“Okay.” He looks at Zora. “You know any dreamy chicks, Z?”
“Maybe one.”
“And I’d like her to be artistic. Somebody with little dots of paint splatter and residue on her clothes and shoes she can never quite get out because she paints so much, and so passionately, she just keeps messing up her clothes. I want a sistah who cares more about art than her clothes.”
Miles rubs his chin. “I don’t know about that one. I mean, she would sound a little flighty to me. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’m sure, Miles.”
He seems to consider this deeply. “What else are you looking for?”
“A woman who loves books. Maybe not as much as I do, but enough to engage me in passionate conversation about them. I’d want to share every novel I love with her. And know all the novels she loves.” He seems a little bored with me. I don’t like this Miles. “Do you know your wife’s favorite book?”
He doesn’t even look to Zora for help with this one. “The Bible.”
For a moment, I think he should go to my dad’s church instead of Zora’s dad’s. He should be in love with Rebecca, because that really is her favorite book, including her favorite novel.
“I meant her favorite novel, Miles.”
The question seems to take him by surprise. He scratches his head. “I don’t know, man.”
“A woman like Zora. Classy. Most likely educated. Her freakin’ name is Zora. I’d guess it’s Their Eyes Were Watching God.”
I look at my Dreamy. She seems to be like a flower wilting in the heat of too much sun. “What’s your favorite novel, Zora?”
“That’s it.”
I shot a viciously triumphant look at Miles. “That’s what I mean. I’d want to know my woman’s favorite novel. I’d want to know who she is, and not just who she’s been constructed to be by somebody else, including me.”
Miles seems to consider this. “That’s deep.”
I pull myself up from the floor.
It’s hard to breathe. My cheek is swelling by the moment. I hand her my information and the poem she doesn’t know is a poem.
She takes it and locks eyes with me. “Thank you, Nicky. Thank you for stopping by.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry you had a hard day.”
“I’m sorry you had one. Why don’t you and Miles head out together? Miles was just leaving.”
Miles doesn’t look like he wants to leave, but she gives him a look full of fire and determination, and I’m glad to see the Zora I know back.
“Keep me posted on your wedded bliss. Good-bye, Zora. Good-bye, Miles.”
She stands, as does Miles. She doesn’t even say good-bye to me.
Miles slips on his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, baby. I’ll bring you back some things you need.” His gaze shifts to me. “Hey, I might call you so we can double date or something.”
“You do that, Miles.”
I will jump off a building first. On fire. With a noose around my neck.
We finally get out of that apartment. But I don’t say a word to him on the stairs. I suddenly no longer exist for him. Obviously, she’s the only thing on his mind.
Mine, too.
I’ve got one thing on my mind to do. I need to get drunk. And I have no money for that kind of thing.
My new best friend, Richard, comes to mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NICKY
By the time I arrive at Richard’s apartment, I’m so ready for a drink, I can taste it. I’ll have what he’s having, thanks! I was never very discriminating when I was drinking anyway.
Three years of sobriety down the drain, but the payoff—something to numb the thought of him being with her in that way, of him touching her; the thought of her making love with him—
Man.
I’ve never kissed anyone with lips so full and soft. And I’ve never been with a tall woman. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I felt so small myself, I wanted all those petite cuties to make me feel bigger. I only know that everything about her in my arms felt right and perfect and it just didn’t seem to matter when I held her that her skin was darker than mine. Everybody else thought it mattered. Maybe not everybody, but all the people in my little world.
I knock on Richard’s door, ready for my foray back into the wonderful world of alcohol abuse. Richard opens the door, looking a little more frail than usual. He’s got a smoke in his hands.
“Nicky,” he says. His green eyes light up. “It’s good to see you, son. Come on in.” He still smells of booze, but he doesn’t seem drunk. He invites me in, takes my jacket and hangs it up. “Come on in and have a seat.”
Despite the fact the apartment smells like a smokehouse, I like Richard’s place. It’s cozy. It’s neither fancy nor ostentatiously austere, if you can believe that kind of oxymoron, but God knows I’ve seen it in action. Just a welcoming place, a place to entertain the stranger. God knows that’s me today.
I take an annoyed look at him puffing away. He’s often asked if his smoking bothers me, and I always lie and tell him no. He eventually stopped asking. Now I have the nerve to be ticked off because he doesn’t ask this time.
“Richard, do you ever actually breathe in between the constant, unrelenting, endless inhaling and exhaling tobacco?”
He doesn’t seem to notice my rudeness.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked if this bothered you.” He ambles over to an ashtray by his sofa, and I follow him so I can sit down. I watch him crush his cigarette and finally beckon me to sit.
Guilt pricks me. “I’m sorry I hung up on you earlier.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. At least not all the way there. Something on your mind, Nicky?”
“Yeah. We can talk about it over drinks.”
“Of course. What would you like?” He stands, ready to serve.
“Whatever you had earlier. Make it a double.”
Richard chuckles. “You don’t want that, son.”
“That’s exactly what I want.”
He tugs his trousers up and sits on the couch beside me. Turns to face me before I blast him.
