Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (29 page)

He doesn’t even look to Zora for help with this one. “The Bible.”

For a moment, I think he should go to my dad’s church instead of Zora’s
dad’s. He should be in love with Rebecca, because that really is her favorite
book, including her favorite novel.

“I meant her favorite novel, Miles.”

The question seems to take him by surprise. He scratches his head. “I
don’t know, man.”

“A woman like Zora. Classy. Most likely educated. Her freakin’
name
is
Zora. I’d guess it’s
Their Eyes Were Watching God
.”

I look at my Dreamy. She seems to be like a flower wilting in the heat of
too much sun. “What’s your favorite novel, Zora?”

“That’s it.”

I shot a viciously triumphant look at Miles. “That’s what I mean. I’d want
to know my woman’s favorite novel. I’d want to know who she is, and not just
who she’s been constructed to be by somebody else, including me.”

Miles seems to consider this. “That’s deep.”

I pull myself up from the floor.

It’s hard to breathe. My cheek is swelling by the moment. I hand her my
information and the poem she doesn’t know is a poem.

She takes it and locks eyes with me. “Thank you, Nicky. Thank you for
stopping by.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry you had a hard day.”

“I’m sorry you had one. Why don’t you and Miles head out together?
Miles was just leaving.”

Miles doesn’t look like he wants to leave, but she gives him a look full of
fire and determination, and I’m glad to see the Zora I know back.

“Keep me posted on your wedded bliss. Good-bye, Zora. Good-bye,
Miles.”

She stands, as does Miles. She doesn’t even say good-bye to me.

Miles slips on his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, baby. I’ll bring you back some
things you need.” His gaze shifts to me. “Hey, I might call you so we can
double date or something.”

“You do that, Miles.”

I will jump off a building first. On fire. With a noose around my neck.

We finally get out of that apartment. But I don’t say a word to him on
the stairs. I suddenly no longer exist for him. Obviously, she’s the only thing
on his mind.

Mine, too.

I’ve got one thing on my mind to do. I need to get drunk. And I have no
money for that kind of thing.

My new best friend, Richard, comes to mind.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NICKY

By the time I arrive at Richard’s apartment, I’m so ready for a drink, I can
taste it. I’ll have what he’s having, thanks! I was never very discriminating
when I was drinking anyway.

Three years of sobriety down the drain, but the payoff—something to
numb the thought of him being with her in that way, of him touching her;
the thought of her making love with him—

Man.

I’ve never kissed anyone with lips so full and soft. And I’ve never been
with a tall woman. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I felt so small myself, I wanted
all those petite cuties to make me feel bigger. I only know that everything
about her in my arms felt right and perfect and it just didn’t seem to matter
when I held her that her skin was darker than mine. Everybody else thought
it mattered. Maybe not everybody, but all the people in my little world.

I knock on Richard’s door, ready for my foray back into the wonderful
world of alcohol abuse. Richard opens the door, looking a little more frail
than usual. He’s got a smoke in his hands.

“Nicky,” he says. His green eyes light up. “It’s good to see you, son. Come
on in.” He still smells of booze, but he doesn’t seem drunk. He invites me in,
takes my jacket and hangs it up. “Come on in and have a seat.”

Despite the fact the apartment smells like a smokehouse, I like Richard’s
place. It’s cozy. It’s neither fancy nor ostentatiously austere, if you can believe
that kind of oxymoron, but God knows I’ve seen it in action. Just a welcoming
place, a place to entertain the stranger. God knows that’s me today.

I take an annoyed look at him puffing away. He’s often asked if his smoking
bothers me, and I always lie and tell him no. He eventually stopped asking.
Now I have the nerve to be ticked off because he doesn’t ask this time.

“Richard, do you ever actually breathe in between the constant,
unrelenting, endless inhaling and exhaling tobacco?”

He doesn’t seem to notice my rudeness.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked if this bothered you.” He ambles over to
an ashtray by his sofa, and I follow him so I can sit down. I watch him crush
his cigarette and finally beckon me to sit.

Guilt pricks me. “I’m sorry I hung up on you earlier.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. At least not all the way there. Something
on your mind, Nicky?”

“Yeah. We can talk about it over drinks.”

“Of course. What would you like?” He stands, ready to serve.

“Whatever you had earlier. Make it a double.”

Richard chuckles. “You don’t want that, son.”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

He tugs his trousers up and sits on the couch beside me. Turns to face me
before I blast him.

“Richard, your hospitality is slipping, man. I asked for a drink.”

“I’d be happy to get you something. I’ve got some great tea. I get that nice
Harney and Sons tea from Barnes and Noble. Got this great African Autumn
infusion.”

“No thanks. I’ve already had my African infusion today by way of Zora
and her boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he is. Apparently I’m a racist,
and you know what, I’m really starting not to care. So please. If you’re going
to offer tea, I’d like something European. English Breakfast, or Earl Grey, or
something white sounding, but quite frankly, I’d rather have booze!”

“Why don’t you tell me about that? What happened to your face,
Nicky?”

“I’d be happy to share over drinks, Rich.”

“Nicky …”

I stand up. “I don’t need a sponsor today. I didn’t come here for you to
walk me through the steps or ask me if I’m hungry, angry, lonely, or tired
and to H.A.L.T. Because you know what, Rich? I’m hungry. For Zora. I’m
angry because she did the wild thing with her big black buck promptly after
giving me the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had. I’m lonely because who on
this freakin’ planet gets me? She gets me, without even trying, but we had
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
—the new millennium version—only unlike
the one with Ashton Kutcher, I didn’t get the girl or the happy ending. And
I’m tired, Richard. I’m bone weary in my dead freakin’ soul. I want a drink.
I want alcohol.”

