Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “What is it, Nicky?”

  “Can you still see me?”

  I gaze at him, confused. “What?”

  “Can you still see me, Dreamy?”

  What kind of foolish question … “Of course I can. I’m—” Suddenly, understanding dawns. It’s not a foolish question at all. It’s simply a strange one—a question a stranger, someone cut off from love, would ask.

  I take a deep breath. It’s like Nicky is tiny particles floating around in the air and I want to inhale him into myself. I feel if I could make him a part of me, I could keep him safe and loved inside of me. And happy.

  “I see you.”

  I stand very close to him. Lift up just a bit on my toes and put my forehead against his. His forehead meets mine and for a moment we stand like that. His breathing is labored.

  “Are you okay, Nicky?”

  “Do you ever feel like you’re going to implode and explode all at the same time? Or like maybe it’d be okay if your grandpa shot you?”

  “Is that what you’re feeling right now?”

  “I feel sick.”

  He doesn’t feel feverish. I put my hand in his hair. It’s soft and loosely wavy, conjuring images of me touching my mother’s auburn mane. I loved the silky texture of her hair and her almost-ripe peach skin, but I was never allowed to have a doll that looked like her. She looked too close to white. There was a study done about black and white dolls. And little black girls kept choosing the white dolls over the black ones. My parents didn’t think I’d love myself if I had white dolls. But I just liked my mother’s hair and skin. I just loved my mama. I felt guilty about that for a long time.

  All these strange ideas about race—these cut-off-from-love ideas. I didn’t want Nicky to spend one more moment feeling like a stranger anywhere in this world.

  “Welcome home.”

  Now he looks confused. “What did you say?”

  But I don’t repeat it. I put my arms around his neck. If he inclines his head, he can kiss me, but he doesn’t. I tell him again what he asked me to. “I see you, Nicky, and you are very beautiful to me. Your soul isn’t black like your poem says at all. It’s as bright as one of the stars in one of those constellations. Even brighter than that, Nicky. Your soul is like the sun because God made it that way.”

  “Where’ve you been all my life, Dreamy?”

  “I’ve been wandering around, a stranger just like you.”

  “I can’t cry anymore,” he says.

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  “Did I tell you I feel sick? I get sick when I feel this way.”

  “You told me. It’s okay, Nicky. I’ll help you.”

  “I told God I wouldn’t do anything bad to you. I just wanted to come so you could see me. I knew you’d be able to see me, and I’d be all right then.”

  “You were right, Nicky.”

  I don’t know where this boldness comes from. “Your lips are swollen.” And I put a little kiss on them.

  He blushes and laughs. “That hurts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I liked it though. You can do it again. But softer.”

  So I do. His shoulders slump. It’s like he collapses into me.

  “I got you in trouble with Miles. I called him. I thought you were with him, and I told him he doesn’t deserve you. I was going to go get you from his apartment. He’s probably mad at us.”

  My heart catches, but just for a moment. “You called Miles?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “You told him he didn’t deserve me?”

  “I told him he sucks.”

  I can only imagine how that’s going to ripple. He’s going to tell my father. “I’m going to be in trouble.”

  What does it matter? Can my father be any more disappointed in me? Nicky must read the concern on my face.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll just let him beat me up. My dad already gave him a head start.”

  That reminds me. “You have a black eye for real, now.” I plant a delicate kiss just under his swollen eye. I try to push the thought of my father out of my head. Didn’t my father marry a very fair-skinned woman? What could he say about this?

  Nicky pulls me closer to him. Oh, Lord, a flame flares up within me. He buries his head in my neck. And I can’t stand it. I don’t know what to do with myself.

  “You smell good,” he says. “Is smelling you bad? I told God …”

  “I don’t know what’s bad or good, Nicky.”

  “Me either.”

  I want to tell him that I want him, but this wanting is so very unfamiliar that I’m afraid of my own body. I simply tell him, “I think I need you.”