“Richard, your hospitality is slipping, man. I asked for a drink.”
“I’d be happy to get you something. I’ve got some great tea. I get that nice Harney and Sons tea from Barnes and Noble. Got this great African Autumn infusion.”
“No thanks. I’ve already had my African infusion today by way of Zora and her boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he is. Apparently I’m a racist, and you know what, I’m really starting not to care. So please. If you’re going to offer tea, I’d like something European. English Breakfast, or Earl Grey, or something white sounding, but quite frankly, I’d rather have booze!”
“Why don’t you tell me about that? What happened to your face, Nicky?”
“I’d be happy to share over drinks, Rich.”
“Nicky …”
I stand up. “I don’t need a sponsor today. I didn’t come here for you to walk me through the steps or ask me if I’m hungry, angry, lonely, or tired and to H.A.L.T. Because you know what, Rich? I’m hungry. For Zora. I’m angry because she did the wild thing with her big black buck promptly after giving me the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had. I’m lonely because who on this freakin’ planet gets me? She gets me, without even trying, but we had Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?—the new millennium version—only unlike the one with Ashton Kutcher, I didn’t get the girl or the happy ending. And I’m tired, Richard. I’m bone weary in my dead freakin’ soul. I want a drink. I want alcohol.”
For a moment he’s quiet. And then, “Nicky. I just want to be the heart of Jesus to you in your time of— ”
“Dude! You want to be Jesus to me? Be Jesus at the wedding in Cana. Turn some water into wine, Richard, because what I want is a drink.”
“You’ve been sober three years, Nicky. I know what it is to give that kind of time up, and I don’t believe I’d be serving you well by helping you do that.�
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“But you were drunk this morning. You were lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center on the eve of the Lord’s birthday today, Richard.”
Tears shine in his blue eyes. “You don’t want to be like me, son. You love Jesus so much.”
“You love Him too. And you had a drink.”
He sits on the sofa while I stay standing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more weary soul than Richard. He clears his throat, which does nothing to relieve it of its alcohol and smoke-weary rattle.
“Kid. You don’t want to be me. You don’t want to be anything like me.”
“I just want a drink, Rich.”
“And then you’ll want another one. One is too many. A thousand is never enough.”
“I know the rhetoric.”
“Let me tell you what you don’t know, son. You don’t know what it is to be me. You don’t know what it is to fail so often, son, and have other Christians—some you thought were your friends—dismiss you without a second thought. And the worst part is, you know you could have been so much more. Yeah, lots of people buy my books, but that’s a mercy. I’m grateful that God’s messy people read them, but sometimes I just want to be a nice guy, Nicky. I don’t want to be a drunk. I don’t want to be the guy who tells people God loves them despite themselves. Sometimes I just want to get it right. And I can’t, Nicky. I preach grace because I don’t have a choice. I wish I did. Don’t be like me. Don’t take that drink, because drinking is what made me lose my wife, and she was the best thing that ever happened to me. I want you to have a better life than I had. I don’t want you to be a lonely, sick, crusty old man who can’t stop drinking and smoking to save his life, literally. Let me be clear on something. At this moment, I’m not talking about God’s love. God is going to love you whether or not you drink. God is going to love you if you’re the biggest drunk on skid row. You can’t earn God’s love, or lose it, whether you’re perfect, or a rebel, rascal, or whore. But I’m going to tell you a little something about Richard’s love. I love you too much, and I’m too selfish to let that first drink—the drink that will turn you into me—come from me.”
I finally sit down. “I love her. And she’s going to marry him.”
“Let’s pray, Nicky.”
I run my hands through my hair and try to breathe.
Richard puts his hand on my shoulder. “Nicky?”
I want to break something. I want to destroy something.
He begins to pray something from the Psalms in his whiskey tenor voice, over and over for both of us. Richard loves this prayer so much he’s turned it into his own. He said it’s supposed to be a prayer of deliverance from your enemies, but he loves it for its poverty.
Make haste, O God, to deliver me, make haste to help me, O Lord.
I am poor and needy; make haste unto me, O God: thou art my help and my deliverer; O Lord, make no tarrying.
I love Richard for this. I want this deliverance he prays for, but it eludes me. God does tarry, and my need feels urgent. He’s silent, just like He was when my grandpa was so vocal at the dinner table. Where was God when Richard needed the strength to say no to that drink this morning? How could He give Richard the grace to minister to me, but not himself?
And my need for a drink has passed. God, will You be with Richard later on tonight? When he’s hungry, angry, lonely, or tired? And what about me? Because I don’t want a drink, Lord, but my need for Zora has increased exponentially.
I hug Richard and go home.
I want to go back to her. I don’t care that she’s been with him. I love her. At least I think I love her.
God, I’m so confused.
No. I can’t love her. It’s only been a few days. I just want her. It’s just lust. She doesn’t want me anyway. She slept with him.
Maybe she’s easy. Maybe I can just go back and have a turn too.
No. I know she’s not like that.
Then again, I don’t know anything.
Again, I run my hands through my hair. By now my eye must be a sight—no pun intended.
Just go home, Nicky.
But I want her. If she kissed me and went right to him, maybe I can have a chance.
