when niggers knew their place.”
Silence.
My parents gasp. Some unintelligible protest escapes from my throat. Rebecca says, “Oh my gosh, Zora.” Everything seems to happen in slow motion. Zora’s back straightens. She stands with the grace of the dancer she is.
I feel truly ill. I have never been so completely ashamed of my family in my life, and I feel completely at a loss as to what to say or do to right this terrible wrong.
I expect her to throw her water, pot roast, or potatoes in his face. Smash the freakin’ plate on his shining bald pate. But she doesn’t. She simply says to my parents, “Thank you for having me, Reverend and Mrs. Parker. I should be leaving now.”
My father stands. And I stand too. No one apologizes.
Not in my family. No, we Parkers can deny like Peter on Good Friday. Only we’re less vocal with our denial. Had not Zora stood, my grandfather would have probably asked her to pass the peas after calling her a racial slur. My mother looks like she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. Get up? Keep eating? Go upstairs and sew? Rebecca looks like she’s going to burst into tears. Dear God, what a mess. And my grandfather does keep eating, still mumbling to himself.
I take Zora by the elbow, and she gently pulls her arm away from me. She heads toward the door on her own.
“Zora, wait.”
I hear my father’s voice. “Nicholas.” And then Rebecca shoots up like a dandelion on the lawn.
“Where are you going, Nicholas?”
“I’m taking Zora out of here before he puts on his white sheet.”
My mother stands and defends the creep. “Nicholas, that wasn’t fair. Your grandfather is from a different time.”
“There’s no good time for a racist, Mother, including today.” I try to catch Zora, but she’s well on her way to the front door.
“Nicholas, just let her go.”
“How is she supposed to get home?”
“Well, she walked to church.”
“What is the matter with you people?”
I jet into the living room and catch up with her just before she gets out the door. “Wait.”
She yanks the door open and is out of there before I can stop her, slamming the door on me.
I have to fumble to open it. “Zora, wait.”
My eyes have to adjust to the bright sunlight, and by now, she’s running away. I’m calling her, and she’s running. I don’t even want to think about what we look like.
Finally I pull even with her. I have to grab her arm and yank her to me, and when I do … she’s crying. Aw, man. “Oh, Zora. I’m so sorry.”
“Why did you let him … you let that man …”
“I’m so sorry, Zora.”
“Yo
u were right, Nicky. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have been involved with you. At all!”
What was I supposed to say? Both of us knew it would be a disaster no matter what false hope we cloaked ourselves in. What else would it be? I let her rail on.
“You’re all racist. All of you.”
“No, we’re not. I’m not like that, Zora.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not.”
“You ever use that word, Nicky?”
“No.”
A flat-out lie. I’ve used it, as flippantly as my grandfather had and worse.
“You’re not a very good liar, Nicky.”
“Okay. I’ve used it.”
She nods her head. “I thought so.”
“I didn’t want to admit it right now while you’re upset. But I would have told you eventually.” I can tell she doesn’t believe me, and why should she since I just lied? “Look. I grew up with them. But I’ve changed.”
“Why, because you went to California? Got a black friend or two? Do you have black friends, Nicky?”
I don’t want to answer her.
“Do you?”
“Just you, for now.”
“But you’re not a racist?”
“I don’t have a lot of friends period, Zora. And how could I be a racist if I’m crazy about you?”
“You think because you’re attracted to a sistah now that’s special? What about your friend Pete? That racist is attracted to me.”
“I think I’ve shown you I’m a cut above Pete.”
“Oh yeah, Nicky. You’re a regular Thomas Jefferson.”
“Thomas Jefferson?”
“Yeah, the slave-owning, freedom-talking Founding Father. You remember him, don’t you? He had this slave, Sally Hemmings. He didn’t rape her, like most of my great, great grandmothers got raped by their masters. Not a nice, upstanding Christian guy like Thomas Jefferson. But he sure did have some pleasant visits with her, Nicky. The kind that produced children who his white descendants still don’t acknowledge. That’s the kind of white man you are, Nicky. ‘I like you, Zora, but not enough to fight society to be with you. Not enough to make my life uncomfortable for you. Certainly not enough to let my real, white, acceptable-to-the-parents girlfriend go.’”
Is this the kind of man she thinks I am?
She’s not done hurling accusations at me.
“But you’ll go tiptoeing over to the slave cabin at night. Bring ol’ Sally some poetry and art supplies. And I was stupid enough to—”
A sob escapes her mouth.
“Zora. I’m—” I go to her, all the while asking myself, am I that white man she just described? I try to hold her, and of course she resists.
“Stay away from me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“I am. I truly am.”
“Look at me, Nicky.” She starts furiously wiping her eyes. I’m looking. I can’t take my eyes off of her.
She only has to look up a few inches to see me. I love that she’s so tall.
“I don’t want you to forget this moment for the rest of your life, okay?” she says.
“Okay.”
“Nicky?”
“Yes, Zora.”
“Whenever you hear the word nigger—”
“Please don’t say that, Zora.”
“You didn’t say that to your grandfather. Don’t say that to me. Whenever you hear the word nigger …”
I nod.
“Are you looking at me?”
“You know I’m looking at you, Zora.”
“I want you to remember my face, okay, Nicky?”
Her statement takes the wind out of me. “Stop it, Zora.”
