“At that same table, Zora, Jesus said to His disciples, ‘This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.’”
He eats the bread. Father John lifts the basket and extends the loaf to me. “Please. Break bread with me.”
He asks with such sincerity. I don’t even know if I’m having some kind of Orthodox communion or not, but I want to share with them. I take the bread and pull a small piece from the loaf. I thought it’d be bland, but it tastes better than I expected. I pass the basket to Billie, and she too eats.
John surprises me and takes the wine again. “Finally, Jesus passed the cup, once again. He said, ‘This cup is the new testament in my blood, which is shed for you.’” He pauses for a while, as if this is a marvel to him. He drinks deeply of it. I’m so moved by his passion, I take another long drink, and I pass it to Billie, and we all sit quietly for a few minutes.
“What does this all mean?”
“It’s full of mystery, baby,” Billie says. “We don’t even know what it all means. We just know it begins with Christ. Him becoming our feast and telling us to share Him with each other, and we all come to one table where we can partake of Him. At least that’s how it should be. It’s not yet. Christ’s body is broken apart. Every time I serve communion, I weep for all the people who can’t partake of it with me. But I do what I can. I leave it to God to bring us all back together. We’re His body, broken or no.”
John seems to ponder what she says. He adds, “But I believe regardless of what we believe about the Eucharist, we are all to feed off Christ. Because we all must feed off Christ, He is present inside all believers, so the stranger is always Christ, and Christ is always welcome.”
“But what about crazy people? What about sociopaths? What about people who don’t take communion at all and who haven’t fed off Christ?”
“Seems like to me, at that very table where the Lord instituted the Eucharist, a sociopath sat among them who would sell the Son of God for thirty pieces of silver. And Jesus washed his feet. It’s Jesus who said, ‘Judge not.’ ”
“He also said, ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits.’ How can you protect people in your community who are vulnerable?”
Father John answers, “Love is the biggest rule here, Zora. We have houses that are more equipped to deal with mentally ill people. And homeless people. People who could harm children. Part of living in love is making room for everybody. Sometimes love is asking someone predatory to leave. It’s hard, but we have to do it sometimes.”
Billie nods. “I’m not sayin’ we’ve got it down perfect. We take a little wisdom from the Romanian Orthodox monks, and some from the Benedictines, and some from the Catholic Worker Houses of Hospitality. And we pray, and screw up and try again. But we give coffee. And soup. And love, wine, and bread.”
“I like it.”
“We like it too,” John says.
“Sometimes,” Billie says. He shoots her a look, and she winks at him. He smiles despite himself.
“How do you get money?”
“Donations. And what we earn using our skills and talents. We don’t get any government grants or assistance,” John says. “We trust God and His people. We seem to get by.”
“It’s not easy,” Billie says.
“You probably noticed my wife speaks her mind.”
“I noticed.”
Billie gets up. “Then let me speak my mind and say how shabby this place looks. I’m hoping Zora can give me some decorating tips so we can fix the place up without scaring Father John half to death with Day-Glo colors.”
“Please, Zora. Don’t let my wife’s colorful personality sway any good ideas you have. We’d love to get any insights you want to offer that will make our home more inviting, but not any concepts with the words Day-Glo, or hot, or screaming in front of them.”
“You can count on me.”
“Be careful what you say, Zora. I just may do that,” he says.
And I smile, because somehow, I don’t think I’ll mind him counting on me at all.
NICKY
So, it’s eleven thirty at night when I get to her apartment. I sit in her parking lot another freakin’ half hour because I look like a monster, and I don’t want her to see me like this. But I gotta see her, or more to the point, I gotta see her see me.
I think about Jesus while I’m in my truck. The Good Shepherd. I wonder if He’s calm when He goes after the one. Does He whistle a psalm or something and walk with slow ease? Does worry crease His brow? Does He think about any of the bad things that could happen? Or does He hurry, like disaster could strike at any moment if He doesn’t get there in the nick of time?—pun intended.
And the worst thing? My father did come after me. He came with my so-called best friend to save me from the black woman he thought would ruin me. Like Zora was some kind of she-wolf out to destroy me. My father who doesn’t like to hit has done so twice in a single day to get my attention. He came with the sternest of warnings today, sparing not the rod for his spoiled-rotten child. Maybe that’s his version of love and it’s as real as it’s gonna get for him—or me.
I can’t think about this. How small is his world if I can’t fit one black woman in it? I have to see her.
I tell myself how amazing she was to walk what—seven or eight miles?—just to get to my church. How brave she was to have dinner with me after she saw Rebecca connected to me like we’re conjoined twins. And how sassy and courageous she was at the dinner table, the way she stood up for me, how classy she was when she dealt with my family’s ignorance.
I tell myself that I need to see her badly enough that I can push her buzzer, even if Miles is in there and his arms are curled around her and he’s whispered to her that he loves her after he’s made love to her maybe better than I can, because everybody knows what they say about black men and—
Man.