  He breathes into my neck. “Don’t tell me that.”

  “I can’t help it. I don’t know what else to do. What are we going to do, Nicky?”

  He pulls me flush against him. “I can’t do anything but this right now. It’s all I can figure out, and I’m confused about this.”

  We stand there for a long time holding each other, and in some ways we’re saying everything, though none of it in words. After a long time, he whispers, “I’m going to try to let you go now,” but he doesn’t. Not for several more minutes.

  Finally, Billie walks back into the room. She clears her throat. “Nicky, you’re welcome as a guest, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to see to it that Zora gets to bed now.”

  He releases me, though he seems reluctant. I want to kiss him so badly it hurts me.

  “Thank you, Zora.” He sounds so brave.

  “You’re welcome, soldier in the army of the Lord.”

  For that, he rewards me with a tiny smile from his sore mouth.

  Nicky seems to find his peace and gathers it about himself. He reaches out and touches my face, then with those long, beautiful fingers, sweeps my hair back with his hand. “I knew you’d get me in trouble,” he says.

  He leaves without saying good-bye at all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NICKY

  I go back to my apartment and can’t sleep at all. From my bed, I watch the pink-and-orange-sherbet perfection of the Monday sunrise and wish I could serve those colors on a golden spoon to Zora. The paradox of a happy lamentation creates a simple song in my soul.

  Because of the Lord’s great mercies we are not consumed, for His compassion never fails. They are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.

  Somehow I lived through the night. The image of my grandfather pulling the gun on me flashes in my mind, and with that sunrise and new mercy, I whisper “Thank You, Jesus” for my life. Last night, I dreamed I was with Zora. I’d gone to her, and in those blissful moments of unconsciousness not only did she see me, she held me. She kissed me. My grandfather and his gun were not there. My father was not there. My mother was not there. Rebecca was not there. Prejudice was not there.

  I take a deep breath. I know it wasn’t a dream because I can still feel her waist in the circle of my arms. Her scent still fills me. Her hair, that intoxicating blend of textures, soft spun wool and silk all together, still lingers beneath my fingertips.

  I’ve barely slept at all, because most of my thoughts have been dreams of her, but those flights of imagination are soul fuel, energizing me. I take a look at my watch. I can go into work early. I hear my cell phone ring. I hope against hope it’s Zora, flip it open, but the caller ID says it’s Linda calling from home.

  “Good morning, Nicky.”

  “Oh, hi, Linda.”

  “Well, thanks for your enthusiasm.”

  “No offense. I thought you were someone else.”

  “I’m sure Zora is sleeping right now.”

  “How did you …?” I don’t even know why I bother. Linda just knows things. Our little Bible study is just like a family in the worst way. We’re in each other’s business like crazy. “I didn’t do anything wrong, other than make a late visit.”

  “I didn’t say you did anything wrong.” But she adds, “Except make a late visit.�
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  “I was desperate.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Why are you calling, Linda? I’m on my way to work. You can interrogate me then.”

  “I’m calling to save you the trip,” Linda says. “As romantic and heroic as you were last night, Billie said you looked like the Elephant Man. Are you okay?”

  “I just have some swelling and bruises. I’m better now.”

  “I’m not talking about your bruises, Nicky. She said you were very unlike your usual self.”

  “Well, it was a very unusual day.”

  “Take the day off, Nicky. Regroup.”

  “I’m fine, Linda. I missed work on Friday.”

  “Consider it a long weekend.”

  “But Linda—”

  “Nicky, your physical wounds are small, but your psychological and spiritual wounds are massive. Don’t make light of this. I’m also calling for an emergency Bible study and prayer meeting tonight. We’re going to take these matters to God together. All five of us.”

  “Okay, Linda.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you at my house at seven.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s there too.”

  “You just ensured that I’ll be there.”

  “That’s good to know. Seek God today.”

  “I will.”

  “And call me if you need anything.”