“You think I’m pretty, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Well, I’m the nigger who came to dinner. I’m every nigger you ever uttered and ever will. I’m every nigger in the world, Nicky. They’re all me. Every nigger you’ve ever known is me. Do you understand?”
I don’t understand and I do. I can’t stand to hear this, but she won’t stop.
“If there is one nigger in the world all black people are niggers.”
That word tears at me, and I just want to stop her.
She keeps assaulting me with it. “And all niggers are Zora Nella Hampton Johnson, the nigger you think you want. You got that, Nicky? All niggers are me. Every single nig—”
I scoop her into my arms and kiss her. I don’t even try to be gentle. I’m a freakin’ beast with her. And she is all sweetness. Man. She’s amazing. She starts beating the crap out of me, but it’s so worth it.
She finally gets out of my grip and pummels me with blows to my chest.
“That was a very white man thing to do, Nicky Parker!”
And I don’t even care that she’s kickin’ my butt on the street in front of the neighbors. I’m totally short-circuited because I kissed her so good I blew my own mind. Then she surprises me and comes back at me with a kiss of her own.
Holy cow! I’m about to have a coronary my heart is pounding so fast.
Only this kiss isn’t a she-beast kiss. It starts that way, and then she seems to go shy on me, and turns soft. I give Zora every bit of tenderness I have inside of me, every bit of it. I pour all the love I have and some of the love I don’t into tiny little kisses and the gentlest caresses I can muster.
I will remember her face all right. I will remember this moment.
Always.
If I could stop time right here, I would, and I would hold onto this woman. Honest to God, I would never let her go. I would spend my heaven kissing Zora on the sidewalk on this spring afternoon. She would be my heaven. But I can’t stop time any more than I can pick my own heaven.
“Nicholas!” Rebecca screeches behind me
I let Zora go.
My father stands next to Rebecca, stern looking, crimson faced, and ramrod straight. Rebecca lacks his restraint, but his eyes scream to me everything I need to know. I’ve disappointed him. Again.
He clears his throat. Gestures to the side of him. “We called a cab for … your friend.”
It kills him to call her that—my friend. I can only imagine what he wants to call her. Rebecca is looking like a statue of a martyr. And Zora is trying to walk away from all of us.
“Wait,” I say to Zora.
“I don’t need anything else from you. Thank you.”
“Please, it’s too far for you to walk.”
The cab, windows rolled down, pulls up to the curb.
Dad and Rebecca stand behind me like a Greek chorus, only they’re silent, but I can sense them urging in harmony, Get in the cab, get in the cab, get in the cab.
But not Zora. “I can walk.”
“Please. Take the cab. I promise you can be as proud as you’d like while you ride.”
The cabdriver, a black man, steps out of the car, takes one look at Zora, me, my dad, and Rebecca and says to Zora, “I think you should take the cab.”
Zora seems to war with herself. She looks from him to me and back to him. He nods his affirmation to her, and she sighs and relents.
Dad reaches for his wallet, but not this time—I take my last forty dollars and hand it to the driver. It’s twice what the fare would be or better, but I really need a little help, and as far as I’m concerned, he is Christ to both Zora and me in that moment. “Take care, man.” I shake his hand.
He snickers at me. I don’t care. She gets in the cab without so much as looking at the rest of us.
I should be taking her home but he does. She leaves with the black guy she doesn’t know. Although maybe she knows him better than she knows me.
And who am I trying to kid saying Zora doesn’t know me? She just laid my soul out like the bone china on the dining room table right in front of my family. She knows more about me than they do. A few things she said made me wonder if she knows more about me than I know about myself.
Am I an artist? Can I d
are to listen to my yearnings?
Am I racist?
But I can’t explore these things with Zora. She wouldn’t even let me take her home.
I don’t think she’s ever going to see me again, even though for some crazy reason she kissed me. Maybe it was just her way of saying good-bye. The thought of her not being in my life anymore makes me unbearably sad.
And angry, and I’m not sure why.
I don’t understand anything that just happened.
Nothing.
I look at my dad and at Rebecca.
I’m sure they’ll have a lot of explaining to do about my behavior, as usual.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ZORA
Because I have broken into a million pieces. Because I have shattered like glass and pieces of me are scattered all over the sidewalk. Because I am not flesh and blood, only glass and dangerous dust that can burrow in your eyes and cause you to bleed, I try to remember that my broken soul is embodied and no one can see that only some shell of a soul is nearly all that is left.
Embodied, this shell I am makes a move toward the cab. The body of Zora has hands, and one of those brown and barely responsive hands takes hold of the handle of the back passenger side door, and somehow I enter the cab. I sit down inside. I watch Nicky give the driver what looks like more money than he should. I see them shake hands.
It is this Zora that still feels Nicky’s hands at my waist while the pieces inside of me slide downward. I still feel the sensation of my stomach dropping to my knees. Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord. Could he hear those pieces of me shifting to my toes, sounding like falling water? Like a rain stick turned upside down again and again?
I put my hand to my mouth and press my lips to my open palm. I can still feel the pressure of his lips, in turn fierce, firm, gentle. I can still taste him on my tongue, and I savor him.
“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.”
No wonder that mysterious book of songs starts that way. I understand this now.
Nicky’s kiss was a song. A poem. It was like that crazy earring falling in front of us—something strange and beautiful, silly and senseless in the middle of our painful thrashing. I don’t understand it, but I can’t get out from under the awful beauty and mystery of it.
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