I don’t know where this courage is going to come from. I’m just a lust-filled sinner. I don’t even know for sure if I’m in love. But I know this: It enrages me that he hasn’t done anything for her. And she’s not wearing a ring. And he doesn’t think she’s an incredible artist. I don’t want anything but what is best for that angel.
Just thinking about him enjoying the full benefits package ticks me off. And I’m getting smacked around because I kissed her. I don’t think so.
I get out of my truck, march up to the door, and press the buzzer long and hard. Anger and adrenaline surge through me, and I can feel a manly urge to do something destructive. A good old-fashioned brawl is in order, and not with my father or grandfather.
Nothing.
I nearly lie on the buzzer this time. Then I press on all the buzzers, which doesn’t please the occupants since by now it’s after midnight. I press on Zora’s buzzer again and again until it finally dawns on me. Zora isn’t home. She isn’t lying on the floor amid the blue and red walls. He’s taken my Zora home with him.
I pull my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and dial 4-1-1.
“Information. City and state, please.”
“Ann Arbor, Michigan, I think. Do you have a listing for Miles Zekora?”
“Hold for the number.”
I hold all right. I tap my foot and ball my free hand into a fist and when she comes back, I say, “Yes, please,” after she asks if I’d like for her to connect me to that number.
The phone rings nine times. I would have waited if it had rung nine thousand. I would have waited if it took nine days for him to answer it.
He sounds sleepy, no doubt from a vigorous session of lovemaking to Zora.
“Hullo,” he says.
“Miles!”
“Who is this?”
“Where is Zora?”
He pauses. “Who is this?”
“Put Zora on the phone.”
“Zora isn’t here.”
I don’t have the patience for this. “Don’t play with me, Miles. I’ll come over there and get her if I have to.”
Now Mile
s sounds ticked off. Really ticked off. “Who is this?”
“This is God’s soldier. You shouldn’t be having sex with God’s handmaidens.” Man, what a freakin’ hypocrite I am.
“I’m not having sex with anybody. I’m going to marry—I don’t even know who this is.”
“This is the voice of prophecy. You can’t keep having sex with Zora. You don’t deserve her. You don’t even have a ring for her. You suck, Miles.”
“Is this that white boy?”
“What white boy?”
“That white boy that was at … this is Nicky. The white boy with the comedienne’s name.”
“Yeah, this is Nicky Parker. And you still suck.”
“Man, why you callin’ me?”
“Because you don’t deserve her. You don’t know her. You don’t even think she can paint, and that’s just crazy, Miles. How can you not think she can paint?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. You don’t be calling me, white boy. I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t know me like that.”
“No, I know you like this: I know you were at the dinner at her dad’s house, and she ended up walking to the bookstore, and it was me who gave her a ride home that night. I know you left her in pajamas on Friday, and it was me who brought her the white dress you took off of her today. I know it was me that fed her Friday. And it was me that gave her cab fare, and if she were in my bed, I’d have a ring on her finger, unlike you. That’s what I know about you, Miles.”
“I’m gon’ say this one more time, white boy. You don’t know anything about what’s going on with Zora and her family. You need to keep your white nose out of black folks’ business. And here’s another thing: I think what you’re most upset about is that it ain’t you taking that white dress off Zora, and it ain’t never gon’ be you. So you need to step off. Don’t call me no more, and stay away from my wife.”
“Is she there? Because if she’s there I’m coming for her.”
“Yeah. She’s here. Come and get her.”
“I’m on my way.”
I call information again and find out his street address. I’m in such a rage I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m a lot worse off than I felt earlier. I feel like I’m going to both implode and explode all at once.
I keep thinking I should call Richard. I don’t want to bother him again, but the desire becomes so insistent that I can’t ignore it anymore. It’s late, but Rich is a night owl. I’m so frustrated I pull over and get out of the car. I punch in his number. He answers on the first ring.
“Nicky, hey.”
“Rich.”
“You okay, son? You sound upset.”
“I’m on my way to beat up Zora’s boyfriend and take her out of his apartment.”
“What are you talking about, Nicky?”
“I called Miles. Zora is over there. And they’re probably making mad, passionate love. I’m going to go get her.”
“Nicky, are you certain?”
“He said she was there.”
“Did you speak to her there?”
“He wouldn’t put her on the phone. Why would he let me talk to her when he’s making mad, passionate love to her?”
“Zora is not at her boyfriend’s house making mad, passionate love, Nicky. She’s at the Beloved Community.”
“What?”
“I talked to Linda fifteen minutes ago. Zora went home with Billie.”
“Richard, are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Could Billie maybe have taken her over to Miles’s?”
His laughter explodes into my ear. “Are you kidding? Billie Jordan?”
I have to laugh with him. What a clown I am. “She’s at The Beloved Community? And I’ve probably gotten her into a lot of trouble with her boyfriend.”
“Go home and go to bed. It’s after midnight.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to see her. I just need for her to look at me. That’s all. If she sees me, I’ll stay together, Rich.”
“You’ve got it bad, Nicky.”
“I need her.”
“I guess you’d better go see her then.”