  “I will, Linda.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I love you. You’re my little brother.”

  And this actually makes me feel like some tears are going to come. “Hey, cut it out. Are you trying to make me go all mushy?”

  “Have a nice day, Nicky.”

  “I love you, too, Linda.”

  We hang up, and I tell myself that—even if only for this woman who loves me despite myself and refuses to give up on me—I’m going to be a good boy today. That’s what I tell myself. And I believe it.

  ZORA

  Monday morning, Fred Hammond wakes me up. Not the real Fred. No, in real life, Billie’s little girl wakes me up because she’s sitting on the bunk bed telling her sisters how pretty I am, but even before I knew they were there and before I could hear their voices, Fred sang in my soul.

  I know it might be tough to get yo’ praise on Devil been messing with you all week long If you don’t have a reason to praise Him let me give you one He gave you a brand new mercy With the rising of the sun, say….

  Oh, yes, my brotha, I’m ready for my blessing. I’m ready for my miracle. And even though this song makes me miss LLCC fiercely, especially MacKenzie, I decide I’ve got to get up out of bed and see what life holds for today. Nicky came back to me last night. He kept fighting for me. I think of the contrast between him and Miles. When I needed protection, Miles protected me in the way he thought was best for me. And Nicky protected me in the way I thought was best for me.

  Which was better? Honestly, I don’t know, but someone acting in a manner that made sense to me, at least one that I can understand. Someone who didn’t think I was cursed and “uncovered.” I feel like Nicky gave me a little more to work with.

  But what will Miles be up to today? Because surely he and The Bishop will confer.

  I open my eyes. Three striking golden children stare at me. I’d gone to a conference at Spelman about being biracial in America, and one of the speakers said she called herself a “golden” person. I thought that was the dumbest thing I ever heard. I went home and made a running comedy monologue out of the poor woman’s thesis.

  My mother is a “golden” person whose white mother would have nothing to do with her. My father made sure we were spared the nonsense of such romantic thinking and drilled our mother’s blackness—despite her mostly white looks—into us from the beginning of our preschool confusion about race. But looking at Billie and John’s children, with their heads of wild blond or brown manes, their pairs of blue, hazel, and brown eyes, I see a room full of golden kids. Gorgeous kids. Not that I think all biracial children are gorgeous—and I know some people who do. God help us, but these kids really are as good-looking as their parents.

  She looks like she’s five or six. She smiles. “Hi, Miss Zora.”

  “Hi, pumpkin. What’s your name?”

  Her brown eyes light up. “Monica.” Her golden skin has warm red and peach tones just like my mama, and she’s chubby and round like a little peach, too. She’s going to have her father’s solid build. She’s got his dark hair and eyes. Her springy sable hair is standing straight up on her head.

  “You got a comb, kiddo?”

  “Uh huh.” She jumps off the bed and goes scavenging for a comb.

  The other is seven or eight. Her coppery hair is a finer, wavier texture than Monica’s. And she’s got the psychedelic hazel eyes that seem to change colors every moment. She seems quiet and reserved. I sit up on my elbow. “Hi there.”

  “Hi.” Her eyes look cast down.

  “What’s your name, pretty girl?”

  “Clare.”

  “Monica and Clare. Those are pretty names.” I point to another one of Billie and John’s doll babies. “And what’s your name?”

  “Frances.” She favors Monica very much.

  Their older sister has a mess of blonde Afro curls. She’s got Billie’s wiry body and face. She’s about sixteen. “They’re saint names,” she says. “We all got saint names. It’s an Orthodox thing.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Perpetua. My mom calls me Pet.”

  “You’re going to need therapy for that, aren’t you?”

  She throws back her head and laughs, very Billie-like. “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Nice to meet you, Perpetua.”

  “Nice to meet you, too. At least a cool story goes with my name,” she says.

  Clare and Frances protest, with Clare loudly proclaiming, “We got cool saint stories for our names too.”

