He saw the title. “Dodging Me?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about Glenn Burke. He was an outfielder for the Dodgers in the midseventies.”
He never followed baseball, but for some reason, the name sounded familiar. He’d heard Glenn mentioned before in conversation, but it wasn’t in relation to the game. It finally clicked.
“He was gay . . . ?” he half asked himself.
“Yes.”
Now, if he had been given this script eight years ago when he was somewhat of a hot property, he most certainly would have passed on it. He couldn’t play gay and have the world wondering if he was. But today? He’s a different man with a different plan playing with a different hand.
Besides, you can’t be picky when you never get picked.
So . . . “That would explain the title,” he observed as he flipped the script open. He was on page twenty-five when the food arrived. And as he took the last bite of his smoked salmon, he was on ninety-nine, sixteen pages to the end.
As his clean plate was taken away, he closed the screenplay. He didn’t want to know how it ended—yet.
“So?” Troy asked.
“This is a jood role.”
“I told you.”
“But . . .”
“But what?”
“Why do they want me?”
“One of the producers remembers you from Rebound; he saw you on Larry King Live.”
The show, which aired two weeks ago, had focused on gambling addiction; it was Larry’s in-the-news nod to high-andflighty conservative William Bennett turning out to be a holy roller of a different kind. Gladys Knight was scheduled to participate but had to cancel, so Raheim filled her spot (yup, he was the lone Negro out of five guests). He proved to be popular with Larry (he was the only one in the studio and they had great convos during the commercial breaks) and those who called in (most addressed their comments and questions to him, including one woman who, choking back tears, said she’d be sending a tape of the program to her brother, an Internet-blackjack freak). After the show, Larry gave him an open invite to come back, and one of Raheim’s fellow panelists asked him to give a speech at the National Conference on Problem Gambling in Phoenix next June (he accepted). He was pleased that he could help others get the help they needed or prevent them from going down the same path. Troy saluted his humanitarian efforts but, being the jood agent he is, saw the King spot for what it really was—a high-profile appearance that would lead to something else—and (as usual) he was right.
But . . . “So, he knows my history . . . ?” Raheim inquired.
“He does.”
“And he knows I’ve never starred in a film before?”
“He does.”
“And he still wants to take a chance on me?”
“He does.”
“Wow.” He exhaled. After having the door locked and bolted so long, it felt so jood to have this opportunity come his way.
And Troy knew it. “You want some time to pinch yourself?”
They laughed.
“You don’t have to audition or take a screen test. I sent him a copy of A Raisin in the Sun, and he and the other producers loved you in it.”
It was his off-off-Broadway debut. During the show’s two-month run last year, he stepped out of the shadows as the understudy and into the role of Walter Lee Younger for two weeks when the star was bedridden with pneumonia. And, as luck would have it, one of those performances was filmed for a PBS special on Lorraine Hansberry. Troy coaxed the documentarians into releasing some of the footage so it could be edited and used as part of Raheim’s résumé. That paid off in a big way.
“Cool. When do they want an answer?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Like yesterday?”
“Yup. But we’re gonna take until Monday afternoon. You haven’t had this type of offer before, so you deserve to enjoy this feeling.”
“Thanks. I will.” He grinned.
“You’re so pleased you haven’t asked about the salary.”
“Oh. How much?”
“Three seventy-five.”
Raheim was surprised it was that much; the film would be an indie from Fine Line. He hadn’t seen a six-figure check in a loooong time. “That’ll be a nice payday.”
“Indeed. But the payday wasn’t nice enough for many of those they approached, probably because of the kind of role it is and the risks involved in taking it.”
Yeah. Like being branded with a scarlet letter for playing a homo? Like having one’s so-called masculinity questioned? Like not being considered for “manly” roles, be they in romantic comedies or action adventures, in the future?
He brushed all that off. “They shoulda took the role because of the risks.”
“Indeed. But their loss is your gain. This is your chance to prove that you always had it—and still do.”
“Prove to who?”
“To yourself.” Troy raised his glass.
He followed. They clinked. They sipped their water.
Troy glared at him. “Just don’t ditch me when William Morris, CAA, and ICM come calling when the movie hits big, okay?”
After all he’d put Troy through (he’d told him “fuck you” and hung up on him more than once) and all the time Troy’d spent helping to repair his reputation and his career, the brother believed in him and stuck by him, so there’s no way that would happen. “You know I won’t,” he promised. He smiled at the script, then frowned. “But . . .”
Troy shook his head; he was used to the doubt. “Yes?”
“What if I’m no jood? I mean, I ain’t never done something this heavy before.”
“Are you kidding? You were born to play this part. As Addison advised Eve in All About Eve: ‘You’ll give the performance of your life.’”
Chapter 5
At 4 P.M., the second-floor doorbell rang. Destiny raced to answer it. She slowly pulled back the curtain covering one of the rectangular windows that framed the door, peeking outside.
“Gran’ma, gran’ma!” she squealed with utter delight upon seeing her grandmother’s smiling face pressed up to the window.