To do what?
If I can make love to her, just once, I can make her love me. I know I can.
And then God finally decides to chat.
It didn’t make Brooke love you.
Richard and I have revival, and God says nothing. Want to go have a little feel-good time, and then He talks. And that’s what He says.
“Thanks a lot, God.”
But it worked. As much as I wanted to try to find her alone and seduce her, I take my rascally, rebellious, whoring self home.
And I ain’t happy about it, but I do it. Who I do it for, I can’t even say.
ZORA
Incarnational Christianity.
I have to admit, it’s a little annoying but looking good today, Lord. My mind keeps going back to Nicky showing up at my door the first time with the clothes. What he said that day:
“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?”
Jesus came again, looking like that same white man, still angry, but wearing a cloak of sorrow even his scowl couldn’t hide. And he came just stopping me from disaster right on time, dear Lord! What a mess I found myself in. He came, Nicky Parker, that is, protecting me. Never letting on the day’s events, how his kiss had ruined me for Miles.
Miles said he was going to get some things to make me more comfortable. I’m glad he’s gone. I need to process.
Maybe I overreacted. Would Miles have raped me? Rape is a very strong word. Miles wants to marry me. We could be married within days. Men that marry you can’t rape you, can they?
God, what in the world is going on?
Am I in love with Nicky Parker?
I am, aren’t I?
I’m not sure. I’ve never been in love before. What does it mean if I can’t stop thinking about him? Or if I relive kissing him over and over? And if Miles’s kiss was totally disgusting?
The buzzer sounds. He’s come back way too soon. I hoist myself off the ground and shuffle over to the door to buzz him in. I open the door and wait, but it’s not Miles and his stuff that meets me. It’s Linda and Billie.
I don’t know how I feel about this at first. I’m still a little leery of my white brethren and sistren. But they keep showing up for me. Where is my own family? Has anyone told Zoe or the twins? What is my mother thinking? I think about the words of Jesus.
Who is my brother and sister and mother?
There’s Ms. Pamela and her widow’s mite. And now Miles has gone shopping. Maybe all of this will end soon. I don’t know.
They’re carrying flowers. Linda has calla lilies. She’s wearing some bright Mexican-looking skirt and peasant blouse and looks like a little less stylized version of someone Diego Rivera would paint. Billie is beside her. She’s got a bunch of Shasta daisies, in completely unnatural but wonderfully silly rainbow colors. They hold the flowers out to me like they’re some kind of peace offering.
“For me?”
And Billie is so blunt. “Yeah. We were hoping you don’t hate whitey now.” Then she laughs. “Hey, do you remember that Garrett Morris skit from Saturday Night Live where he’s this convict? And he did this audition or something, he sings this song that goes—” and Billie actually starts singing, “‘—I’m gonna get me a shotgun, and kill all the whiteys I see.’ And then they dragged him off.” She cracks up. “Remember that?”
My mouth flies open. I know it only because I saw my father watching a rerun and laughing hysterically, but I’m not sure I should admit finding it funny in mixed company.
Linda turns beet red. She speaks to her compadre like she’s a small child. “Billie. Please don’t. And I’m sure that was before Zora’s time.”
Billie waves it off. “It was funny, and it’s
from a comedy skit. Now I can name a few people singing that and it wouldn’t be funny. But Garrett made it funny.”
“Billie.”
“Okay. Sorry, Zora,” she said. “We’re supposed to be reconciling, and here I am inciting hate crimes. Can we come in?”
“Sure.” I step aside. Billie really is funny. I can’t help but find her interesting. It’s like she missed some important social-skill-gathering phase in her life, but her inappropriateness, even though she’s old enough to know better, is somehow hilarious.
“I’d offer you a place to sit, but as you can see, not much has changed.”
“That’s one reason why we’re here,” Billie says. “Oh, yeah, read the cards on your flowers.”
I slip out the first card tucked into the green tissue paper holding the lilies. It says, “Not all whites are bad.”
I groan. “That’s cute.”
Linda smiles. “I’ve got a box of white towels and washcloths, white pajamas, a white terry-cloth robe, a white china tea cup, and some white tea in the car for you. And we have some other things too.”
“Now read mine,” Billie says.
I can’t imagine what hers will say. I find it tucked between an electric blue and hot pink daisy. She kept it simple. “We love hue. Don’t leave us because of this.”
“Richard sent you a box too. It’s in the car.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I can’t take any more surprises today. Nicky gave me more than enough.”
Linda looks reluctant.
Billie looks bored. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, just tell her.”
Linda shakes her head. “I can’t.”
Billie howls with laughter. “Richard sent us to Zingerman’s Deli for you. We got you, like, ten different kinds of crackers. He said to tell you ‘not all crackers leave such a bad taste in your mouth.’ And we got you some tasty spreads, cheeses, and jams to go with the crackers.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Boxes of crackers. I laugh so hard that I start to choke. Billie bangs on my back until Linda says she’s going to beat me to death, and then I can’t help myself, I start to cry. Just as quickly, Billie’s arm draws me to her and she holds me like she was my mama.
Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White Page 20