Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (6 page)

He shrugs. “I guess. But I don’t miss the old songs, or the old ways. I
don’t miss being a lowly worm before God.”

I miss it. My parents groomed me to be successful. The top. The best. I
didn’t have to be last, they’ve always told me, even if it meant I had to work
twice as hard as those born with privileges they didn’t have to earn. I miss
being the last God would exalt in the end. They had something I don’t, and
I know it.

But Daddy isn’t really talking about the old
ways
. He’s talking about the
old
man
, and the condemnation his father heaped on him like white-hot
coals. He means he doesn’t miss
him
.

“Sometimes I think the old folks had it better,” I say.

Daddy laughs. “Better? We’re the ones free in Christ. We prosper, and
they groveled. We’re the head and they were the tail, only they weren’t really
the tail. They were the head, too, but didn’t know it.” He sits at the edge of
my desk, and for a moment, sitting amid all that gold, he looks more like
a TV preacher than my daddy. He gives me his million-dollar smile and a
shake of his handsome head. “I don’t miss that, Zorie, and you shouldn’t
either. You have what they couldn’t. What they fought and died to see, but
didn’t.”

I nod, wheel a few feet away from the desk and take a long look at him,
but I don’t necessarily agree. I figure when it comes down to inheriting the
kingdom of God, the last will be first like the Scriptures say. Daddy seems to
conveniently skip these texts in his arguments for prosperity.

I take a deep breath. I’m not up for sparring today, not that I’ve gone to
battle with Daddy about this or anything else. No, I’m a perfect daughter.
Just
perfect
.

“I’m almost finished with the April issue.”

“Good girl. You and Miles are coming for dinner tonight.” He’s not
asking.

I can’t take both Daddy
and
Miles tonight. “I’m really behind. I’m going
to take this home and work on it tonight so you can get it to the printer
tomorrow. Sorry I’m late with it.”

“Don’t worry about it, baby. Get somebody else on staff to finish it. With
something like that, it doesn’t make any difference who does it anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I say through clenched teeth. “Anybody on our
team can do this work.
Anybody
!”

He doesn’t even catch my sarcasm. He doesn’t ask why I walked out of
church Sunday either. He just clipped my wings a little bit more just now, and
he doesn’t see the blood on his hands or on me.

He knocks absentmindedly on my marbled desk. “See you at dinner
tonight, baby.”

“I’ll be there, Daddy.”

And I will because I’m a good girl. I do what I’m told. Daddy’s little
princess. I fold my wounded wings inside myself.

Maybe I’ll go back to Linda’s Bible study. Maybe one more time, and
that’s it.

NICKY

I sit in my company’s big, stinking white truck that says VendCo LTD, bored
out of my mind. It really is big—practically a semi. And it does stink, of stale
diesel fuel, and Ron, the unwashed freak who works the shift before me and
reeks of weed and patchouli.

The truck is pretty much stocked wall to wall with Tom’s potato chips,
pretzels, and other assorted snack foods. I personally loathe the entire product
line, which just goes to show, it doesn’t favor
me
.

Is it normal to want to lie down in front of the truck I drive to deliver
snacks to vending machines? Let said truck drive back and forth over me a
few thousand times until I’m out of my misery? Finally. And a miserable day
it’s been. More so than usual.

I can’t get her out of my mind. And I don’t just mean that luscious … oh,
oh, don’t make me say it. I’m worse than I thought I’d be. Lust is one thing,
but I want to know her.

I’m in trouble. Big trouble.

I Googled her. Thank God for Google, and thank all the saints, the
prophets, the angels, and the apostles deep down in my Southern Baptist soul
for MySpace. The beautiful Zora Nella Hampton Johnson, according to her
profile:

Is twenty-two years old.

Comes from one of the most prominent African American families in
Ann Arbor.

Studied African American studies at Spelman and graduated at the top
of her class.

Loves gospel music, rhythm and blues, and hip-hop. Favorite album of
all time, Fred Hammond’s
The Inner Court.

Is a BAP.

Spends too much money on Kate Spade and Prada.

Loves the book
Their Eyes Were Watching God
, and gives a shout out to
her namesake.

Is a praise dancer at Light of Life Christian Center. A dancer. And an
artist. A painter. Calls herself dreamy. I’ll call her that too. For the rest of my
life.

