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

ready to fly away on her own, black, shining wings. She gave away her furniture to a single mother who had a three-year-old baby, a man in prison, and a whole lot of nothing. I think about what her room used to look like before she boxed up what she’d take with her to Parsons. A little lived in, but mostly neat. MacKenzie had cute furniture, but it was cheap. I joked with her that it was mortal, and when it died it would turn to dust. Sawdust that is. She could only afford prefabricated furniture kits you had to put together yourself, that you’d better not dare put a teacup on. Another artist friend of ours, Shanna, calls that kind of furniture “Shanghai surprise.”
    I wonder if Mac thought my jokes about her furniture were funny, while I sat in the living room on my Cheryl Riley originals. Oh, Lord. And now it looks like the Grinch stole my Christmas.
    My knees feel week. I realize that hours have gone by since I woke up and I haven’t eaten a thing. I walk on shaky legs into the empty kitchen. My dining room furniture is gone, not as fancy as my mother’s, but a scaled- down version by the same designer. All my linens with the Adinkra symbol embroidery that went with the stencils on the walls are gone too. I’m grateful I didn’t rent a house, because maybe he’d have taken the stove and refrigerator too.
    Thank God I had the good sense to get the lease in my name. He’d tried to cosign for me, or get the lease in his name, but I persevered. He can’t take my apartment. But he has my job. And my car. And all the credit cards. My clothing. My computer.
    My résumé is in my computer. Not that I can go job hunting. What am I going to do in my pajamas? I don’t even have any shoes. And what about interview clothes? Clothes, period?
    I don’t want to think about the implications of any of this. I want to call MacKenzie. She’ll help me through it. I’ve helped her.
    I go back into her room since he took my phones. I pick up her old- fashioned princess trimline, and a feeling of heaviness overcomes me. Didn’t Mac tell me I needed to apologize? She practically idolizes this apartment. She’s going to flip her weave when she finds out The Bishop came in and took everything I own. I put the phone down.
    It feels like my blood sugar has gone down. I’m not usually hypoglycemic, but the stress of the day, my nerves, and no food has wreaked havoc on my body. Once again, I walk from MacKenzie’s room to the living room. I sit down, cross-legged on the floor. I’d read my Bible but he took it. And the thought of that makes me laugh. The Bishop went so far in punishing me for my sin of disrespecting him that he took my Sword of the Spirit.
    How am I supposed to speak the Word? How am I supposed to find the victory in my mouth? Ha! I’ll bet that to him the only victory in my mouth are the words, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
    I wonder how many slashes across his back before he said “I’m sorry” to Granddaddy? I wonder if he had to say the actual words, if he had to concede his defeat in the exact way Granddaddy specified.
    Maybe if I showed up at church in my pajamas and put my arms around his neck, just held onto him, maybe he’d circle my waist with his arms and that would be I’m sorry for both of us.
    What would that mean for our lives? Would he have Mike and Tim come back bearing my things with a smile? All is forgiven? As if I’d ever forget that the two guys I’ve gone with to children’s church, to youth group, to singles group, sold me out like two overseers on a plantation.
    “Miss Zora gon’ fly away, Massa Jack. She gon’ cleave da’ air an fly away.”
    What’s the matter with me?
    I lie down on the floor and tell myself I’m thinking crazy. I shouldn’t have gone to Spelman. I definitely shouldn’t have majored in African American studies. If I’d gone to Parsons, I wouldn’t be lying on my empty floor thinking about slaves and overseers and wings I don’t seem to have.
    All that