I hang up the phone, say a prayer of thanksgiving, turn around, and head back to Detroit.
ZORA
After Father John and Billie’s impromptu lesson on hospitality, Billie pulls out a photo album and shows me pictures of her children. She and John have a whopping eight of them. They’re a house of hospitality unto themselves. Again, questions about entertaining strangers plague me.
“The Beloved Community is all our kids have ever known, baby. They’ve seen Christ in the stranger from the time they’ve seen me, and they’ve always shared all they had. Of course, as you can imagine, it’s hard on them when they get to be teenagers, and they want the trendy clothes. I had to get real creative about knowing what to look for in the donations, especially for my girls. But sweetie, it ain’t always easy when people give clothes that should be recycled into rags. We’re grateful for it. But it’s hard to explain to a teenager why she can’t have Baby Phat.”
“Baby Phat isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I had all those things, and I found out later they affected other people in my life—namely my best friend, MacKenzie—in ways I never dreamed of.”
“I’ll bet.”
“And you know, Billie, I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about that stuff. I know I can get it all back. This is just a taste of what disenfranchised people go through, but Mac was right. One call and this can all go away.”
“But you haven’t made that call. Why not, baby?”
“I don’t know. I’m not trying to play games. Trying to see how the other side lives. Not with people who have less money than we Hampton-Johnsons, and not with Nicky Parker. I don’t know what’s going on with me, quite frankly. All I know is that life as it was just seemed unbearable one day, and I walked out of my church. And then I came to your Bible study, and it’s been all upheaval ever since.”
“Sounds like God is moving.”
“I remember when I thought God moving felt good. It just feels scary now.”
“Baby, who said God was safe? We’ve got this warm fuzzy image of God in our heads, and don’t get me wrong, God is loving. But He’s also mystery. And He’s sovereign. Does exactly what He wants and isn’t real invested in explaining Himself.”
“I feel like I’m one big paradox.”
“The kingdom of heaven is full of paradoxes. To live you gotta die. To win you gotta lose. The last are gonna be first, and the first last. It goes on and on.”
“I always thought it would be easier. My dad’s preaching makes living a life of faith sound so easy. You say the right words and God gives you everything you need.”
“Is that how it’s worked out for you?”
“If it doesn’t work out you don’t have enough faith.”
“I guess that covers everything then.”
“Thanks for letting me come here, Billie.”
“Just like Jesus, you’re always welcome here, baby.”
“John is great.”
She nods, and for a moment she’s quiet. “Zora? I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I saw the look you had when you saw he was black. I just didn’t want to act like I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t think that would serve any of us. I couldn’t do anything toward reconciling with you by pretending it didn’t exist, and I’m glad I took that risk.”
“I’m glad too.”
We hear the doorbell ring. I look at Billie. She doesn’t move. “We let one of the men answer the door this late at night.”
“I see.”
John welcomes whatever stranger in. Voices are muffled, but I hear John say, “Can I help?”
And maybe … something, something, something.
John sounds surprised. “Zora?”
I startle at the sound of my name and bolt upward. “Someone is here for me?”
Billie stands. She looks all tough and ready to
brawl. “Did you tell anyone you were coming?”
“No. I don’t have a phone.”
“Well, who would know you’re here?” She doesn’t wait for my answer and goes charging out to the foyer with me on her heels.
“Nicky!” she says. “What are you doin—you came for Zora?” She puts her hand on her hip like she’s about to tell him off and then softens. That same hand goes over her heart. “Awwww. That’s sooooo romantic. Isn’t it romantic, baby?”
She calls me so many endearments I can’t tell if I’m baby or her husband is.
“It’s romantic,” John says, answering at least that question.
If I could just get my stomach from off my feet where it’s dropped. If only my heart would slow down a few thousand beats per minute so I can give Nicky a proper greeting.
The poor baby. He looks a hot mess. His face is a little more swollen now, and his eyes have such shameless misery in them my body moves on its own accord until I’m closer to him.
“Hey,” I say. It’s not poetry, but he accepts my greeting as if it were.
His eyes take me in as if I’m bread and he’s a starving man. He whispers, “Dreamy, hey.”
I can’t help myself. My fingers graze his red, swollen cheeks.
“What happened? You get hit again?”
“I wanted to look like that lawn jockey. The black skin part didn’t work out. But what do you think about the lips?”
“I think that’s a terrible joke.”
“It’s better than what really happened.”
“Who did this to you?”
“My dad. And I didn’t get to tell you my grandfather pulled a gun on me. I thought he was going to shoot me. I won’t even mention what he called me.”
He just stands there looking at me. I think I hear Billie say she and Father John will let the two of us have a few minutes alone, but I can’t say for sure that’s what she said. They leave us. I only know I can’t take my attention off of him. I have to work hard to find those model good looks in his face.
“Your lips don’t look as big as the lawn jockey’s. They’re not even like Angelina Jolie’s. This is nothing,” I say to make him feel better.
He doesn’t respond. Just whispers my name. “Zora?”
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