A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

  After he moved in, though, Raheim learned there were a few other things expected of him. Since his father would be doing all of the cooking, Raheim had to do the dishes (as well as take out the trash). Because his father sometimes worked double shifts as a tollbooth clerk at the Holland Tunnel and had so few clothes to clean (the man hadn’t purchased a new pair of jeans in ten years and still wore a very faded and tattered Kareem Abdul-Jabbar T-shirt), Raheim was on laundry duty. He was also responsible for dusting and polishing the furniture, sweeping and mopping the floors, and cleaning the bathroom.

  And then there was “the check-in”: if Raheim was out late or planned on not coming home, he’d have to call to let him know. Naturally, Raheim balked: even if the man was his father, that didn’t give him the right to know where he was, who he was with, what he was doing, and when he’d be home. After all . . .

  “I’m a grown man,” he defiantly argued.

  His father laughed. “You ain’t a grown man until you reach your thirties—and by that time you’ll wish you weren’t.” Before Raheim could recover from that blow, he hit him with another one: “I know you can do the right thing—but you gotta show you can be trusted to do it.”

  “So, you don’t trust me?”

  “Of course I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have let you move in here. You could rob me blind, put me in the hole. But that’s a chance I’m willing to take. The real question is, can you trust yourself?”

  Jood question. His life had been out of sync the past four years and he had already slipped once on the road to recovery. So, even though the check-in and household chores initially made him feel like a teenager, he realized they were for his own jood, his father’s way of keeping an eye out and providing him with some structure and stability. All his life he’d been carrying the weight himself, unwilling to let others help. Everybody needs a safe place to fall, where they can just be without judgment, a world away from the world that hasn’t been patient with or kind to them—and the person who was that soft place for Raheim, he pushed away.

  So while his father hadn’t raised Raheim, he now stepped in to raise him up.

  Raheim had kept him at a yard’s distance since he popped back up nine years ago, but that wall came crumbling down during the almost four years they’ve been housemates. He’s become a papa’s boy—and he’s proud of it. He’s enjoyed living under the same roof and, in some ways, having the kind of relationship with his father he didn’t have growing up. But he knows their being roomies will have to end, sooner rather than later. As his father has been hinting over the past year, “Now that you’re in your thirties, you’re officially a grown man—which means you’ve outgrown me.” Being a grown man means you have to be, not act, grown—and he sees that he was indeed acting the role over the past decade. After turning eighteen, he (like so many other young men) tripped into and stumbled through his twenties—and much of that tripping and stumbling was due to being hardheaded. He’s finally grown up, thanks to his father, and although he hasn’t made any announcement or started looking for a place of his own, he knows that has to be his next step. He can empathize with those adult children who find themselves back at Mom and Dad’s doorstep after a divorce, losing a job, or out of plain homesickness.

  Saturday morning has become their time to catch up. When Raheim emerged from the bathroom in green BVDs and a white tank, he walked toward the kitchen and found his father (also in green BVDs and a white tank; yup, they’re dressing alike) standing over the stove, mixing a bowl of oatmeal.

  The elder Rivers smiled. “Well . . . jood mornin’, son.”

  “Jood mornin’, Pop.” Raheim took the orange juice out of the refrigerator.

  “I was happy to see you weren’t home when I got in last night. Hot date?”

  Raheim filled their glasses, which were already on the table. “Not really.”

  “Not really? That means it started out red-hot and turned ice-cold.”

  He ain’t lyin’. . .

  He turned the eye under the pot off. “It happens—especially when you been off the market.”

  Raheim sat down at the dinette table. “Off the market?”

  “Yeah. Something’s wrong when your father dates more than you do.” He poured them both some coffee in their favorite mugs (Raheim’s from Gladys & Ron’s Chicken & Waffles in Atlanta, his father’s from the Professional Bowling League of America). He placed the coffeepot back on its holder. “So, who is he?”

  Raheim grinned. There was a time when his father couldn’t (or wouldn’t) acknowledge that his son slept with men. And, like other fathers, he blamed himself . . .

  It’s my fault.

  Why would you think that?

  Because . . . I wasn’t around.

  If that was the case, a lot more bruthas out here would be.

  But . . . how did it happen?

  How?

  Yeah. Did somebody do somethin’ to you?

  No.

  You sure? If so, you can tell me. You can tell me anything.

  Pop, nobody did anything to me.

  But something must have happened for it to . . . happen.

  It didn’t just happen, and it didn’t happen because something didn’t happen. It just is. I guess I always knew.

  You did?

  Yeah.

  When?

  Uh, since I was a kid.

  You mean, even when I was around?

  Yeah.

  But . . . how did you know?

