Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

by Claudia Mair Burney

  The cabdriver slides inside the cab. He takes a look back at me.

  “You all right, little sistah?”

  “Yes,” I lie. Then, “No.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  I rattle off my address. He leaves me be with a warning. “Buckle up. Wouldn’t want you in harm’s way.”

  I laugh.

  I’m already in harm’s way.

  It wasn’t supposed to be Nicky. Miles was supposed to give me my first kiss. Maybe when he asked me to marry him. Or at the altar when he kissed the bride. And even if for some miracle or accident it was Nicky, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. Not that nightmare. Not that mess.

  Oh, God. I think I’m going to die right here in this cab.

  Everything has fallen apart. Nicky Parker gave me my first kiss right after his grandfather called me a nigger. And why would he do that? To shut me up? I don’t even know. And the worst part? As much as it infuriated me, I took it in like a life force, let it energize and awaken me.

  Oh, God. I’m disgusting. I’m like Sally Hemmings. Next thing I know I’m going to have a bunch of little tragic mulattos Nicky Parker doesn’t claim. I’ve got to fix this. Fix me. Everything has fallen apart, and I’ve got to get the feel, the scent, the taste of that white boy off me.

  I run my shaking hands through my hair. “God, I’m not gonna make it. I’m losing way too much here.”

  “You’ll make it,” the incarnational cabdriver says. I take it. Sometimes all you need is a little gift from God.

  “Thank you, brotha.” I make sure I say “brotha” because I need to sound—to feel—as black and proud as possible.

  “You’re welcome, little sis. Was that your boyfriend?”

  A hollow, empty sound, rises from my throat.

  “Sure did look like it,” he says. “That was some kiss.”

  “That, my brotha, is an understatement.” I shake my head. “He’s not supposed to be my boyfriend. He’s supposed to belong to the white girl that was behind us. My boyfriend, in the words of the guy I was kissing, sucks. But my father took all my stuff, and my boyfriend went with my father. And Nicky—that’s the one I was kissing—he started giving me my stuff back—but not the stuff I lost. He started giving me the stuff nobody took. The stuff I had to give away myself, but I didn’t know it.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “You were kissing him like you meant business.”

  “At the time I did.”

  “Which one of them do you love?”

  “Love? How should I know? What do I know about anything? I asked Jesus to teach me what He meant by ‘blessed are the poor,’ and then my daddy took all my stuff. And then these white people came along. White people! And I don’t do white people. At least I didn’t think I did. And that one I was kissing? He’s a real cutie, and a good kisser. And I want to kiss him again. In fact, I could spend a good long time kissing him, but I don’t go with his lifestyle, if you know what I mean. So don’t go asking me anything about love. Not at this moment. Cause, like Tina said, ‘What’s love got to do with it?’”

  The cabdriver didn’t say anything else to me. I sat back, my spine bumping softly against the seat, flushed and aching, reliving my kiss with Nicky all the way home, and wishing he hadn’t opened something terrible in me. Something unthinkable.

  Desire.

  I wanted—no needed—more of him.

  NICKY

  My father gives me “the look,” full of disapproval and recrimination. With a sideways glance of his eyes, he tells me that before I even begin to deal with him and my mother, he wants me to talk with Rebecca. On this, I actually agree with him. And if she wants to beat me like Zora did, I deserve it.

  I wish she were angry. She should be angry, and maybe she is, but all I can see on her face is how much I’ve hurt her. I’ve been a coward since our first date when I realized she’d bore me numb, and if I’d have just owned up to it then, I’d have spared her this senseless pain.

  Man. I suck.

  Her blue eyes—beautiful blue eyes—are full of her readiness to forgive me my trespasses. I take a few tentative steps toward her. She ought to slap a back molar loose on me, but she doesn’t. She makes a very simple statement.

  “You told me you loved me.”

  I don’t speak.

  “Do you love me? Because your dad said sometimes guys do things, and they don’t mean—” Her voice breaks.