As soon as Mitchell unlocked the door and there was enough space, Destiny jumped into her grandmother’s arms.
“Hey there, Precious! How is my Sweetie Pie doing today?”
“I’m jood. How you?”
“I’m jooder now that I have you in my arms.”
Destiny giggled.
As always, they spent the next two minutes cooing at each other—playing with the other’s hair, pinching each other’s cheeks, rubbing noses, and catching up on whatever had happened in the twenty hours since they last spoke on the phone.
The way they dote on each other, the way Mitchell’s mother holds her, the way Destiny hugs her by the neck . . . you’d think she was her mother.
As it turns out, she is.
Mitchell will never forget the day—May 28, 1997. His mother and her husband, Anderson, invited him and his brother, Adam, over to their home for dinner in Longwood, a suburb just a few miles from Newark. She told them she had a “surprise.” She revealed it in their living room.
Mitchell was anxious to hear the news. “So, what’s the surprise?”
“Well,” she began with a pause, “I’m pregnant.”
Mitchell’s mouth opened—but nothing came out.
Adam didn’t have that problem. “You’re what?” He couldn’t believe it.
“I’m pregnant,” she repeated.
“Pregnant?” Adam winced. He said it as if it was a disease.
“Yes, pregnant.”
“Are . . . are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. The test came out blue—twice. And Dr. Suarez confirmed it yesterday.”
Adam still couldn’t believe it. “You . . . you . . . you’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But, Ma, you’re . . . you’re . . .”
> “Forty-nine? Yes, Adam, I know my age. It can happen to a woman of my years. Rarely, but it happens.”
“But . . . how?”
“You know how—we had that talk when you were ten.” She giggled.
“You’re . . . gonna . . . have . . . a . . . baby?” Adam said, as if to himself, still in disbelief.
“Yes. Don’t sound so excited.” Her eyes fell on Mitchell. “You’ve been quiet about the news.”
After opening his mouth a couple of times and saying nothing, he finally did. “Wow . . .” He turned to Adam. “We’re gonna have another brother. Or our first sister.”
“Whatever it is, it will be the last sibling you two have,” she promised.
Now that he could speak, Mitchell had twenty questions. “How many months are you?”
“Two.”
“So it’ll be a Christmas baby?”
“Yes. My due date is the twenty-fourth.”
“And Dr. Suarez said you’re okay?”
“Yes. But he wants to monitor me. There are risks and there could be complications. But since I don’t have anything like hypertension or diabetes, they shouldn’t be anything serious if they do arise.”
“And how do you feel?”
“I feel fine. I was having hot flashes and a little nausea, but it’s passed. At first I thought I was going through the change. But then I got that same sensation in my belly I had when I was pregnant with you two.” She rubbed her stomach.
“Will you work through the whole pregnancy?”
“Probably up until the seventh month.”
“Do you plan to take some time off after it’s born?”
“A year.” She laughed. “You should’ve seen the faces of the folks I work with when I told them why I’d be taking a leave of absence.”
Mitchell included Anderson in his next query. “What are you two hoping for, a boy or a girl?”
Anderson shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. So long as it’s healthy.”
“I hope it’s a boy,” admitted Adam.
Mitchell’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because then I’ll have someone to call little brother.”
“But all the kids in the family have been boys. It’s about time we had a girl. I’ve always wanted a little sister.”
“Actually,” she interrupted, “she—or he—will be your sibling, but not raised as one.”
“Huh?” Mitchell and Adam groaned.
“I’m not young enough to raise another child,” she declared.
“Forty-nine isn’t old,” Mitchell reminded her.
“You’re right, it isn’t. My being pregnant is proof. But it’s not about my age but the stage of life we’re in. We’re both looking forward to retiring; me in five years, Anderson in seven. And it takes a lot of energy and patience to be a parent. When I was in my twenties and thirties it was a struggle; in my fifties and sixties, it would be an ordeal. I haven’t been in mommy mode for a long time—and I don’t want to take that trip again.”
Mitchell’s eyes grew wide. “You mean . . . you’re gonna put the baby up for adoption?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
She glanced at her husband. “We’d like you to raise the baby,” Anderson revealed.
Mitchell pointed to himself. “Me?”
“Yes. I never thought we’d have a baby, but here we are. We couldn’t have our child being raised by strangers. We want to keep him—or her—in the family. And we think this is the best solution.” Anderson looked at Adam. “Since you’ll be a father soon, we didn’t want to triple your pleasure.” Adam’s wife, Lynette, would be giving birth to twins in November.
“Thanks,” Adam breathed, somewhat relieved.
Mitchell was overwhelmed. “Wow. I . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, we hope you’ll say yes. It’s a major undertaking. And it will be a major adjustment for you.”
“And Pooquie,” Mitchell’s mother added.
Anderson nodded. “Just think about it. And talk it over with him.”
“Okay. I will. We will.”
“But don’t take too long,” his mother warned. “We would like an answer before my water breaks.” They all laughed.
