“I would have recommended you shooting me, anyway. It’s less personal than stabbing. You don’t want to get close or personal with me, do you?”
I hand him a can. He takes it reluctantly. “No sparring, Nicky. You can talk about horses though. Or cowboy stuff.”
“Guns are cowboy stuff.”
“No guns.”
“Are you going to be controlling when we grow up?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I hate making decisions,” he says after he puts the can to his mouth. I put mine to my ear. “Hello, Dreamy.”
It doesn’t sound good. He notices I’m not thrilled by the sound quality.
“Why don’t you pull out your blackberry and text message me, princess?”
“Do you have a Blackberry, Nicky?”
“No.”
“Then shut up.”’
“Do you?”
I don’t answer him.
He says, and not into his can, “You have one, don’t you? You have every freakin’ thing.”
I don’t say into my can, “That doesn’t mean I’m not lonely, cowboy. Just like you. Despite what I have, I can see you’re lonely, and here I am. I’m the one trying to talk to you through a stupid can.”
I take my can and throw it across the room. His sails along with it.
He doesn’t look upset. He looks delighted. “Hey, Dreamy. Are black women in general violent, or is this unique to you?”
“It’s just me, and only when I’m with you, Nicky.”
“So I make you a she-beast?”
“In more ways than one.”
“I wrote you a poem, she-beast.”
“I don’t care.”
“Come and read it anyway.”
“I don’t want to read your poem.”
“Please read it, Dreamy. It’s a love poem.”
The dreamy way he calls me Dreamy, the lulling timbre of his voice when it’s full of sweetness and play, his words, they all conspire to tame the wild thing he rouses inside of me. I remember why I love him.
I think maybe we’ll make it.
NICKY
We sit on the futon together, Zora curled into me. I ask her to go for a walk with me, mostly because Zora is curled into me and we’ll be safe this way for another two seconds or so.
It’s going to rain. We’ve had so much good weather, and now, finally, the heavenly mood seems to have shifted. The sky looks angry, and though clouds haven’t spilled their furious waters, the cold moisture in the air is enough to dampen the bones.
I give her one of my jackets and the sight of her in it makes her look more womanish to me. We walk around my building, talking about living at The Beloved Community while I get a better job and she can go to the Center for Creative Studies. CCS is my idea. She hadn’t even thought to dream of anything so big. We talk about how we can make a life that’s perfect for us.
Despite the ease of our conversation, each step I take feels like a funeral march to the end of our relationship because I’ve got the princess in the heart of Cass Corridor with its worn brown buildings sidled next to ruins. We’re in the cultural center, but not the bright and shiny part that houses the museum and the art school she’s dreaming of. We’re where I’ll worry about her getting mugged, raped, or hounded by crackheads.
I try to beat back my thoughts with the hope of love and the God who’s bigger than my fear.
I tell her I’m called to be a pastor, but I don’t know how that’s going to work now. I tell Zora I want to be a writer, mostly, but sometimes I want to be the guy that does it better than my dad. She just says God told her once she’d marry a pastor, and she didn’t believe Him. I said we’ll follow God and figure it out. I’m so in love I don’t know if I can be any happier. I didn’t think what I feel was possible a week ago.
Her hand in mine. Her beautiful hand, dark and lovely, intertwined in mine. I look at the stark contrast of us as we walk along. Black and white. But it doesn’t seem so much with all this love I feel. It’s just some color. I won’t let anything come between us, even though I’m scared. We’ll make it somehow. I’ll take care of her. If I can get through my fear and be willing to stick with this for real, a little color and a whole lot of life isn’t going to get the best of us.
I hear voices, “brotha” voices behind us, directed at Zora because no one would mistake me for a “sistah.”
“Wassup, sistah? What you doin’ wit da white boy, girl?”
Another one. “He ain’t got nuthin’. Baby, come on over here. Let me give you some Mandingo love.”
Zora, this woman I plan to marry, without breaking stride, or looking back, pulls her hand out of mine.
I’m stunned. I can’t look at her. I feel this aching void along with the chill where her hand was. I thrust both hands into the pockets of my jacket. I won’t give her another opportunity to hold them. Not again.
Our hecklers like what she did. Start cheering for her, though she doesn’t give them anything else. They follow us for another block, talking trash. Asking for her phone number, until one of them says something lewd.
I turn around.
He rises to the challenge. Tall as me. Dark, like Zora. Has a diamond stud in one ear. Bald head. “What you gon’ do, white boy?”
“I’ll show you, black boy.”
His friend walks up on me. This one shorter. Heavy, fair-skinned, and boyish looking, but his eyes are as black and hard as flint. “You call him boy? Huh, honky? We got yo’ boy.”
I ready my fist. The two of them can take me, but I’m going to give them a hard time of it. That’s when Zora lets out a scream like we’ve been plunged into a scary movie and she is the person about to get the ax across the head.
She scares all of us. The “brothas” back up. Look at each other. One says, “Man, that sistah is crazy.”
His friend says, “She into white boys, anyway.” Just turns and walks away. One calls her a foul name. I lunge at him, but she grabs me. They don’t even get to see my burst of chivalry.
