Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (8 page)

My baby sister Zoe is away at school. She, too, chose Spelman—if you
could call what she had a choice. Only her choice of premed is acceptable to
Mama and Daddy. At least she’s got that.

Just chill, Zora. You’ve got food to digest, girl.

I really shouldn’t complain. I don’t even live at home—a coup for me.
But because I live in town, I try to have dinner with them as often as I can.
Tonight, it’s the usual suspects: Mama, Daddy, Miles, and me. My parents
won’t count the cook, whose name is Betty, by the way. Betty Grace Way.

Miles pulls out the chair to seat me. Whispers in my ear, “Why didn’t you
dress for dinner?” This seemingly innocuous question is full of disapproval.
My father is grooming him well. And as if he were my father, I defer. I try to
charm him on the strength of my grin.

“It’s a casual night.” It comes out with more bite than I intended. “Baby,”
I add to soften it.

My mother chimes in. “There’s casual, and there’s unacceptable. We’re
eating, Zora, not playing basketball.”

“I’d rather play basketball,” I mumble.

She gives me “the look” as I sink into my chair and Miles scoots it up to
the table. “Zora!”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

Miles regards me with what actually looks like a thoughtful gaze. “Are
you all right?”

“I’m wearing jeans and a sweatshirt to dinner.
Clean
jeans and a
clean
sweatshirt. I feel like you all are treating me like I’ve committed the
unpardonable sin.”

Miles sits down across from me. “No one is judging you, baby. I just
wondered why you didn’t dress.”

“Why do we have to dress when it’s casual? Why do you have to clean up
before the housekeeper comes? If you do the cleaning yourself, why do you
even need a housekeeper?”

The three of them stare at me. Betty saves me from their comments. She
ambles into the room, a heavy, dark-skinned sistah who can cook like God can
bless. And my family treats her like the hired help. Our very own mammy.

I gotta get out of here.

Betty places a heaping bowl of collard greens and bacon in front of us
that makes me salivate. She looks at me. “Your favorite, baby girl.”

My mother rebukes her. “Please refer to my daughter as Zora.”

Betty gives her a curt nod. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“You’d better not, Betty,” I say. “That ‘baby girl’ thing may be why I
always get the biggest piece of pie.”

For a moment our eyes lock, and Betty’s brown eyes flash a subtle thank
you.

“You get that big piece a pie ’cause you’re a bag a bones. So skinny you
disappear if you turn side-a-ways.” And probably just to let my mother know
she heard her loud and clear, she adds, “Zora.”

When Betty walks out of the room, I challenge Mama, something I rarely
do. “I don’t see anything wrong with Betty calling me an endearment. She’s
been working for us for years. I’m crazy about her.”

It’s Daddy who responds. “Betty is a wonderful woman and an excellent
cook. We simply don’t want her to get confused about her role around here.
We’ve had some experiences we don’t want to repeat when we’ve blurred
boundaries.”

Which means they’ve treated people horribly and it turned into a hot
mess. Now, Betty has gone to our church forever. But when she’s at work for
us, she becomes the help. A hot mess!

“Seems to me like boundaries get blurred all the time around here.”

Daddy put his fork down. “Excuse me, Zora. Do I need to ask for the
keys to that Lexus until you can learn some respect?”

“It might take a long time for me to learn some respect so, yeah, I guess
I’ll need to give you the keys to my car.”

“It’s my car,” Daddy reminds me. “I believe I pay for that Lexus,
baby
girl
.”

My mother graduates to phase two of “the look,” which is more stern
and menacing. By now I’m good and tired of them treating me like a surly
teenager.

Or am I acting like a surly teenager? I don’t even know.

I only know my face burns so hot I can hardly stand it. I can hardly
breathe. Betty comes back into the room with a bowl of buttery mashed baby
red potatoes. She must feel the palpable tension in the air. She scurries out of
the dining room to get the next portion of food.

Miles tries to play peacemaker. “I don’t think you’ll need to take the keys
to the Lexus, sir. Zora is just stressed, that’s all.” He gives me one of his Denzel
smiles, complete with the Hollywood caps. I think I should be happy I’ve got
this good, handsome man having dinner with my parents and asking me if
I’m okay. I try to breathe. I try hard.

“I have a lot of work to do,” I say when I can speak.

Daddy waves away my comment. “I told you, Zorie, you don’t have to
worry your pretty head about that. The newsletter will get done. That’s why
I have a visual arts staff.”