Even though he knew his answer would be yes, Mitchell took a week to mull things over. He planned to quit his job at Knowledge Hall six months after the baby was born and stay at home until she (or he) entered the first grade (his mother and Anderson would be depositing child-support money into an account each month that would help supplement his income free-lance writing). Given how territorial Raheim could be, Mitchell was surprised but pleased that he was just as excited about the baby (in fact, Raheim painted and decorated the nursery and built the crib himself).
At the end of his mother’s first trimester, they learned the baby would be a girl. No one was happier about this news than Anderson. Why? Because, as he explained to Mitchell one afternoon as they were going over some of the adoption papers, the chances were slim to none that a female would “turn out” gay living in a household with two SGL men.
Anderson then apologized. “I’m sorry for thinking this way. It’s . . . it’s silly.”
“It is,” Mitchell agreed.
“And it’s stupid.”
“It’s that, too.”
“I mean, I see how you are with Raheim’s son.”
“Yes, but that’s his son. This might have been yours.”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“I’m not really shocked that you feel that way. After all, you’re heterosexual.”
“It’s still no excuse.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“And you’d think that after so many years being your stepfather . . .”
“You’d know better? Well, you do know better.”
Anderson shrugged. “I guess old beliefs . . . they do die hard.”
“Indeed. It’s very hard to totally shake them off. They become a part of you.”
“Funny thing is, I didn’t really consider that until someone else mentioned it.”
Hmm . . . “Was this someone else Sally?”
“Uh, yeah.” Sally is Anderson’s first cousin. She’d kicked out her sixteen-year-old daughter, Erica, when she discovered copies of lesbian porn videos in her room, hidden in a hole cut out in the middle of her bed’s box spring. Erica was taken in by her gay uncle, whom Sally hasn’t spoken to in fifteen years. Sally has been giving Erica the silent treatment for eight.
“I can hear her now,” Mitchell began, scrunching his face then sneering in a hoarse voice similar to hers: “‘You gonna let him raise your son and turn him into a homo?’”
Anderson chuckled. “Something like that. I tried to brush it off, but . . . it bothered me. And the fact that it bothered me really bothered me. I thought I was over thinking like that.”
“Well, there will always be some fragments that remain. The feeling probably isn’t as strong now that you know it’ll be a girl, but it probably is still there. That doesn’t make you a horrible person.”
“But I feel like one.”
“The important thing is that you recognize it and grow from it. And you’ve made the effort over the years. Don’t you remember asking whether seeing you walk around half-naked made me this way?”
Anderson thought back. He remembered. He looked embarrassed.
“I understood where that came from; you just didn’t know. And you’ve come a long way since then. You didn’t view my being the father of your son or daughter as negative until she put that bug in your ear, and that says a lot. Did you tell Mom?”
“No. I knew she would tell me what I already knew to be true.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“I . . . I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“See. And you thought you didn’t know any better . . .”
Anderson continued to feel guilty about it but (unbeknownst to his wife and Mitchell) felt twice as guilty about passin
g the responsibility of raising his only child onto someone else, especially when he had the means to do it himself. And his angst was fueled by how much more desirable and sexy he found his pregnant wife to be, not to mention the excitement he felt over seeing the ultrasound, feeling the baby kick, attending the Lamaze classes, and witnessing the birth (he didn’t become ill or faint in the delivery room).
But all that changed the first time Destiny (Raheim chose her name) spent the weekend with her grandparents. The romantic cloud that hung over Anderson’s prebirth experience quickly disappeared, thanks to the 2 A.M. feedings; the nerve-racking, never-ending crying; and those dreaded diaper changes. And this was the easy stuff: the older they get, the more complicated and stressful the mechanics of caring for them becomes (and the worries multiply). He couldn’t get used to any of this seven days a week for the next eighteen-plus years. So he, like his wife, is always glad when that first and third Friday rolls around and Destiny visits—and almost as glad when she goes back home to her daddy on Sunday. Anderson is very content with her being Granddaddy’s little girl.
Grandma, on the other hand, treats her like a mama’s girl. And while she hasn’t verbalized it, even Destiny can see that the connection they share is something that could exist only between a mother and daughter. So while the plan is to tell Destiny the whole story when she turns eighteen (she knows that she was adopted and that, in the words of her uncle Gene courtesy of Mommie Dearest, “Adopted children are the luckiest because they were chosen”), Mitchell predicts it will happen sooner than they think (just last month, Destiny noticed how much she looked like Grandma when she was a little girl). And given how close they are, it won’t be that big a shock (or, as these revelations usually do, cause turmoil and trauma). In fact, Destiny will probably start calling her “Mama”; that’s the only missing ingredient in their relationship right now.
One thing’s for sure, though—she spoils her like a grandmother. She knows Mitchell doesn’t like Destiny to eat a lot of candy, but she will always try to sneak her a treat.
Mitchell noticed the colorful wrapper she placed into Destiny’s hand as she put her down. “Mom,” he huffed.
“One piece of candy ain’t gonna hurt her. Besides, it’s sugarless.”
A House Is Not a Home Page 4