  I was feelin’ the same way about girls I was about boys.

  Ah. Do you still have feelings for both?

  I haven’t been with a female in some time but . . . I still have feelings for ’em.

  His father took this disclosure as a sign of hope, and over the next three months tried to hook his son up with every attractive and available twentysomething sister he came across. His attempts failed, and not just because Raheim wasn’t interested: many of those he approached believed the elder Rivers was using his son to get a date for himself. It wasn’t until Raheim went out with the brother of one of these women that his father realized his efforts were in vain. He has, in his own way, come to accept who his son is—that he inquires about and is genuinely interested in Raheim’s love life is proof.

  “This brutha I . . . met years ago,” Raheim revealed.

  “Mmm . . . a booty call?”

  “Pop!”

  “I’ve had a few booty calls in my lifetime, too, ya know? Hey, whatever it takes so you don’t lose your groove.”

  “Lose it? Ain’t no way.”

  “Ah, spoken like a true Rivers man. Our rivers run deep.”

  They laughed.

  He placed a bowl of cinammon oatmeal and a plate of turkey sausage and scrambled eggs with cheese in front of him.

  Raheim’s eyes danced. “Thanks.”

  His father chuckled. “Welcome.” He filled his own bowl.

  “How was your date last night, Pop?”

  “Very jood.”

  “And how was Millie?”

  “As nasty as she wanted to be.”

  “And you loved every minute of it.”

  “You know I did. Thanks again for the tickets, son.”

  “You welcome.”

  “Like Al Sharpton, Millie is one person you don’t wanna cross. ’Cause if you do, he’ll be walkin’ and she’ll be talkin’.”

  “Did Amelia enjoy the concert?” Amelia is his girlfriend; they’ve been seeing each other for a year. At forty-one, she’s a decade younger than him.

  “She did.”

  “I still can’t believe she never heard of Millie Jackson.”

  “She heard of her, she just never heard her before.”

  “Ha, then she got a earful last night.”

  “Yeah. She kept sayin’ Millie reminded her of Lil’ Kim. You know I ain’t know who she was talkin’ about.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Raheim snickered under his breath.

  “So on our drive back to Jersey she play
ed a few of her songs. I was like, damn! Millie got a mouth, but that girl got mouth. She said things Millie probably wishes she coulda put on wax back in the day.”

  “I think they did a commercial together a few years ago.”

  “For who—Hustler?”

  They laughed.

  The elder Rivers sat down, prayed silently over his food, and was about to pick up the salt when Raheim swiped it. His father huffed. “A little sprinkle ain’t gonna hurt me, son.” His blood pressure is up, so he has to watch his intake.

  “Like you know how to sprinkle on a little?”

  His father frowned. He doubled up on the pepper instead.

  “I’m goin’ food shoppin’ later on. You need somethin’?”

  “Nah. What you cookin’ tomorrow?”

  “I ain’t cookin’ nothin’. Amelia will be. I’ll be too busy keepin’ my eye focused on the prize.”

  “Oh, yeah. You got practice today?” He’s a member of the Mellow Fellows, a bowling team. They’ll be competing in the Jersey City Bowling League’s quarter finals tomorrow.

  “Son, you know your father don’t need to practice. But my teammates . . . ?”

  Raheim chuckled.

  “I’ll be watchin’ them practice to make sure practice does make perfect.”

  “What was your average last week?”

  “One-ninety.”

  “Wow, Pop. Y’all should win.”

  “We better. I’m not losin’ three years in a row.”

  “Is Amelia gonna be cheerin’ you on?”

  “Yeah. You know the fellas love her to death—and the women can’t stand her. They just hatin’. She younger, prettier, and smarter.”

  “And you never let ’em forget it.”

  “You know it. Uh, you got my jersey?”

  If he can’t find it in his own closet, it’s in Raheim’s. “Yeah. I’m gonna—”

  “—wash it today, yeah, I heard that before. You got a full day—and night.”

  “I’ll do it right after breakfast.”

  “You know that laundry room is always packed on a Saturday.”

  “If it is, I’ll just head to the one around the corner.”

  “And you’ll be waiting for a washer and a dryer all day, there, too.”

  “I’ll get it done before the tournament tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Raheim turned on Soul Train. They finished the rest of the meal in silence, watching Heather Headley belt out “I Wish I Wasn’t.”

  Raheim slurped up the rest of his oatmeal. “That was so jood, Pop.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it.”

  Raheim sighed heavily. He peered at his father.

  The elder Rivers was familiar with that pitiful look. “Okay, okay, okay: I’ll do the dishes and you get the laundry done, to-day.”

  “Thanks, Pop.” Raheim beamed. “I’ll get to it right now.”