  I don’t know how to comfort her because I don’t love her the way she wants me to. All I can do is offer her the truth, something I didn’t do from the beginning.

  “It’s not like that, Rebecca. It’s not some thing I’m doing.”

  “Are you just friends with her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what we are.”

  She takes a deep breath and asks what I know she doesn’t really want to hear the answer to. “Do you love her? Is it her? Is she the one, Nicholas?”

  I can’t bring myself to say the words to Rebecca that we both know are true. If I say I love her, it will hurt Rebecca more than saying I love someone should hurt anybody. I just say, “It’s her.”

  She nods slowly, and a tear slides down her cheek. I wish I could wipe it away, but I don’t think I should.

  “How long has this been going on? You’ve been taking her to restaurants. Buying her things. Going to her apartment.”

  “Honest to God, Rebecca, I met her Wednesday. It hasn’t been a week. I know that sounds crazy, but—”

  “But it’s her. You know that in less than a week?”

  “Yeah. I think I do.”

  She lets out the most pathetic little laugh—a heartbreaker of a laugh. “Any chance you could be wrong?”

  “You deserve better than me. Don’t waste another minute with me.”

  “Nicholas, I love you. I want you to be sure about this.”

  This time I take a risk and grab Rebecca’s hand. “I’d say I’m sure, but I’m not. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m the biggest screw-up around. I’m not going to be what you want, and if you really took a good look, you’d see it. You need a man like my father, and that’s not me. Rebecca, I don’t really like pot roast that much.”

  She laughs. “I don’t have to make pot roast, Nicholas. I can cook chicken. And I can call you Nicky.”

  “You don’t say Nicky the way she does.”

  For a moment she’s quiet. Then, “I’m really going to miss you.”

  “You’re a really amazing person, Rebecca. Don’t give me another minute of your time.”

  “Is she worth it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can tell by how she fought for you.” She pulls her hand out of mine. “Try to be happy.”

  “I will. You too.”

  She nods. “I’ll try, but I don’t think I will be for a while.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rebecca.”

  I could have left then, but my keys were in my jacket in the house. I was tempted to walk home, like Zora wanted to, but Detroit is a bit of a ways from Ypsilanti. I trudge behind Rebecca, trying hard to surrender to my fate.

  A million thoughts and feelings compete for my attention, but I want to stop and dwell on the feel of Zora. And dear God in heaven, I felt. Too much. More than I’ve allowed myself to feel in the past three years.

  Now what am I going to do?

  If only I were so smart. But no. I go inside my parents’ house to face the abuse I know is coming.

  My mother is God only knows where. Maybe sewing what I’ll wear in my casket once Dad kills me. Maybe she’s weeping into tomorrow’s pot roast. Or maybe she’s somewhere trying to figure out why I broke her heart this way.

  I go into the living room, and there’s my dad and grandfather. Their sober expressions tell me to sit down. It’s the look I got when I said I wanted to go to Berkeley. The look I got when I said I got a girl from youth group pregnant. The look they seared into me, not much later, when she
had an abortion I didn’t want her to have.

  I sit down, my own expression, third-generation Parker, equally grim. “You shouldn’t have said that, Grandpa.”

  “That gal had no right coming in here talking all uppity.”

  “She was only defending me. Something nobody else around here does.”

  “Nigger doesn’t know her place.”

  “Grandpa! You’ve stretched my patience today. I’m going to ask you not to call her that.”

  He stands up. Raises his hand to me. “Boy, just because you got yourself a taste of black tail—”

  Now it’s time for me to stand, and when I do, something in me—something I need, some restraining force—snaps, and I snatch my grandfather’s collar. He doesn’t expect this—this sudden surge of violence, and neither do I. I see the fear in his eyes, and I like it. I hope he sees the anger in mine.

  “Listen, you filthy old—”

  My father grabs me, pulls me away from the old man, but I lunge at him. I want to fight him, and neither of them are a match for me.

  “Nicholas, have you gone insane?” Dad yells.

