Visible Lives

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  Mitchell started at the beginning—a decade ago, when they first met at Harry’s bar (E. confessed he had some “really wild times” there). After nearly an hour, he’d recapped their history, leading up to Errol’s fifteenth birthday party two months ago.

  “Now, that is one rollercoaster of a relationship. It’s the stuff that best-sellers are made of,” E. observed.

  “You have my permission to use it,” Mitchell assured him.

  “Me? Why can’t you write it?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? You are a writer. And a damn good one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because of the way you approached our interview. You didn’t ask me about things you could find in my bio or a press release. You asked questions I hoped others would have for years. In fact, I have a feeling that a lot of what we talked about won’t end up in Ebony.”

  “Actually, there’s a Black gay magazine in Atlanta, Clikque, that I’ll be doing an article for, too.”

  “See. Insightful and resourceful. You should be running your own magazine. This was one of the best interviews I’ve ever done.”

  “Thanks. But I’ve never written fiction before.”

  “Join the club! I never thought I could, either. Besides, no one will tell this story better than you. Think about it. We can never have too many Black love stories.”

  Mitchell couldn’t disagree with that.

  “So, back to the question that led us down this road: what are you waiting for?”

  “Things are…complicated.”

  “They don’t have to be. Cook that man his favorite meal and invite him over this weekend.”

  “I can’t. I’ll be out of town.”

  “Oh? Where are you headed?”

  “To Atlanta.”

  “Ah. Business, pleasure, or both?”

  “Probably both.”

  “Of course. How can a Black man go to Atlanta on business and not find some pleasure?”

  They laughed.

  “Are you staying with a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of friend is he?”

  “What kind?”

  “Yes. Is he a friend”—E. Lynn leaned in with a smirk—“or a friend?”

  Mitchell giggled. “He’s a…special friend.”

  “Hmm…what’s his name?”

  “Montee Simms.” E. Lynn did a double take. “Montgomery?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I do.” He grinned. “You will not be able to resist that man. Be-lieve me.”

  “You and Montee?”

  “We…shared something, for a brief time.”

  “How brief?”

  “A few months. Many, many moons ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, this was before I became more…comfortable with myself. Montee was already there; he was always there. How could he not be, having parents who were bisexual? Being from Little Rock, we had a special connection, a lot in common. The people, the places, the schools. But…it wasn’t enough.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I couldn’t love him. I didn’t know how and I didn’t believe I was worthy of it. I was still trying to love myself. And, the truth was…I wasn’t in a place to do either one. So we broke up. I told him, ‘Whoever snags you will have captured some Heaven on earth.’ I guess that lucky man is you.”

  “No.”

  “No? Then why else would you be taking this trip?”

  “Montee and I have already discussed my situation. He knows I’m not in a space to pursue something with him.”

  “His head may know it, but his heart? He is a very passionate—and persistent—man. And, I’m sure Raheim is, too. I wouldn’t want to be in your position.”

  “My position?”

  “On one hand you have the love of your life; on the other…Montgomery. Torn between two bruthas. You go to Atlanta, and the game plan will change. You will have some choice to make.”

  Mitchell considered what he said. “You don’t think I should go.”

  “I can’t say. Only you know what’s best for you, what’ll be good for you. Maybe you and Montgomery can only be special friends. But this is really about you and Raheim—or whether there will be a you and Raheim again. Something is holding you back. Are you afraid?”

  Mitchell sighed. “I am.”

  “You have every right to be. If you two give it another go, it’ll be the third time. But it sounds like you two have something that many of us pray for. So…don’t stop believing in love, Mitch, ’cause love won’t stop believing in you.” He raised his glass. “To love.”

  Mitchell followed suit. “To love.”

  Clink.

  August 14, 2003, 3:55 P.M.

  Raheim knew Mitchell would be preparing one of his favorites for their late lunch. And he was: fried chicken, succotash, and cornbread. So Raheim wore what he hoped was still an outfit Mitchell loved to see him in: a bright orange tank, orange and black checkered pants (which Mitchell purchased in Honolulu), and sandals.

  The look on Mitchell’s face when he opened the door told him he had.

  Mitchell also enjoyed watching Raheim eat. They didn’t say much during the meal; they didn’t have to. As Mitchell wrapped up and stored the leftovers, Raheim loaded the dishwasher.

  “That was so jood,” Raheim raved.

  “Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it.”

  “You should give my Moms the recipe; I know she’d love it.”

  “Doesn’t she have one?”

  “I don’t ever remember her makin’ it.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to write it down. There is no recipe.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you cook it?”

  “By memory. And smells. I saw my mother and grandmother make it so often.”

  “You should try to put it on paper. I might even try to make it.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, me. I do cook now, ya know?”

  “Yes. Now, your version I would have to taste.” Mitchell placed three containers in a brown paper bag. “Don’t forget your to-go box.”

  “Ha, you know I won’t. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Raheim closed and started the dishwasher. He looked at his watch. “So, do you want to head out now? We can beat the rush hour traffic.”

