Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (35 page)

“I didn’t realize it was Day-Glo until I got it home. It seemed like a
really good deal, and I saw why when I got it on the walls.” She looks at her
husband. “But you have to admit. It did brighten the place up.”

“Billie, it brightened
Chicago
up.”

She gives him a playful punch.

“After that we had to take her off the decorating committee, and she’s
been mourning the loss ever since.”

I keep thinking how weird this all is. He doesn’t seem like a priest. Not
that I’ve ever seen a black priest, Eastern Orthodox or otherwise. He seems
like some kind of college professor. I try not to think about how much it
bothers me that a catch like him is with Billie, who I just reassured in the van.
Former hooker
, I told her.

I’ve always hated it when white people cry reverse racism. I figured the
odds were stacked up so far against us whatever we thought or said about
them was a trifle by comparison.

What do You think, Jesus?

An ache in my heart tells me.

I don’t think He likes it. But I don’t want to think about it tonight. I just
don’t want to be alone, and if that means hanging with Billie and her brotha
man, I’ll take it.

I should have gone with Linda. I’m certain Linda wouldn’t have had a
black man hiding in her closet.

God help me. Nicky was right. I am a racist.

I suck.

We get to the dining room, and there’s a huge oblong dining table. It
must seat sixteen. Father John says, “This is where we share meals. I don’t
think there are many things in the Christian tradition more important than
shared meals.”

“Really?” I say. A procession of shared meals I have known come to mind.
I think about the pharisaical Sunday dinners we had at home after church,
all elegant and refined, complete with our black servants. We only invited
the best of the best; we only hung out with those who had the shine of God’s
prosperity on them. And then there was the dinner with Daddy, Mama,
and Miles on Thursday night where I gave my father back the Lexus and
got in exchange this nothing that is changing everything. The lunch I had
with Nicky ended abruptly with him insulting my work. Then the disaster
at Nicky’s parents’ house today. “What’s the hype about eating together? The
last three shared meals I had left a lot to be desired.”

“I heard about the last one, Zora, but it may have been an unexpected
grace.”

“I know people have a lot to say about my father’s church, but even there
we’ve got the right definition of grace. That’s God’s unmerited, undeserved
favor. I didn’t see any grace being passed around today.”

“Your definition is basically correct, Zora. But grace is much more then
that definition can contain. It’s much more than our language can contain.”
He pulls out a chair for me. “Have a seat, Zora.”

Billie seems to know the drill. She hurries to the kitchen and comes back
with bread and a bottle of wine.

“I don’t drink,” I say.

“Are you an alcoholic?” she asks.

“Uh. No. I just …”

“I don’t think God is going to strike you down just because Father wants
to make a point.”

“Uh, okay.”

Billie sets the wine and basket of bread on the table and disappears once
again.

“Let’s go back to the upper room when Jesus instituted the Eucharist.”

“Is this some kind of Catholic thing? Billie said something about the
Catholic Worker Movement. At our church we don’t—”

“I know what your church teaches, Zora. I’ve seen your father on television
many times. But you take communion, right?”

“Yes, but it’s not the same way that Catholics do it. And I don’t know
anything about your church, Father John. In fact, doesn’t the Bible say
that Jesus said, ‘Call no man father’? I don’t even know if I should call you
that.”

He winks at me. “Call me John then.”

“Okay, John.”

“In the Holy Orthodox Church we believe that we partake of the mystery
of the body and blood of Christ each and every time we share in the mystical
supper.”

I don’t know what to say to that. All my life I’d heard that teaching was
wrong, and I wasn’t interested in a theological debate I couldn’t offer anything
to. I didn’t want to be converted either. I didn’t come here for that.

Again, these people seem to be psychic or something.

“Don’t worry, Zora,” John says. “We’re not trying to convert you. We want
to share with you something vital about hospitality. So you can understand
why we do this.”

“Don’t you do it because Jesus said, ‘When I was a stranger you welcomed
me,’ like Billie said?”

“Definitely. But there’s more.” He looks at his wife. “Billie, could you get
us some water and the pitcher, dear?”

Billie returns with a single wine glass in one hand and a basin of water
balanced in her arms. She sets the glass and water on the table in front of
John. He picks up the glass and pours wine into it.

