Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (22 page)

“I’m not your
anything
,” she reminds me.

“Then you probably shouldn’t be singing that we’re in love.”

“Oh, come on, Nicky, your parents and girlfriend didn’t hear me.”

“I heard you.”

“Did it bother you?”

I take a long and very serious look at her. “Maybe it made me
reflective.”

“And what did it make you reflect on?”

“The possibilities.”

“Is falling in love a possibility?”

“You just convinced three people that it is.”

“Three people, or four?”

“Three. One person standing there already knew he could love you.”

In a bit of shock that I’d just said that, I put one hand on the steering
wheel and turn the key with the other. “We’d better get going or Rebecca’s
going to be knocking on the window.”

“Trying to climb into the truck.”

“Lying across the hood.”

“You suck as a boyfriend.”

“Maybe I’ve just got the wrong girlfriend, Zora.”

I glance across the parking lot, and I can see that my parents have stayed to
speak to a few more people, but Rebecca, to her credit, has gone on. I wonder
if she went somewhere to compose herself. Pick up some heavy artillery? Get
a passel of girlfriends for reinforcements?

Like I’m really deeply concerned. Zora is right. I do suck.

“Hey, Zora.”

“What?”

“Thanks for coming to church.”

The truth is, I’m really glad she’s here. I put the truck in drive and we pull
out of the parking lot toward my parents’ place. When I reach out and take
her hand, she lets me hold it.

God, what are we going to do?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ZORA

Nicky and I have families full of odd contrasts. He is the product of
generations of genteel Southern Baptists, now Northern bred, and we are first
generation Word-Faithers from a crop of the independent Apostolic heretics
that grew out of organic slave religions, whatever we could piece together. We
are from one of the oldest black families in Ann Arbor, a largely white, liberal
community. Nicky grew up in Ypsilanti, which now is known for having the
larger black population of the two cities.

The Parkers live in historic Ypsilanti in a house built in the 1800s, a
breathtaking masterpiece of Americana they show off each year in the historic
homes tour. When Nicky pulls up to the house, he is obviously horrified that
he didn’t remember the wide-eyed, jet-black lawn jockey greeting us with
huge, smiling red lips.

“I forgot about that.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“I’m sorry, Zora.”

“Anything else I need to know about, Nicky? Got a mammy in there?
Couple of slaves?”

“They don’t have slaves, Zora.”

“Not since it was outlawed.”

“You didn’t have to accept their invitation.”

“But I did. You should have told me I’d find soul brotha here upon
arrival.”

“My parents are mostly nice people. They’re kinda scary, but they’re … I
don’t even know how to describe them.”

“Let’s just go in.”

“I tried to get you not to come. And now you’re feeling defensive.”

“I’ll be a good Negro, boss.”

“That’s not nice, Zora. I’m not your enemy.”

“You look like them.”

“I can’t change my skin, Zora. If I could, I’d make it real easy on you
today. I’d go for something kinda Wesley Snipes. That African American
enough for you?”

We sit there for a few moments. I don’t even know why I’m acting this
way. I can handle his parents. If I know anything, it’s how to work a room.
I’m just nervous. I was stupid enough to want to be liked, and now that I’m
the whore anyway, I may as well shoot for high-class whore and hold it down
for the next sistah he brings home. You know what they say. Once you go
black, you can’t go back.

What a dumb saying. God, what’s the matter with people? I decide to
take a teeny little risk.

“Nicky?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve had a few bad days, that’s all.”

He chuckles. “I’ll say.”

“I’m feeling really defensive. I just wanted to be with you.”

“I should have just knocked on your door last night. I didn’t want to …
I don’t know, Zora. I didn’t want to do anything unacceptable. I’m actually
trying for gentleman with you. ”

“It was probably late when you left your
girlfriend
.”

“I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m not a player. I was, but I’m not
now. And believe it or not, I want to tell you what I’m feeling for you, but I
don’t know. It seems wrong what I’m feeling. I mean, beyond wrong in some
ways. I’m feeling a lot toward you, Zora. I didn’t expect you. And I have no
idea what to do with you.”

“You don’t have to do anything with me, regardless to what either of us
is feeling.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s true. You’re already meeting the parents.”

“I don’t think I’ve impressed them.”

“You impress me every time I look at you, Dreamy.”

“Let’s just go inside, Nicky. The lawn jockey thing threw me off. Among
other things. I’ll make this work. I’m good at that kind of thing. Well, my last
dinner with my parents was a bust, so if tomorrow your apartment is empty,
disregard what I just said. Deal?”

He grins. “Deal.”

He opens the truck door for me. Together we pass Jocko. Nicky whispers
“I’m sorry” to me one more time, and I accept his apology. Before we go
inside, I stop.

“Did you ever hear the legend of Jocko, Nicky?”

“Jocko?” he says. He has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Your pal here? The lawn jockey.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about him. I’m ashamed to say he’s
something I just took for granted. Never thought to ask.”

“Don’t feel bad. A lot of people don’t know, including black people. In
fact, there’s no evidence that it’s really true. It’s a legend. You wanna hear it?”