  “Everybody knows Saint Francis and Clare of Assisi lame-o,” she says.

  I realize then that all preachers’ kids the world over are alike. Little Saint Monica returns with the wrong kind of comb. “I need a big comb. Do you have a wide-tooth comb?”

  She looks bewildered. I look to Perpetua for help.

  “Don’t look at me. Our mom is white. We’ve been looking like this all of our life.”

  I don’t mean to, but I can’t help but laugh. “I sympathize. My mom has the straight hair. If she didn’t send me and my sister Zoe out to get our hair done, we’d have been nappy, but not happy.”

  Perpetua sighs. “I feel you.”

  “Is there a store around here? My African roots are definitely showing. If I don’t get an afro comb and soon, I’m going to be sporting a ’fro whether or not I want to.”

  “I think you’d look cute in a ’fro. I like my ’fro most days. But sometimes I wish I knew how to do more with my hair. We get a lot of visitors, but not a lot of people stick around long enough for me to really get the trick of doing my hair.”

  “I’ll show you some things.”

  “Really? Are you planning on staying awhile?”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be in this house, but I can definitely guarantee that your mom won’t be getting rid of me too soon. I think I’m falling in love with the Beloved Community.”

  Perpetua gives me a wide smile. “That’s good news.”

  “Amen,” I say.

  The girls are all dressed, so I get myself together, and when I get back into the bedroom Perpetua is waiting for me.

  She gets up from her bunk bed and takes me by the hand. Her kind gesture startles me, just as it did when Billie held on to my hand as she introduced me to John. Perpetua and I walk with our hands joined into the kitchen, and I remember being a little girl and holding hands like this with Mac. And it makes me want to talk to her.

  We get into the kitchen, and Billie is cleaning up a mountain of dishes.

  “Let me help you,” I say.

  “Not a chance, baby.” She m
akes kissy lips, and I go to her for a kiss on my cheek and a hug she doesn’t use her sudsy hands to give me.

  “How did you sleep?”

  I sigh. “Impossibly.”

  “I bet.”

  Pepetua lets out a big sigh. “You are soooooo lucky. Nicky is totally gorgeous.”

  I shoot a look at her and then Billie.

  Billie shrugs. “Well, she’s sixteen. And come on, there hasn’t been much excitement in this particular house in months. Not since this woman named Tina stayed here and her boyfriend came here trying to shoot everything.”

  “He was shooting at people? A crazy man with a gun just came in shooting?”

  “No, he was an idiot with an air gun and those plastic pellets. He didn’t shoot anybody. He shot stuff. A lamp. A big stuffed bear. Stuffy sustained multiple gunshot wounds. I didn’t appreciate that. John won that bear for Monica at Cedar Point when she was three. She loved that bear, and she was traumatized when he got shot.”

  I laugh because Billie is salty about the bear getting shot.

  She must realize how she sounds. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “So you saw him, huh, Perpetua?”

  “You can call me Pet, Zora. It’s not that bad. And I’ve seen him before. He dropped off some donations from his church. He’s way hot.”

  “Okay, not hot,” Billie says. “You can call him a lot of things, but not hot.”

  “Maaaaaaoohhhhhm.”

  “Men can be a lot of things, but never, ever hot. Not until you’re married. And only your husband can be hot. So make sure you marry a hot guy.”

  “Well, how can I marry a hot guy if I can’t think any of them are hot before I marry one?”

  “It’s a paradox, sweetie.” She looks to me. “So you didn’t sleep thinking about your true love?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I saw the two of you. If I’ve ever seen two people in love.… He wanted to know if you could see him.”

  Perpetua starts piling food on a plate for me. “Do you love him?”

  I go quiet. I think Billie is going to answer for me, but she doesn’t. Perpetua doesn’t push me. Instead she puts a plate of eggs, grits, fresh fruit, and toast in front of me. She pours me a glass of orange juice.