Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (5 page)

How did my life get so noisy? How did I get so noisy?

How did I mess up everything but manage to look so fly on the outside?

Time passes too quickly, me more aware of wanting to be quiet than
actually being quiet in mind and heart. Linda stands, facing east. Everyone
else does too, and I clumsily find my feet beneath me and face where the sun
rises with them.

Linda speaks one word:
vespers
.

Something about the word holds infinite appeal to me. I’ve heard it
somewhere but don’t know its definition. My mind associates it with religion.
With God. I want to ask what vespers means, but Linda calls us to prayer, and
we all quietly obey. Her voice rings out like a song.

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; praise Him, all creatures
here below; praise Him above ye heavenly host; praise Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost.”

Wow. I haven’t heard those words since the last time I visited my
grandfather’s church. In my mind I hear the voices of those old timers, singing
their old, old songs, their faith more ancient than their deeply lined brown
faces. They are part of a
massive
tree, planted by an
ocean
. I remember one
service, years ago, where they sang, “Let Us Break Bread Together on Our
Knees,” and the words, “When I fall on my knees, with my face to the rising
sun, Oh Lord, have mercy on me.” Those words did something to me.

I cried when I sang it, gripping the hymnbook with my little girl hands.
In that moment I became one with my ancestors, and for the first time, I
became keenly aware of my roots and my place on that tree. A tender green
shoot. Branches surrounding me, raised like brown arms lifted to the sky in
praise. The old folks touched God on their knees for generations, and those
ancient souls of my distant past—having nothing, enslaved, their own gods,
language, and culture stripped away—embraced the God they’d been given,
the suffering Jesus, and they begged the One, who many of them believed to
be the white man’s God, for mercy.

The tree got bigger in Granddaddy’s church that day, even though for
the most part I forgot about them. Now, saying the words to the doxology
elevates me again in those high branches reaching for God.

Linda requests God’s presence.

“Show Your goodness, O Lord, to those who are good and to those who
are true of heart.”

I may not be good, but can’t You see I’m true? At least I am with You. In
Your presence I’m naked and ashamed, the chief of Laodiceans. Look at me,
God. Wretched, miserable, poor, blind. But let my dull eyes catch a glimpse
of You in this darkness.

Something in me breaks. Whatever it is, once safe, protected by the stony
layers of my heart, splits wide open. I try to stop the grief flooding out of me
in breaking, cascading waves, but I cannot.

I hear only snatches of the greeting Linda gives to God. I’ve already greeted
Him, and He’s been kind enough to speak to me in return, shattering what was
hard and cold. Heaving sobs burst from my belly. From my very core.

The group reads the words of a hymn, but I’ve been seized by the power
of a great affection. That’s what the old folks used to call being born again. I
literally throw myself to my knees, my face on the floor, my butt in the air.
My heart in God’s hands. All decorum gone.

I’m just Zora, naked with God.

And nobody in the group seems to mind. I hope.

NICKY

She walks into the room like freakin’ Nefertiti, looking just as good. No,
better. She’s tall. I’ll bet she can look me in the eye with very little effort,
and I’m six-foot-two. She shakes hands like a man. Works the room like a
politician, and I know politicians well.

Zora, the Queen of Sheba, and I can just see her rocking King Solomon’s
world. Zora, the Shulamite woman, dark and comely.

Okay, I know this is going to sound totally white, but I’ve never seen
anybody with skin like hers. She is the darkest person I’ve ever seen in real life.
Her skin is luminous. Like it’s glowing. I’ve always heard that saying, “The
darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” Well, her juice must be something
else, and God help me, I just want a little taste. It looks like God stained this
beauty with blackberries—all those purple, blue, and red undertones lying
beneath that rich brown. Holy cow, she really is colored! She’s a freaking
masterpiece of tones. I can’t stop staring at her.

And she’s a firecracker.

Doesn’t shrink and fold when I insult her, and man, why did I insult her?
I guess I think she’s too cool to vote for my father.
I’m
too cool to vote for
him, and she’s way cooler than me. I don’t mean to insult her; it just comes
out like that. But she stands up to me, no doubt dismissing me as a silly
bleeding-heart liberal.