And God help me—and I mean that in the most destitute way—she
posted pictures of herself. A dozen of them! Not pictures of her sticking out
her ample rear end or—not quite as ample, but nice anyway—breasts like
most of the MySpace ladies—if you can call them that. Pictures of Zora
dancing. A lithe beauty with her lovely arms extended and those endless legs
poised gracefully, about to do a pirouette. Zora smiling. Zora reading a book.
Zora holding a paint brush in front of her grinning face, a streak of blue paint
forgotten at the tip of her nose. So freakin’ gorgeous that I reach out and
touch the computer screen.

I got it bad.

She blogs that she wants to spend the rest of her life finding out what
Jesus meant when He said, “Blessed be ye poor.” In another blog she said she
wanted to be naked before God.

Naked!

I spent a lot of time reading that one. And rereading. And rereading. And
now I can’t stop thinking about her. What’s worse is that my route is over
now, and I gotta go face Linda.

Linda, of extraordinary discernment. Linda, who can see right through
my crap and call me on it. And she does it in love.

Now, I know all about people allegedly doing things in love. My father
preaches in love, so he says. He’s lacerated every poor unfortunate soul he’s
drawn to our church in love. I’m telling you, Dad makes Jerry Falwell look
like a raging hedonist. The King James Bible is his sixty-six-book arsenal
of weapons of mass destruction. I’ve seen the sin-weary flee our church so
fast after his fiery “You’re going straight to hell for even thinking of that”
preaching that Jesus shook in the stained-glass windows.

But Linda, she really does love with that double-edged blade—the Word
of God. She wields it like a master swordsman.

I shuffle into the office of the vending company. Linda’s running the front
desk as usual. I eye anything but her—the walls, a weird blue color, which
are badly in need of painting. I check out for the gazillioneth time a few
bad posters supposed to inspire us to do our best.
If you can believe, you can
achieve
. Blah, blah, blah. I look at the front desk, a huge countertop covered
with yellowing Formica that’s old as God. Linda brightens the place up with
her smile, even though everybody laughs at her crazy, old-fashioned clothes.
She’s unfazed. She believes in modesty and lives it. And she lives love. Just
wants to bless her brothers and sisters in Christ whenever she can, she says.

She smiles at me. And I can’t help but smile back.

“Hey, brother Nicky.”

“Hey, Linda.”

“Missed you at Bible study.”

I challenge her, though it’s useless. “I came to Bible study, Linda.”

“You know what I mean. Did something bother you?”

“I just had to go. I didn’t want to interrupt you with the new girl,” I say,
as if I don’t know everything I possibly could find out about “the new girl.”

She looks through me like I’m made of Saran Wrap. “That Zora sure is
pretty, isn’t she?”

If my flaming red cheeks don’t give me away, my grin will. “Is she?”

Linda laughs. She knows she’s nailed me. “I think she is. Maybe you
didn’t notice. At least not her face.”

Wicked, wicked woman.

I throw my hands up. “I noticed her face too.” I fold my hands across my
chest. “I noticed everything, Linda. That’s the problem. You know me. You
know I’m trying not to be that guy.” I am that guy, but I’m trying not to be.

She stands. Rest her hands on the countertop. “So why’d you leave?
You didn’t leave any other time a nice-looking young woman came to Bible
study.”

“I’ve only been going a few months, Linda. Not many nice looking
women have come, no offense to beautiful you and Billie.”

“But some have.”

“None like her.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that?”

I roll my eyes, thrust my hands in my pockets. “There isn’t anything to
tell. Let’s just say she aroused certain passions in me. Ponder that statement
awhile, just so we’re really clear.”

“I think God can handle that, Nicky.”

“I can’t handle it.”

“But what if she comes back?”

“She won’t.”

“Why not?”

I laugh because what I’m going to say sounds absurd even before I let it
out of my mouth. “Because I prayed she wouldn’t.”

Linda cracks up, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh like that. Her
whole face opens wide, and something akin to music spills out of her mouth.
She hits the countertop with one gentle hand.

“We’ll see about that one,” she says, wiping away actual tears.

This time it’s me that puts my elbows on the countertop. “I’m not the
defiler of virgins anymore. For the last three years I’ve forced myself to be Mr.
Upright. I’ve never even kissed Rebecca.”