But I yank away from her grasp. “Don’t touch me now, Zora.”
“You shouldn’t have called him ‘boy,’ Nicky.”
“Why not? He called me a boy. I just called him the same thing.”
“You didn’t call him the same thing. You called him a lot less. You’ve got four hundred years of history behind what you said. You stripped him of his manhood. He was a lot less than a boy to you. You’re a white man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you hear what he called you?”
“I heard him, Nicky. It’s not the same. You’ll never understand.”
“I understand you pulling your hand out of mine. I understand you’ll always feel your solidarity is with him. The brotha. Not me, the white man.”
“I just didn’t want them to give you any trouble.”
“You’re the one who didn’t want the trouble.”
“That’s not true, Nicky. I mean it is, but what’s wrong with not wanting any trouble?”
“You were ashamed of me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. You pulled your hand away because you wanted to distance yourself, way too late might I add, from me. You didn’t want brotha man and his friend to know you love a white boy.”
She doesn’t bother to deny it this time. It spares me having to flat out call her a liar.
“You’re a racist, Zora. You and your calling me ‘white boy’ and being ashamed of letting the outside world hear you listening to my ‘white boy’ music in your car. You and your stereotypes. You want all of America to be the big bad racist, but what about you?”
I stride ahead, spittin’ mad. I don’t worry about her keeping up. Not with those long legs of hers. Of course she catches me. Tries to link her arm in mine.
“Don’t touch me, Zora. Keep your racist hands off of me.”
Her anger comes down with the rain. Words pour out of her like droplets from the sky.
“What about y
ou? What about your racism, Nicky? You think because you’re funny and charming it’s not there? Or that I don’t see it? You think because you kiss me, or even love me, you’re not infected with the disease we’re all infected with. You’re a racist. I’m a racist. We were born with it because we were born here. The soil is seeped in the blood of its African and Native American ancestors. This is a sick land full of sick people who don’t remember how sick they are. Well, sometimes I remember, and that’s why I pulled my hand away. I didn’t want to hurt them. I didn’t want to hurt. I didn’t want you to hurt, or be hurt—”
“I don’t want to marry you, Zora.”
“Wait a minute, Nicky.”
“It’s over, Zora. This is way too heavy. I’m just one white boy, as you’re so fond of reminding me. I can’t change America. I can’t change my family or yours. How long are we going to have to fight racism? And I’m not even sure you want to fight if you’re more concerned about two thugs who walk up on us than you are me.”
“Nicky, I’m sorry.”
The rain pounds us, which only angers me more, triggering the memory of something I saw on television.
“Do you think I smell like a wet dog?”
For a moment she looks confused. “What?”
“I said, do you think I smell like a wet dog?”
She’s not confused anymore. Her words ask a question but her hooded eyes reveal her shame. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, Zora?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Do I?”
“Who told you that, Nicky?”
“I saw a comedian talking about it on Comic View. He said black people think white people smell like wet dogs, and nobody in that mostly black audience was surprised. And I thought that was the meanest thing. I want to know since we’re laying it out there if that’s what you think.”
“Can we just go back to your apartment? It’s raining hard now.”
“Answer me.”
She doesn’t even sound angry. More resigned. “No. You don’t smell like a wet dog, Nicky. And white people didn’t have to drain their pools when one of us got in. And they don’t have to spray their lawn furniture with Lysol, like a neighbor did when she realized my fair-skinned sister was black when I came to pick her up. We needed our wet dog thing because white people had so many things like that. And it’s ugly. And mean. And it’s sin. And I’m sorry. You don’t smell like a wet dog. You smell like a wet man because we’re standing here getting soaked.”
She tries to touch me again.
“Don’t.”
“Nicky. Let’s get out of this rain. I said I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. I don’t need this. I don’t want this, Zora. I can’t do it.”
“No, what you needed—what you wanted, was an excuse. This is you running away. Just like you ran off to Berkeley to run away from your father. I’m glad I could be your excuse before you had to run off to Paris to write or something. That would have been pretty expensive. And we both know you don’t have that kind of money, which you seem to enjoy reminding me of.”
And that was that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ZORA
Sopping wet, I drive back to my apartment, and I realize I’m homeless. All my stuff is back, and none of it is mine. I know Daddy won’t take it again. Mama will see to that, but I feel separated from love. I’m a stranger here. My name is on the lease, but I can’t possibly live in the truest sense of the word here.
I get showered, warm and dry, and call Billie. I tell her I’ve got a lot of clothes and furniture to donate. I decide to do what I told my mother I would, only I’ll do it without Nicky.
In the morning, with the new mercy God gives with the rising of the sun, I will become a servant for the first time. I will give my whole life away.
Tonight, I will cry out all the tears I’ve got inside of me.
The buzzer rings. With all my heart I pray it’s Nicky, but his truck is still in my parking lot. I doubt he could get to me so fast.
It’s not him. It’s Miles.
I buzz him in.
He comes to me, and in his hands he’s got a bag of groceries he doesn’t know will go to the poor and needy, distributed through the Beloved Community.
