Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White by Claudia Mair Burney

raps at my door. That is his warning. I know that knock. I hear his key twisting inside my lock. My father is coming in.
    I stumble out of my room to the door, righting pajama bottoms twisted around my waist. I try to prepare myself to face him. It can’t be too bad. This is my daddy. But I did make him angry. No one challenges The Bishop , especially not his little girl.
    But this is Daddy.
    He swings the door open, perhaps expecting I’d still be sleeping. He looks a little surprised to see me standing there near the door. He comes inside, walks past me, and seats himself on my sofa. No greeting. He’s obviously not here to extend social graces.
    He glances around at a room he’s seen a million times.
    The sapphire blue walls. The Sankofa symbols I stenciled onto the borders in a cream color, the same as my leather sofa. For Word-Faithers, we Hampton-Johnsons are a particularly culturally aware bunch. Funky, hip Cheryl Riley furniture, all contemporary and afrocentric. The fine art prints— Daddy thinks the originals are too expensive and not worth it. Gilbert Young, Cynthia St. James, Romare Beardon. Everybody I wish I had the courage to be like. MacKenzie has life drawings and renderings she’s framed and displayed. Just a few. Painting and drawing aren’t her thing; she’s more of a furniture design diva. I’m the one who paints and draws. In theory.
    I do not showcase my art. I don’t have a single painting of my own displayed in my apartment. Not one drawing. My easel and paints hide away in my closet like you’d keep the clothing of a loved one who died out of sight.
    Daddy sits on the sofa like he owns it. Which he does.
    It’s not his fault I haven’t displayed my work. I’m grown. I can paint if I want to. Can’t I? I try to choke back anger rising like the tide inside of me. Or is that grief?
    Wait a minute. I’ve got everything. Look around you, Z.
    Isn’t this everything? Even MacKenzie said I need to be thankful for these blessings. I should apologize.
    But I say nothing.
    It feels like a snake is coiled tightly inside of me, and if I open my mouth, it will hiss, strike, kill. And I can’t guarantee exactly what or who will die.
    God help me.
    Daddy hasn’t lost his words. “Don’t you have something to say to me, Zora?”
    “Mama stopped by last night. She brought me my purse and talked to me.”
    “Then I believe you have something to say to me.”
    But I don’t. My mother wore me out with her recriminations. I’m silent.
    He stares at me. I try to remember how badly my grandfather treated him. I think of the road map of misery trailing scars across his back. I try to dredge up every psych class I’ve ever taken. Tell myself he’s only this controlling because he’s had so many losses. I try to think of him like the little boy he was, just being himself and having his father try to beat the Jack Johnson out of him. Beat him like a slave.
    Slave.
    Slave.
    Slave.
    Daddy doesn’t beat me. My daddy doesn’t beat me.
    I still can’t speak.
    “So, you’re just going to stand there and stare at me?”
    I clear my throat. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m perfectly capable of speaking. I just do not wish to be manipulated. “No, sir.”
    “No, sir, what?” he barks like a drill sergeant.
    “No, sir.”
    “I said, ‘No, sir, what?’ What do you have to say to me, Zora?”
    I start to feel hot. Sweaty. For a moment it feels like I can’t breathe.
    No, sir, what? No, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir, boss. Yes, sir, boss.
    I wonder, do I bow my back and widen my eyes, shuffle my feet? Uh, no, suh. Uh, yes um, massa. I’s sorry I’s offended you! Suh! Massa.
    This is your father. A black man. Don’t be like this, Z.
    I press my lips together, still not knowing what’s wrong with me.
    Daddy stands up. “You want to act like you’re mute. That’s fine with me. I can get quiet too. But before I do, I’m taking my stuff. You want to be on your own? You do that, Zora. You are