  “Mmm, can we wait ’til 4:30? I’d like to see at least one episode of Judge Judy.”

  “That’s fine.”

  They settled on the sofa in the great room, sitting just a couple of inches apart (as their glasses of lemonade were on the coffee table). They balked as the defendant claimed it wasn’t his fault that he was involved in a crash with the plaintiff’s car since (1) he didn’t ask to drive the car, (2) he was doing the plaintiff a favor by running an errand, (3) he may have run a red light and caused the accident but the plaintiff has insurance and he should take care of any damage through that channel and, besides, (4) what kind of a family member sues another?

  Mitchell and Raheim wore the same expression: Boy, is he gonna get it!

  As Judge Judy was about to go in for the final kill…both the television and room light went off. Mitchell grabbed the remote and pressed power. Nothing. He got up and tried it manually. Nothing. Same for Raheim as he flicked the light switch.

  “Hmm. Must be a short,” Mitchell said, more to himself.

  “Let me check the breakers,” Raheim volunteered.

  Raheim remembered where they were: in the front hall, just before you enter the living area. He opened the compartment and found the prong for the great room, moving it left then back to the right.

  “Okay. Have they come back on?”

  “No.”

  Then Raheim noticed that the floor lamp in the living room was off and the clock radio on the end table wasn’t blinking. He flipped all six pro
ngs under the first floor banner. Neither the lamp or the radio came on.

  “How about now?” he called out again.

  “Still nothing.” Mitchell headed up the hall. “Don’t tell me I’m about to leave town and I’ve got a burnout in that room.”

  “Looks like it may be the whole first floor.”

  Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity outside: cars honking, police sirens, and people chattering. They peered out the window. There was a teenager, a radio on his left shoulder, running in the street. “Yo, it’s a blackout! It’s a blackout! The lights are out all over the city!”

  Mitchell and Raheim looked at each other in disbelief. Raheim followed Mitchell into the kitchen, where a small transistor radio sat on the window sill. Mitchell turned it on.

  “If you’re just tuning in, a blackout has hit New York City, Albany, Buffalo, Newark, Baltimore, Detroit, and three cities in Ohio: Toledo, Akron, and Cleveland. According to a Con Edison spokeswoman, a faulty or damaged grid at a plant in Syracuse, New York, appears to be the culprit. Energy officials speculate that, given the reach of this blackout, chances are total power will not be restored to all affected areas until early tomorrow morning.”

  Their first calls were to the women who brought them in this world. Raheim hit speed dial and #1 on his cell.

  “Hi, darlin’.”

  “Hay Ma. You a’ight?”

  “Yeah, just trying to get these remaining customers out of here so we can close up shop.” She owns and operates a restaurant off 125th Street called the Chicken Kitchen.

  “You need me to come there and help?”

  “How are you gonna get here?”

  “Drive.”

  “No, you’re not. Folks don’t know how to obey traffic signs and laws with the lights on. You just stay in Jersey. Are you at the airport or have you already dropped Mitchell off?”

  “I’m still here in Brooklyn.”

  “Oh? You’re still in Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah. We never got the chance to leave.”

  “Hmm…”

  “What?”

  “Talk about divine intervention.”

  “Ma…”

  “Well, what else could you call it? Have you called Errol?”

  “Not yet. I will after you.”

  “And what about your father?”

  “He’s still asleep. He worked the night shift. I’ll call him around six.”

  “Well, tell Mitchell I said hello.”

  “Moms says hey.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Rivers,” Mitchell sang.

  “He’s still calling me ‘Mrs. Rivers’ don’t he know he can call me Mom by now?”

  Raheim chuckled.

  “Hmph. And after tonight, it’ll once again be mother-in-law.”

  “Ma…”

  She giggled. “You two have fun.”

  “Call me when you get home.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “My turn,” Mitchell announced. He didn’t get the chance, though; his cell rang. The caller ID flashed: Mom. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  “Hi, Sugar Plum. How are you?”

  “I’m jood. How you?”

  “I’m jood.”

  “Daddy, you sure?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Because, the lights went out.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “And you by yourself.”

  “No, I’m not. Uncle Raheim is here.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Joody! May I talk to him?”

  “Hold on.”

  Mitchell pressed the loudspeaker button. He placed the phone on the counter, between them.

  “Hay, Baby Doll.”

  “Hi, Uncle Raheim!”

  “How you doin?”

  “I’m doin’ jood. How you doin’?”

  “I’m jood. The lights out at Grandma’s?”

  “Uh-huh. Grandpa says we gonna camp out in the backyard if they don’t come back on.”

  “Ooh, that sounds like fun.”

  “Uncle Raheim?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You gotta stay with Daddy.”

  Mitchell and Raheim’s eyes met, then returned to the phone.

  “Uh…you think I should?”

  “Uh-huh. He can’t be by himself. Please?”

  “Okay. I will.”

  “Joody! You and Daddy can camp outside, too.”

  “Daddy is not camping outside,” Mitchell interjected.

  “You should, Daddy.”