  I have. I want to snap my grandpa’s bony neck.

  I start yelling back. “You don’t know her. You don’t know anything about her. She’s not a piece of tail. She’s more than any of you can begin to think. I’m more.”

  “Calm down, Nick,” my father says.

  “Crazy nigger lover,” my grandfather says.

  And I go after him again. I’m a lot stronger than my father. And just to slow me down, my father sucker punches me. It wasn’t bad, either! Before the end of the day I’m going to have to go to the emergency room.

  I hear my mother scream.

  “Call the police, Anne,” Dad says.

  “I can’t call the police on my child.”

  That’s when my grandfather does what he does. He gets his gun. My grandpa is an expert marksman. He points it at me, right at my head, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kill me. I can’t say that I’m not scared. But I’m more than a little relieved. Part of me wants to go.

  Mom is losing her mind. She’s screaming and crying like crazy, and the only thing that keeps me from tearing the house down until he shoots me dead is her tears and the thought that she doesn’t want to see me lying dead on her parquet floors.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  And for the first time in a long time, in forever, I hear her call my name through her sobs. “Nicky.” She reaches her hands toward me, and I want to go to her, but if I do, I’ll cry with her. I realize Grandpa isn’t going to kill me. I’d be dead if he was.

  If I go to my mom those men will mock me until the day they die.

  I do what I have to do. I get out of there like hell on wheels before my grandpa and my dad see me cry.

  ZORA

  The cab drops me off, and when I step up to the entrance, I see Miles getting out of his BMW. I have no idea what he’s doing here, and in true Miles fashion, he makes it to my house with absolutely nothing but Miles.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Where have you been in a cab?”

  “I went to church. And to dinner.”

  We walk up the stairs to my apartment, and I let us in the door with the key I got the super to charge to next month’s rent.

  “What church did you go to?”

  “One where they don’t think I’m a witch.” They think I’m a nigger and a whore. But who’s keeping track?

  Oh, man. Stop it, Zora.

  “Come on, Z. We love you at LLCC.”

  “Yeah. I’m overwhelmed with it.”

  “We’re all praying for you. We just don’t want you in rebellion. That’s the sin of witchcraft. Don’t you understand that, baby? I want to protect you, and I can’t do that if I’m aiding and abetting the problem.”

  “What do you want, Miles?”

  “I’m here because Pamela called me. She said you were walking the streets at night.”

  “Yeah, Miles. I’m a two dollar hooker now, trying to earn money to buy stuff again.”

  I lock the door even though there’s no reason to, and for lack of anything else sit on the floor. Again.

  “Pam said you needed to go to the store. I came to talk to you. Call your father, Zora. This is crazy. You can’t be out walking around at night.”

  “I wanted to do something to my hair. You may have noticed I don’t have a car to jump in and go to the beauty supply store. You may have noticed I don’t have much of anything, except for what a few kind souls, including Ms. Pamela, have been good enough to share.”

  “You have a Lexus.”

  “Apparently I don’t. He has a Lexus.”

  “Do you want to go to the store?”

  “So you can aid and abet my sinful lifestyle? I don’t want you to dirty your hands on the witch, Miles.”

  He sits down on the floor with me. “I wish I knew what to do for you. I feel like I’m stuck in the middle of this. I love you, Zora. I just want to hold you and make all of this go away.”

  I shoot a look at him. He almost looks sincere.

  “Will you let me hold you, Zora?”

  “Sorry. I’m not feeling the love, Miles.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not there. Come here. You’ve got to be so tired.”

  He’s right. Nicky’s right. I’m exhausted.

  And Miles says he wants to make all of this go away. It’s beginning to sound like a good offer. He reminds me of my daddy in the good way sometimes. I miss my daddy. I want a strong man to hold me. I do.

  Something inside of me says yes. Make all of this go away.

  “I’m so confused, Miles.”

  He reaches out and strokes my hair. “Don’t confess that, baby. God isn’t the author of confusion. You have to speak life into this situation.”