I take the groceries and tell him to have a seat. He looks like he’s been run through an old-fashioned washing machine wringer. His slick veneer is gone.
“What’s going on, Miles?”
“I’ve been talking to your father.”
“Have you.”
“He told me you talked to him about what happened. And I’ve been thinking.”
“I don’t know if you should think, Miles. It might be dangerous.”
“That’s not funny, Zora.”
“You’re right. It sounds suspiciously like someone else I know. I apologize. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about what that white lady with the dreads was saying when I came here with that stuff. And your father. And how I just let happen what I’ve been doing in my head for a long time. I mean, what good is all this positive confession if you really aren’t thinking positive thoughts?”
“I agree.”
“Will you forgive me?”
I don’t want to. I don’t like Miles very much, but I haven’t been the most likeable creature God ever made lately, either. “I forgive you, Miles. Forgive me. I sincerely mean that. I’ve been pretty awful, too.”
“I don’t want to rush into anything if you’re not ready. I just want things to go back to how they were.”
I reach over and touch his hand. Just briefly. I don’t want to stir him up and have to give him a beat-down. If I slapped the man I’m in love with today, I’m liable to put a real hurt on Miles.
“Miles, forgiving each other doesn’t mean we’re going back together.”
“Are you serious? You can’t tell me you want that white boy?”
“Can you describe people using adjectives besides white?”
“Zora, he’s—”
“Miles, I don’t care what he is or isn’t at the moment. That has nothing to do with this. You’re not the man for me, Miles. But there are dozens of women at LLCC plotting to get you as soon as they think ‘ding dong the witch is dead.’”
Just like that, Miles slips back into his smooth, cold bishop-to-be suit. He gives me the full length of his veneer smile.
“You’ll be back.”
“Keep on confessing that, Miles. I’ll see you out.”
And praise the Lord, I did, with nary a hitch.
NICKY
I lasted three weeks.
I thought the first one would be the hardest. That was the tearful one that made me feel like a girly man. That Tuesday I didn’t answer my phone, not even when Linda called repeatedly because I was a no-call/no-show for work. When I missed Bible study for fear that she’d be there, they started calling me. Linda, Billie, and Richard. That night, I asked Pete to take me to get my truck. And when she got back from Bible study she’d see that I’d been there and of course she’d be devastated by the mere thought of me.
Yeah, right.
Zora wasn’t calling. She wasn’t leaving messages on my machine or cell phone. Finally, to escape the lack of messages from Zora, and the excessive messages from Richard, Billie, and Linda, I finally called the job to tell Linda I quit. Of course Linda wanted to know the scoop on what happened with Zora and me. I told her she could ask Zora.
In typical Linda fashion, Linda said, “Zora has only Zora’s story. What’s your story, Nicky?”
I got off the phone.
I spent the rest of the time at Pete’s, job hunting in the daytime, and kickin’ it with him to stave off my Zora hunger. The last week, I was too exhausted by my efforts to keep pretending. I got a job offer as a teaching assistant at, of all places, Sankofa Shule high school. I think they hired me because I’m white. Maybe they needed to fill some kind of reverse affirma
tive-action quota. I know I applied because I want to know everything she knows. It isn’t possible with me just being a teaching assistant there, but I wanted to be where she’d been. I missed her.
I spent the next-to-the-last day so sick with love I thought it’d kill me.
I spent the last day of that three weeks with her dad.
ZORA
Three weeks. I didn’t know it could hurt so much to love someone. Billie and Pet try to cheer me up, but I can’t be consoled. Even Ms. Pamela noticed my sorrow when I finally got through to her and took her to the hospital. I couldn’t even be consoled with the thought that I may have saved her life. I just keep painting golden people on the big canvas Nicky gave me, and one golden child in particular with sapphire eyes I paint with painstaking detail. I’m working on the tin-can phone the child is holding in his hand when Pet comes running into my room with her mother. They’re holding hands. They’re grinning their fool heads off.
My heart pounds because they are two of the most hopelessly ridiculous romantics I know, and every bit of paint on this huge canvas is the hope of love. Oh, Lord, could it really be?
“You got company,” Pet says in a singsong voice.
I put the paintbrush down. “Who?” I say, knowing. I don’t know what to do with myself. I look a hot mess with paint all over my cut-off overalls and T-shirt. My hair looking like Billie combed it.
I wipe my paint-smudged hands on my shorts. Billie and Pet each grab an arm and practically drag me to the living room, ready or not.
Oh, my. He’s more beautiful than I remembered. The bruises and abrasions on his face are healed. He looks a little paler than before, a little sadder, much thinner, but the light in those gemstone eyes sparkles when he sees me.
He still loves me. And that crazy man is holding the tin-can telephone in his hands.
John is standing with him, like he’s Daddy and he’s gonna be watching us carefully. He beckons me over like I’m his little girl.
“Here’s my baby,” he says. “And I’m more than just her father confessor now, Nicky. You catch my drift?”
He gives John a very serious look, but his eyes are full of mischief. “Yes, sir.”
“And you may talk with her right here in the living room. There’ll be no being alone, young man.”
Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White Page 30