“A long time ago,” he says, “on one of the worst nights of His life, Jesus
sat with His disciples. He wouldn’t be long in this world after that.” He pauses
as if lost in memory. As if he had been there himself. “They sat at a table
that I like to think was much like this one. It was there He showed us what
hospitality is about.”

Father John holds up the glass. “But first,” then he sets the glass back
down again, “He humbled Himself. He put on the garments of a slave and
became a servant to His own disciples. Zora, will you please remove your
shoes so that Billie and I may serve you?”

“Excuse me?”

Billie places her hand on my shoulder. “We want to serve you as Christ
did His disciples. May we, please?”

How can I say no to that kind of request?

Father John and Billie kneel down before me, and oddly, I feel so sad. I
don’t even know why. Billie slides off the black leather ballet slippers another
servant of Christ gave me. I feel nervous and my heart palpitates. I’ve read
about these kinds of services at Spelman but never participated in one, not
even at my grandfather’s church. Daddy abandoned so many of the old
traditions. Tradition is almost a dirty word at LLCC. And this isn’t church.
This is some weird shelter or halfway house. I don’t know what it is.

“You have beautiful feet, Zora,” Billie says.

I start chattering like a fool. “I get a pedicure every week. Or at least I
used to. I go to this Korean lady, and I always leave her a good tip because she
does a great job.” I jabber on and on because I start feeling choked up because
she’s cradling my feet reverently. As if they are sacred. This white lady is about
to wash my feet.

“I’m so sorry, Zora, for all the hateful burdens you carry that my people
placed on your beautiful back.”

I try to pull my feet out of her reach. I don’t want to deal with this stuff
right now. She put me on the spot. But she eases my feet so gently into the
warm water. And then she starts to cry.

“I feel that pain you have. I’m so sorry,” she says.

“You can’t feel it,” I whisper.

“Not like you do. But I feel it a little. Jesus is giving me just a little bit of
it. But He feels all of it, Zora.”

She keeps dipping her hands in the warm, soothing waters and pouring it
onto my feet. Dear God, it feels good. And she’s telling me she’s sorry.

“And I’m sorry for taking one of your men. I know you’re angry at me for
it. I just fell in love with him. How could I not? He gave me so much love.
And nobody loved me like that before.”

And then she really begins to weep. And I start crying too, because
everybody needs love. The world is so messed up. John dips his hands into
the water, and he begins to wash my feet too.

“You must feel like I betrayed you, sister Zora, marrying this white woman.
But she made me love her. She’s so wild and beautiful. She was like a daisy
growing between the concrete, but loving her never meant that I don’t love
you. Or my mother. Or my other sisters or myself. But forgive me for hurting
you with my choice. I never meant to, sister. I believe my African American
sisters are dark and lovely Shulamites, just like the Song of Solomon says.”

“You nailed me,” I choke. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sister,” John says, “the only nails here are the ones on the cross. And
that’s where all our sins belong. We are all sinners. But we all belong to God.
Let’s allow Him to begin this work of welcoming one another.”

We sit there crying as they wash my feet, until I’m so tired I don’t think
another tear can come out of me. Billie realizes she didn’t bring a towel and
jumps to her feet.

She returns and hands the towel to Father John, and he dries my feet
while she puts the basin away. When Billie returns, John informs me our
sharing isn’t over.

He picks up the wine glass again.

“And now for the best part.” He smiles at me. “You didn’t think I forgot
about the food, did you?”

I answer him with a smile.

He lifts the glass. “This is where hospitality began. Jesus lifted a single
cup and gave it to His disciples. Then He took a cup, and after giving thanks
He said, ‘Take this, and divide it among yourselves: For … I will not drink of
the fruits of the vine, until the kingdom of God.’” He pauses. “Have you ever
celebrated Kwanzaa, Zora?”

“Yes. We used to every year, but it kind of fell out of favor.”

“You know how there’s a unity cup that everyone drinks from?”

I chuckle. “We never really drank from it. We just did it symbolically.”

He nods. “I understand. But the Eucharist Jesus instituted here was no
mere symbol. It’s the foundation of the church. It’s the feast that we are all to
continually share. Without it, we cannot worship. We cannot be hospitable.
I know we’re far from real unity, just like with the Kwanzaa unity cup. But
we’re meant to drink from it. All of us. From one cup like Jesus said.”

I don’t understand. This is nothing like anything I’ve ever known. What
about germs? How can we all drink from one cup in reality?