  And he’s off. The moment seemed so hopeful. Does anybody challenge this stuff at LLCC?

  “But I am confused, Miles. My faith is raggedy at best. If God doesn’t know that, I need a new heavenly Father.” A new earthly one sounds good, too.

  “Zora, baby, that’s not right to say.”

  “Why is that wrong? God already knows I’m confused, so I really don’t need another one, Miles. And I don’t feel right. Everything is wrong. If I’ve got anybody’s sympathy, it’s God’s.”

  He reaches for my hand, but I don’t want it. I want Nicky’s hand. Nicky would say, “Me too” instead of “That’s not right.” And I’m angry at myself for wanting Nicky’s lily-white hand instead of Miles’s.

  I should want Miles. Miles is black and beautiful. Miles’s grandfather is not going to call me an uppity nigger. Miles is a dreamboat. Miles is the fantasy of every single woman at my church—and a few married ones. I’m blessed to have him. And he’s still here. He’s mine despite the craziness of our situation.

  Just try with him, Zora. Maybe count this all as a really bad day.

  “Miles. Did you know when you first came to LLCC, all us ladies had a crush on you?”

  He chuckles. “I knew a few of you were interested.”

  “I was.”

  “You didn’t let on.”

  “Mac knew.”

  “She never told me.”

  “She’s my best friend. Why haven’t you kissed me?”

  He lets out a big, boisterous laugh. “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “For real, Zora?”

  “Yes, tell me.”

  “Your father threatened everyone in youth group with bodily harm about you.”

  “You mean he really did that?”

  “Baby, he told us …” He shudders. “Let’s just say, you will not be kissed by an LLCC man who fears God.”

  “That’s too bad. Because I need my man to kiss me right now.”

  Miles looks around like somebody is in my apartment taping us so this conversation will get back to Daddy and ruin his future. He actually looks conflicted. Almost tempted.

&n
bsp; “I’d like to kiss you, baby.”

  The memory of Nicky’s kiss assaults me once again. I can’t stand it. I’m not sure about this, but I say it. “Maybe you should.”

  No. Please don’t. I don’t really want that.

  But maybe if he kisses me I’ll stop thinking about Nicky’s kiss. Maybe I can go on with my life and everything will be all right, eventually.

  Oh, man. I’ve started something.

  Miles leans over and cradles my face in his hand. I close my eyes and feel his lips touch mine.

  This is awful.

  I want it to be like it was with Nicky. I want to feel the anger and outrage and passion. I want to feel the fire of it. But there’s no fire.

  There’s nothing but want of Nicky, Nicky, Nicky. Tears spring to my eyes.

  God, this is so not fair.

  I push Miles away, gently, but it’s unmistakably a push away from me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want The Bishop to hurt you.”

  “I’m not going to worry about that now. Come here.” He takes me back into his arms and finds my mouth again. This is terrible. It’s too! Too much. Too wet. Too smushy. Too horrid. And he doesn’t taste good.

  Okay, how do I get off this ride? I don’t really want to hurt his feelings since I started the conversation that got this going, but this isn’t working out for me.

  I try to talk myself into it as he jams his tongue down my throat. Ewwwww! This is really, really awful.

  But maybe this bad feeling is better than all that good Nicky feeling. Maybe I should just roll with this.

  So, I do. We kiss and kiss and kiss until I’m nauseated. I think maybe he’s getting sick from it too, because he asks me to lie down.

  “Lie down? Why?”

  “I want to make you feel good.”

  That’d be an upgrade from how the kissing is making me feel.

  “I want to feel good.”

  I should be kissing Nicky.

  I feel unbearably sad in Miles’s arms. My tears flow. Miles wipes them away, but I’m afraid they won’t stop. Being around Nicky has opened a well of grief that’s always been there. Then again, maybe it wasn’t Nicky opening it at all. Maybe it was just time for all the cracks and fissures in the walls holding me together to shatter and for me to break open and let all that misery inside of me out. Right now.