He shugs. “Sure.”

“The legend goes that Jocko was the twelve-year-old son of a free black
man named Tom Graves. During the Revolutionary War, Graves joined
George Washington’s army. Jocko wanted to go to war also, but he was too
young. Little Jocko was a spunky kid, however. He went anyway.”

Nicky shakes his head. “That was some twelve-year-old. I sucked at
twelve.”

“Me, too. I was totally self-absorbed, much like now, God help me.
Anyway, according to the legend, just as Washington was about to cross the
Delaware River for the battle of Trenton, he realized there was no way he
could transport his horses by boat, and his steeds would have to be waiting
on the other side. Young Jocko volunteered to hold the horses and make sure
they were ready when the troops arrived.”

Again, Nicky shakes his head. “Why do I have a feeling this is going to
end badly?”

“Because it will. Here comes the hero part. During the night, vigilant
Jocko froze to death, and the poor kid never let go of the horses’ reins. General
Washington was so touched by his sacrifice that he erected a statue in Jocko’s
honor. That statue was the precursor to lawn jockeys.”

“Which would later become racist symbols of slavery.”

“Yes.”

“And that truly sucks.”

“It truly does, Nicky.”

He takes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Zora.”

“On the bright side—”

“And you would find a bright side in this.”

“Lawn jockeys were also used in the underground railroad to alert
runaways to safehouses. A lit lantern in his hand or a bright ribbon tied on
his arm meant the house was safe.”

“Uh oh,” he says. “That one doesn’t have a lantern or a ribbon. I think we
should turn around. Let’s blow this pop stand, baby.”

“Your parents are expecting me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

The smile, if one could call it that, he pastes on his face is so full of
bitterness and irony it’s almost frightening. “It’d be me they’d be disappointed
in. As always. Not to worry.” A sigh escapes his mouth. “I guess I’ll have to
keep you safe today.”

He squeezes my hand, and the gesture makes me feel as safe as a little girl
holding a grown-up’s hand.

I tell myself I’m ready. I can do this.

I tell myself one more time for good measure, “You can do this, Zora.”
I take another look at Jocko. I don’t think he’s smiling at all. I think that’s a
grimace on his face.

NICKY

You’d think I’d have remembered Jocko in the yard, wouldn’t you? I’d even
read Flannery O’Connor’s
The Artificial Nigger
in college. But no. I didn’t
even think about it until, to my horror, there he was, smiling at Zora with
those big red lips. I wanted to drive far, far away, but I couldn’t.

You know, I never think about these kinds of things. I never think about
Aunt Jemima or Uncle Ben or the myth of the black whore or the BET video
girls, pimps, hos, and the hundreds of negative images that must assault Zora
every day. No wonder she’s so freakin’ sensitive. I see a hillbilly image and I
laugh, but I don’t think about hillbillies again unless I see Jeff Foxworthy on
TV or something, and there are a million positive images to reinforce that
I’m good and right and beautiful. Zora didn’t laugh at the lawn jockey. And
it’s not funny. I see why she says it’s hard for her to turn it off, and the lawn
jockey is just one thing—that I’ve noticed, that is.

I remember when I first saw her, and how I mused about how I’d have to
marry her, and then I dismissed the idea when I couldn’t figure out why black
people pronounce chitterlings the wrong way. And who’s to say the way they
say it is wrong? I said to myself then that it’s too complicated. I’ve known her
for almost a week and already I don’t see the world in the same way. And the
complications haven’t even begun. But they’re about to. I don’t doubt that at
all.

I open the door, and we’re in white people’s paradise. There’s a flag in the
corner and a gun rack and early American furniture, and I’m embarrassed it’s
so freakin’ white.

“This is a lovely old house,” Zora says.

“Ummm.”

“You grew up here?”

“Um hmmm.”

“I’ll bet there are all kinds of nooks and crannies you played in.”

“I could tell you stories.”

She looks at me with those brown doe eyes. “I’d like that.” And it looks like
she means it when she says it. “Show me your room when you were a kid.”

“It’s my mother’s sewing room now.”

“Please.”

This woman absolutely delights me. I can’t deny her anything she asks.
And much of what she doesn’t. My folks aren’t here yet and neither is Rebecca,
so I take her upstairs and show her what used to be my bedroom. I can’t stop
talking.

“Everything is different now. The whole house is different. Back then this
was just a crappy, drafty old house. We had this awful wallpaper.” I laugh,
remembering it. “It had these big, horrible flowers. Like huge cabbage roses.”

I wonder if she can see cabbage roses where hunter green walls are now.
Then we walk down the beige hallway. “This had bad wallpaper, too. More
awful flowers from, like, the thirties or forties.”

Zora laughs. We reach my mother’s sewing room, a shrine to
Martha
Stewart Living
. It’s all white, glass jars, buttons, and notions.

“This is it.”

“What color was it?”

“Blue. Cowboy theme.”

“Nicky the cowboy. Did you sleep in here alone?”