And she’s right.

I hate her instantly, while simultaneously falling deeply in love with her.

And, God have mercy on my sex-deprived soul, she starts praying. Real
down and dirty praying, and the next thing I know, she’s on the floor with her
three-dimensional rear end coming right at me.

I try not to look. God knows I try, but He made the gross error of making
me a man, and we’re visual. The sight of her literally drops me to my knees.

I think bad thoughts to distract myself: people I love dying, children in
Africa with AIDS, national tragedy—anything to sober me, but nothing, and
I do mean nothing, compares to the rewards I receive from swiping a few
more lust-filled glances at her.

“Lord, help me, please, please, please.”

I have to marry her.

I start counting the cost of her engagement ring. The Rock of Gibraltar,
princess cut, on a platinum setting. How will I be able to afford Zora? I can
tell she ain’t no cheap date. I’ll have to get a real job, or three. Maybe teaching.
Of course teaching! What else will my worthless bachelor’s degree in English
literature and creative writing make way for?

Oh, man. How many people will come to our wedding? Like four? Will
her family disown her with the same aplomb my family will disown me with?
Will we have to serve chitterlings at the reception, and why are they called
“chitlins” when the word is
chitterlings
? With three syllables, not two.

And do I even like soul food?

Already this is too complicated. I have to stick with Rebecca, who
possesses none of the Shulamite’s charms. None! She never fights with me.
She’s submissive, and we aren’t even married! And don’t get me started on the
differences between both their untouched-by-me assets.

Think of Jesus. Think of Jesus. Think of Jesus.

I’ve changed. I’m not a total dog anymore. My animal nature no longer
rules me. Not much. Okay, not as much. Come on, God. I’ve conquered a
goodly amount of the flesh and even my sinful mind most days. Have mercy!
I’m a good boy with Rebecca, who I’ll ask to marry me, just as soon as I
banish Zora’s—

I have to get out of Linda’s apartment. Maybe fresh air will act as a cold
shower for me. Maybe I should drive home.
Now
.

Yeah. I’ll drive home and save my soul.
If thy right hand offend thee, cut it
off
. If Zora’s glory offends, or pleases me more than words could adequately
express, cut it off. And since I’m no psycho wanting to take a hacksaw to that
masterpiece of God’s creation she carries on her backside, I have to get out of
Dodge.
Fast
.

I’ll miss the Bible study and sharing, but I have a fighting chance at
salvation if I leave now and if she never returns, which I figure she won’t.

I practically back out of the parking space in front of Linda’s apartment
on two wheels, ungodly fantasies riding shotgun with me all the way back
to Detroit. If I were the type, I’d pray in tongues, but the proper Southern
Baptist, political Parkers don’t encourage that kind of demonstration.

I race home doing my own version of praying without ceasing. I say the
Jesus Prayer all the way to my hovel, an abbreviated version I hope my heart
catches on to a little faster because of its lack of pretense.

Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy, Lord have mercy!

Lord, have mercy all the way down the freeway until I reach downtown,
exit on John R., and find myself in front of my building.

Don’t let her come back, Lord.

Hear my prayer, O God. Incline Thine ear to me, and if You will, have
mercy!

CHAPTER THREE

ZORA

Thursday morning, I sit at the computer in my office at the LLCC, chiding
myself about my complete meltdown at Linda’s Bible study. Mama would
have been appalled at my display. I’m appalled! My face burns every time I
think about it.

I should be working, but instead my gaze wanders about the room.
The offices stand in stark contrast to the impersonal environment of the
sanctuary. Everything in the room looks gold and gilded. It reeks of “kingly.”
Lots of damask fabrics and rich tapestries drape the windows. Massive desks
and plush upholstery, with Egyptian art accents of all things! Once a white
preacher visited and didn’t know if he should rebuke Daddy for the Egyptian
art or commend him for being culturally proud. It was hilarious.