  “We don’t have a large backyard or a tent, like Grandma and Grandpa. So you have fun for me and Uncle Raheim.”

  “I will.”

  “And take care of Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell them I’ll speak to them later.”

  “Okay. I love you Daddy.”

  “I love you, too, Sugar Plum.”

  “And Uncle Raheim?”

  “Yeah, Baby Doll?”

  “I love you, too!”

  Raheim replied with her hallmark. “And I love you, too, times two!”

  Destiny giggled.

  At that very moment, their other child checked in. Raheim placed his cell on the counter.

  “Hay son,” Raheim answered, on speakerphone.

  “Hey, Dad. How are you?”

  “I’m jood. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We just got back to Sid’s aunt’s house.”

  “Are the lights out there?”

  “No. But you’d think they were. Some of these folks are trippin’.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s talk that it’s a terrorist attack and the rest of the East Coast will be in darkness soon.”

  “Make sure y’all stay indoors until tomorrow.”

  “We will.”

  “How was the tour?”

  “It was cool.”

  “So, did Temple move up on the list?”

  “No. It’s still coming in number eleven on the top ten.”

  “Ha, I’m sure Sid is tryin’ to change that.”

  “Yeah. Looks like this trip made his mind up. At least he won’t have to pay for room and board. His aunt has one really hot townhouse. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Brooklyn. With Uncle Mitch.”

  “You are?”

  “He is,” Mitchell assured him.

  “Cool beans.” Errol knew full well what this meant. “Don’t forget about the emergency kit; it will come in handy.”

  “Emergency kit?” Raheim asked.

  “Yes. It has all the necessities for a family facing a crisis like this.”

  Raheim smiled. “My son saves the day.”

  Errol blushed. “Oh, that’s Mom on the other line.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk with you later.”

  “Okay. Love you both.”

  “Love you, too,” Raheim and Mitchell responded together.

  Silence.

  Mitchell sighed. “Uh…let me show you the kit.”

  Raheim followed Mitchell into the kitchen. Mitchell opened the door to the utility closet. He pulled down the silver-pronged tassel attached to the light fixture, forgetting there was no electricity. They laughed.

  “You want me to get that?” Raheim asked.

  “Thanks.”

  Mitchell scooted out of his way. Raheim hunched down and lifted up the dark green milk crate. He placed it on the island. He went back for the twenty-four-count case of Nestle Pure Life water, placing it on the counter.

  “What possessed him to do this?” Raheim inquired.

  “Errol and I were watching The Day After, on the SciFi Channel.”

  “That’s the nuclear bomb movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was, like, twenty years ago.”

  “Mmm-hmm. It still gives me chills. He enjoyed it but thought it was dated. I couldn’t bla
me him, since his generation hadn’t faced a threat like that. But then, a week later, 9/11 happened. Those images after the Towers fell—they were similar to a nuclear winter. And when he discovered stationery from Goldman Sachs on our roof the next day, it clicked. He realized we have to be prepared for a natural—or unnatural—disaster.”

  Raheim surveyed the joods: Lay’s potato chips, Rold Gold pretzels, SMARTFOOD caramel popcorn, a canister of Planters peanuts, Jolly Rancher hard candy, Werther’s caramels, blueberry and raspberry Nutri-Grain cereal bars, Del Monte canned peaches, four cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, and a six pack of Canada Dry ginger ale.

  And…“Ha, I don’t have to ask who these are for.” Raheim held up a box of Sun-Maid raisins.

  “She’s had her eye on that since he put it in there. That had to be a year ago. What’s the expiration date?”

  “August 25, 2003.”

  “Just in time.”

  “How often does E refresh the kit?”

  “Every other month. With his own money.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. He sees it as part of his responsibility, being the oldest child in the home. He also has us doing a fire drill every other month.”

  “I bet Destiny loves that.”

  “She does. She’s on whistle duty.”

  “Whistle duty?”

  “It’s her job to blow the whistle after Errol yells, ‘Smoke!’ And Errol times how long it takes us to get out of the house.”

  “How long does it usually take?”

  “I think our personal best has been twenty-eight seconds. And that time, I was in the middle of brushing my teeth.”

  They laughed.

  Raheim took stock of the non-food items: Kleenex tissue packs, utensils, a can opener, three flashlights, four candle sticks, two books of matches, batteries (AA, AAA, C, and D), Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, Johnson & Johnson’s baby oil, Band-Aids, peroxide, rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, and something he hadn’t seen in years: his mini-boom box, which his mother purchased for his sixteenth birthday. It had both a CD and dual cassette deck.

  “Wow. I forgot all about this. Does this thing still work?”

  “It did when Errol conducted his inventory last month.”

  Mitchell watched as Raheim examined the knobs and dials as if he were seeing them for the first time. He then checked the back panel; there were already batteries inside. He turned on the power. The volume was on full blast; they jumped back.

  Raheim turned it down. “Oops, sorry. It’s still one powerful little machine.” He fiddled with the tuner and landed on (what was once) one of their songs: Toni Braxton’s “Breathe Again.”