For a moment he’s quiet. And then, “Nicky. I just want to be the heart of
Jesus to you in your time of— ”

“Dude! You want to be Jesus to me? Be Jesus at the wedding in Cana.
Turn some water into wine, Richard, because what I want is a drink.”

“You’ve been sober three years, Nicky. I know what it is to give that kind
of time up, and I don’t believe I’d be serving you well by helping you do
that.”

“But you were drunk this morning. You were lit up like the Christmas
tree at Rockefeller Center on the eve of the Lord’s birthday
today
, Richard.”

Tears shine in his blue eyes. “You don’t want to be like me, son. You love
Jesus so much.”

“You love Him too. And you had a drink.”

He sits on the sofa while I stay standing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a
more weary soul than Richard. He clears his throat, which does nothing to
relieve it of its alcohol and smoke-weary rattle.

“Kid. You don’t want to be me. You don’t want to be anything like me.”

“I just want a drink, Rich.”

“And then you’ll want another one. One is too many. A thousand is never
enough.”

“I know the rhetoric.”

“Let me tell you what you don’t know, son. You don’t know what it is
to be me. You don’t know what it is to fail so often, son, and have other
Christians—some you thought were your friends—dismiss you without
a second thought. And the worst part is, you know you could have been
so much more. Yeah, lots of people buy my books, but that’s a mercy. I’m
grateful that God’s messy people read them, but sometimes I just want to be
a nice guy, Nicky. I don’t want to be a drunk. I don’t want to be the guy who
tells people God loves them despite themselves. Sometimes I just want to get
it right. And I can’t, Nicky. I preach grace because I don’t have a choice. I
wish I did. Don’t be like me. Don’t take that drink, because drinking is what
made me lose my wife, and she was the best thing that ever happened to me. I
want you to have a better life than I had. I don’t want you to be a lonely, sick,
crusty old man who can’t stop drinking and smoking to save his life, literally.
Let me be clear on something. At this moment, I’m not talking about God’s
love. God is going to love you whether or not you drink. God is going to love
you if you’re the biggest drunk on skid row. You can’t earn God’s love, or lose
it, whether you’re perfect, or a rebel, rascal, or whore. But I’m going to tell
you a little something about Richard’s love. I love you too much, and I’m too
selfish to let that first drink—the drink that will turn you into me—come
from me.”

I finally sit down. “I love her. And she’s going to marry him.”

“Let’s pray, Nicky.”

I run my hands through my hair and try to breathe.

Richard puts his hand on my shoulder. “Nicky?”

I want to break something. I want to destroy something.

He begins to pray something from the Psalms in his whiskey tenor voice,
over and over for both of us. Richard loves this prayer so much he’s turned
it into his own. He said it’s supposed to be a prayer of deliverance from your
enemies, but he loves it for its poverty.

Make haste, O God, to deliver me, make haste to help me, O Lord.

I am poor and needy; make haste unto me, O God: thou art my help and my
deliverer; O Lord, make no tarrying.

I love Richard for this. I want this deliverance he prays for, but it eludes
me. God does tarry, and my need feels urgent. He’s silent, just like He was
when my grandpa was so vocal at the dinner table. Where was God when
Richard needed the strength to say no to that drink this morning? How could
He give Richard the grace to minister to me, but not himself?

And my need for a drink has passed. God, will You be with Richard later on
tonight? When he’s hungry, angry, lonely, or tired? And what about me? Because
I don’t want a drink, Lord, but my need for Zora has increased exponentially.

I hug Richard and go home.

I want to go back to her. I don’t care that she’s been with him. I love her.
At least I think I love her.

God, I’m so confused.

No. I can’t love her. It’s only been a few days. I just want her. It’s just lust.
She doesn’t want me anyway. She slept with him.

Maybe she’s easy. Maybe I can just go back and have a turn too.

No. I know she’s not like that.

Then again, I don’t know anything.

Again, I run my hands through my hair. By now my eye must be a
sight—no pun intended.

Just go home, Nicky.

But I want her. If she kissed me and went right to him, maybe I can have
a chance.

To do what?

If I can make love to her, just once, I can make her love me. I know I can.

And then God finally decides to chat.

It didn’t make Brooke love you.

Richard and I have revival, and God says nothing. Want to go have a little
feel-good time, and then He talks. And that’s what He says.

“Thanks a lot, God.”

But it worked. As much as I wanted to try to find her alone and seduce
her, I take my rascally, rebellious, whoring self home.

And I ain’t happy about it, but I do it. Who I do it for, I can’t even say.

ZORA

Incarnational Christianity.

I have to admit, it’s a little annoying but looking good today, Lord. My
mind keeps going back to Nicky showing up at my door the first time with
the clothes. What he said that day:

“You’re in trouble. Will you take this package from Jesus, and not turn
Him away because He happened to come to you looking like a ticked-off
white man today?”

Jesus came again, looking like that same white man, still angry, but
wearing a cloak of sorrow even his scowl couldn’t hide. And he came just
stopping me from disaster right on time, dear Lord! What a mess I found
myself in. He came, Nicky Parker, that is, protecting me. Never letting on the
day’s events, how his kiss had ruined me for Miles.