I design LLCC’s esteemed newsletter that goes out to ten thousand
Word-Faithers in the tricounty area. I am what Daddy calls Light of Life’s
Visual Arts Director, which means I make things look pretty around here,
specifically all the print media we send out. I should be grateful for this
job—and I am—but in truth, it takes me away from my true passion:
painting.

Daddy has a little difficulty honoring me as an artist. He thinks I’ll make
more money as a graphic designer. I hate to admit he’s more right than not.
But it’s just as well. I haven’t put paint to canvas in a year. An excruciatingly
long year that eats away at me every day, hour, minute, and second. But
Daddy confesses—as in fires off Scriptures machine-gunlike toward God or
whoever is listening—that I’ll be blessed one hundredfold for contributing my
talents to the ministry. A one-whole-hundredfold return on my investment
of twenty-five hours a week (and of course, I get weekends off). That’s like,
twenty-five hundred hours’ worth of blessings. Who am I to complain because
God needs clip art and public domain-photos skillfully arranged?

Easy, Z. Back to work now, God help me.

Daddy wrote an article using Isaiah 40:31 as the Scripture reference. “But
they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up
with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk,
and not faint.”

I wish that sounded remotely like me. Guess that goes to show who’s an
eagle and who’s a big, black, nasty crow.

But even crows fly.

The thought of flying takes my mind right back to the Bible study. I
haven’t stretched my shiny black wings to their full span and cleaved the night
air in how long? Maybe I stopped soaring around the time I stopped painting.
That awful Bible study! It did something to me.

I’m never going back there. It’s too painful. And yes, I know I begged
God to do exactly what He did for me, but it’s one thing to ask God to
devastate you. It’s another to have Him do it. And in front of white people!
They probably thought of me as some savage African. Might as well have
brought the drums and the half-naked dancers! All that excess. What was I
thinking going there?

Makes me think about being in Atlanta that first week of college.

The weather still nice, me and my girls from school went swimming. I
wore my long hair natural, like I do now, and I
don’t
, contrary to popular
opinion, wear a weave. But even if my hair grew down to my butt, it would
shrivel up to a four-inch afro when it got wet. So there we were hangin’, my
sistahs in their weaves, and me in my ’fro looking like a fierce Angela Davis in
the sixties. We’re swimming to our heart’s content when I heard it.

Some white people in the water talking smack.

It was a public beach. Late in the evening. The only lifeguard, a black
kid about our age, was way up in his lifeguard chair paying absolutely no
attention to us. The white people were laughing. Rude enough to point at me.
They said I looked like a blankety-blank monkey. They called me the “n” word
and the “b” word and then strung the two together. They went on a tirade
about my nappy hair. Oddly, they singled me out. Spared my synthetic-hair-
enhanced friends. They called me a savage and told us, the only blacks in the
water that time of day, to go back to Africa.

Go back to Africa? Guess they forgot it was them who came and got us
in the first place.

We stepped out of the water to go tell someone from management—well,
I did. My girls bounded out ready to rumble. I talked them into keeping
the peace. Yes, indeedy, I’m a regular Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Got the
emotional scars to prove it. We finally got the lifeguard’s attention, but by
that time the hecklers had gone.

The lifeguard gave us a knowing smile. Must have noticed my northern
accent. “You’re in the South now, sis.”

It ain’t much different in the North, bro.

Daddy says racists are everywhere. Even in lily-white liberal Ann Arbor.
And a lot of them don’t know they’re racist, but they can’t help it, the racism
slips out. The way the white woman clutches her purse in the presence of a
brotha. The nervous white guy who sweats as his eyes dart around an elevator
full of black people. Those tests psychologists have done, flashing the image
of a black person in front of a white person. The physiological changes that
register. Changes that mean they’re seeing something they don’t like.

Racists that don’t know they’re racist.