I try very hard to keep my voice even. “It’s my job to do the newsletter.
It’s my job to do most of the graphic design at LLCC, or at least it used to be,
Daddy. It’s what I get paid for.”

He winks at me. “Being the bishop’s daughter has its benefits.”

I bristle at the word
bishop
. Nobody made Daddy a bishop. One day he
told us God had elevated his position. Deacons suddenly became associate
pastors—as did my mother—and Daddy was suddenly a bishop. He didn’t
have to answer or explain. We simply held a lovely service in his honor, and
we gave him outrageous gifts and offerings.

“I prefer to do my work myself,” I say.

“Well, I prefer if you enjoy the leisure that I’ve paved the way for you to
have, in the same way you enjoy your Prada and … who is it, Mother?” he
asks Mama.

“Kate Spade.”

He nods briskly, approving of her answer but not mine.

I have no recourse. Daddy pays my salary. Daddy pays for my car. Daddy
gives me gifts. Daddy pays for the gifts Mama gives me. Everything in my life
belongs to Daddy. I’m Daddy’s girl in ways I never realized.

I stand up. Miles stands up, ever the gentleman, looking confused. I fish
in my handbag for my car keys and plunk them on the table. In fact, I toss
that Kate Spade designer bag on the floor. He paid for that, too.

“Thanks for the use of your car, Daddy. Thanks for everything, but I
think I’m going to choose
on my own
like I should have done instead of going
to Spelman.”

He bolts up from his chair. “Zora Nella Johnson, just what do you think
you’re doing?” I noticed he didn’t include my mother’s maiden name before
Johnson.

I don’t answer him. I’m too busy leaving. He may not have noticed I
walked out on him at church, but now I’ve made my statement. This time
there’s no doubt he knows Princess Zora has voted herself off the island of
abundance.

NICKY

I’m at Barnes and Noble with Pete, my best friend. Had a little church business
to attend to in Ypsi and rewarded myself for being civil to my dad with a trip
to the bookstore nearby. Pete and I have been buddies since the third grade.
His dad has been a deacon in our church forever, and Pete and I were always
getting into a world of trouble together. We’re not so much alike. We never
were actually.

I’ve always loved to read. You have to make Pete read. I’m blonde.
He’s dark haired. He tans. I wilt in the sun. I’ll admit it, I get the ladies’
attention. Pete’s the guy in the movie destined to be cast as “best friend.”
Yeah. He’s got that vibe, but he works it. He charms the ladies, and in a
while has them thinking he’s Tom freakin’ Cruise. Tonight he’s trying his
game on the barista at the Starbucks inside of B&N. She’s grinning at him
while I peruse the latest issue of
Writer’s Digest.
There’s an article about
jumpstarting your novel, and I’m thinking I probably couldn’t jumpstart
mine if I had the cables
and
the juice—or even the beginnings of a decent
story.

And Dad wanting me to go to seminary is weighing on me. Maybe
because he’s so freakin’ impressed at how good my undergraduate degree has
been to me, the way I’ve racked up credit card debt buying writing books.
He scoffs at any mention of an MFA program, especially since I’m so blocked
I can hardly write my name, and he’s nuts about my stellar job supplying
disgruntled workers like myself with potato chips and pretzels.

God, please let Pete slip some arsenic in my latte.

Then again, the way things happen for me, it’d probably only make me
sick. Let him shoot me. I’ve already got the gun thanks to my NRA-loving
grandfather. Better yet, I’ll just shoot myself. Pete won’t have to go to jail, and
I won’t have to go to Southern Baptist seminary.

Pete returns with my poison-free latte and a venti mocha for himself. He’s
got the newest Jay-Z CD under his arm.

“Nick, you think I should get this, man?”

“I thought you had it.”

“I did, yo. But I ended up giving it away.”

Pete says “yo” in just about every other sentence. I have no idea where he
picked up the habit, but I wish he’d take it back.

“Pete, if you want it again, buy it.”

“I don’t wanna spend the money on it twice, yo.”

“Then don’t get it.”

“But I like it.”

I try not to strangle Pete. “Then get it!”

“What’s eating you, yo?”

I turn my head away to keep from unloading any more of my discontent
on him, and that’s when I see her.

Zora, the Shulamite. Sitting at a table alone, shoulders rounded and
looking as broken as she did at Bible study last night. I can’t believe how my
heart pounds just looking at her. I grab my latte just to give myself something
to do and take a long drag. It’s hot and burns my mouth. I end up spraying
Pete by accident.

He leaps up, disgusted. “Nicky, what is up with you, man?”