And then there’s the blatant stuff. The persecution you get driving
while black. Being profiled at every turn. Followed around in the boutique
when you have enough money to buy whatever high-end items they have.
In pairs if you want two of them! The assumption that you are a thief, even
in a convenience store—especially there. Indignities chip away at your soul,
unrelenting, until you’re angry and don’t even know why anymore, until
you look up, and so much of you has been chipped off you realize you’ve
been turned to ash.

I slam my fist on the gold marbled desk. I shouldn’t have gone to that
Bible study. I trusted Ms. Little-House-on-the-Prairie with her whack modest
clothes. Maybe I should have done a background check first. Show of hands,
does anybody here think I’m a savage? What about a
noble
savage? Or how
’bout we keep it churchy? Does anybody go to an Assemblies of God church?
At least they’d be familiar with my Pentecostal extremes. Biker chick with
dreadlocks, do you ever attend Women’s Aglow meetings? She’s got to be
okay. She’s got dreads. Probably listens to Bob Marley. He’ll take care of her
white guilt. Old guy who’ll kill me from the second-hand smoke emanating
your shirt, could you in your wildest dreams go to a Word-Faith church?
There are a lot to choose from. Please, please, please say yes.

In their defense, none of them shunned me—not to my face. They all
seemed a little sympathetic after my big display of God affection. Bible study
began without another hitch, but I still sat there wishing I could disappear,
even though my soul felt light and airy. I flew away with God, if even for a
few minutes, to somewhere high, and bright, and clear. And white, black, or
green, they let me go there.

This is too complicated. I curve my back into the thick throne-like
upholstered chair. With wheels! I need to stick with my own kind. And God,
don’t make me think about Nicky Parker and his buttons-up-all-the-way-to-
the-top conservative church. Didn’t he practically tell me his father was a racist?
Nicky, the bleeding heart liberal, fled the scene as soon as I got started.

I stab at a few keys on my keyboard, deciding not to use the eagle-in-flight
photo. I punch at a few more to bring up another picture, an eagle sitting on a
rock high atop a mountain. It had to get up on that rock somehow.
Flying
.

I chide myself again. I can’t think about flying anymore. Besides, suddenly
Nicky fills my thoughts. I stop beating the computer keyboard long enough
to stretch my limbs and allow my thoughts a leisurely few moments of him.

Nicky, with the eyes like a Bahamian beach, where the ocean is so blue
against the blazing sun that it hurts to look at. Nicky, who needs a haircut,
but the way he wears his shaggy do makes him look wonderfully wild-headed.
Nicky, with the Republican dad, who gets mad at black women he thinks are
too smart to vote for his own father. Nicky, full of mysteries, with hands that
look like they can make music.

Okay. I’ve lost my mind.

Even if he does think I’m cute, and he does, he obviously can’t deal
with Mother Africa here. And who cares? It’s not like I ever have to see him
again.

But there’s something about him. Something a little sad and empty that I
recognize in some ways. What’s he doing at that kooky Bible study?

What was I doing there?

I go back to battering my keyboard.

I should have been done with the stupid newsletter on Tuesday, but I’ve
avoided coming into the office since Sunday. I didn’t want to deal with Daddy
about my walking out, or worse, have to think about the fact the Daddy never
noticed I left.

I’m unraveling like a ball of yarn, more and more of me coming undone
from the perfect circle of symmetry I believed myself to be. I thought I was
worthy for God to use. Now knots, tangles, and frays mar what I believed to
be my usefulness. I think about the songs at Granddaddy’s church. Sing that
one I love aloud.

When I fall on my knees
with my face to the rising sun,
O Lord, have mercy on me.

A clear-toned baritone voice joins, and his voice soars around the room
like an eagle, finally crashing through the ceiling to be free. I stop singing to
listen. I love Daddy’s voice.

“
Let us praise God together on our knees. Let us praise God together on our
knees.
” I join him and we repeat the refrain. “
Lord, have mercy on me
.” And
we sing it again.

Daddy plants a kiss on the top of my head. “I can’t believe you remember
that song, baby.”

“I do remember it, Daddy, and all those visits to Granddaddy’s church.
That old spiritual touched me in a really special way.”