  Chapter 13

  Montee woke Mitchell up by ringing his bell.

  It’s a facsimile of the Liberty Bell that Mitchell purchased years ago when he visited Philadelphia. It had come in handy last November when Destiny caught a bug; bedridden for a couple of days, she’d ring it when she needed her father.

  He opened his eyes and sat up as Montee put down the tray. On one plate was a stack of syrup-soaked blueberry pancakes, surrounded by six strips of bacon; on the other, an omelet with onions and green peppers. There was also a bowl of grapes and glasses of orange juice and ice water.

  “Good morning,” Montee sang.

  “Good morning.”

  “A promise is a promise.” He took the linen napkin folded across his arm and draped it across Mitchell’s thighs. He then inched the tray up.

  “Thank you so much. What a delicious-looking spread. I see you didn’t have a problem finding anything.”

  “Not at all.”

  Mitchell pointed to the thin white vase, which had a few daisies in it. “Did you get them from Destiny’s garden?”

  “Destiny’s garden?”

  “Yes, she has her own little area in the backyard.”

  “Ah. I guess I did. I hope she won’t mind.”

  “I’m sure she won’t. Aren’t you going to join me?”

  “Of course I am.” He eased onto the other side of the bed, lying on his right side with his head propped up on his bent right arm. He opened his mouth.

  “You expect me to feed you?”

  “Hell yeah. That’s one of the rewards of being the chef.”

  Mitchell obliged. He let him have the first taste.

  “This is some palace you live in,” Montee complimented.

  “It’s not a palace.”

  “How many square feet is it?”

  “Six thousand two hundred and seventy-five.”

  “You don’t call that a palace? In some parts, this would be considered an estate.”

  Mitchell shrugged.

  “You clean this place yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate to clean, so I have a maid come in once a month. You’d need one once a week up in here.”

  “I couldn’t have someone else do it. I enjoy the sweeping and the mopping and the dusting. It’s therapy for me.”

  “You can tell this is your house; it has a very calm, welcoming spirit. You’ve been doin’ a lot of livin’ up in here—but clearly not a lot of lovin’.”

  Mitchell didn’t want to go there with him, so . . . “You know, I always wanted to know something. It isn’t on your Web site and I don’t think you ever addressed it in interviews. Or maybe you were never asked.”

  “What?”

  “How did you get the nickname Montee?”

  “Ah. My little sister could never say Montgomery. She’d always chop it. Mon-ty. Pretty soon, everyone was calling me Monty.”

  “But you dropped the Y and added two Es?”

  “Yeah. It didn’t look right on paper, so I knew it wouldn’t look right on a marquee. Uh, there’s something I always wanted to know all these years, too.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “Did you . . . think about me, at all?”

  “You crossed my mind—once or twice.” Mitchell laughed.

  Montee wasn’t laughing. “I thought you forgot about me.”

  “Forgot about you?” Mitchell pushed the tray forward and scooted out of bed. He retrieved a photo album from inside one of the entertainment-center compartments. He placed it in Montee’s hands.

  Montee opened it. It was a clip portfolio, documenting his career: CD and concert reviews, profiles, flyers, ads, “mentions” in trend stories and gossip columns. And tucked in the very back was that issue of Playgirl.

  “Montgomery ‘Montee’ Simms, this is your life,” Mitchell announced.

  “Damn. You got stuff in here I never knew about. You shoulda been my publicist.” Montee finally noticed something about one of the bylines. He looked up at Mitchell, wide-eyed. “You’re MC.”

  Mitchell raised his right hand. “Guilty.”

  “Why didn’t you just use your full name?”

  “I knew that, one day, we’d reunite and I’d reveal it. Besides, I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.”

  “Ha, too late.” He thumbed through a few more pages. “Wow. I guess you didn’t forget about me.”

  “How could I? You served me some of the very best breakfast booty I ever had.” He smacked him on his ass.

  “And you scooped it up like nobody ever did before,” Montee moaned. “Uh . . . would you like some for old time’s sake?”

  Mitchell licked his lips. “Breakfast wouldn’t be the same without it.”

  Montee squeezed him tight. “Sade said it’s never as good as the first time. She lied.”

  They laughed. They were soaking in the master garden tub, Mitchell between Montee’s legs.

  Mitchell shifted to face him. “You were as tasty as ever.”

  “So were you.”

  “And freaky as ever.”

  “Di
tto.”

  “And, you broke your rule, again.”

  “Say what?”

  “No hanky-panky, no spanky-spanky, remember?”

  “I broke it? I think I had some help.”

  “It was your rule, not mine.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, rules are made to be broken; at least mine are, by me.”

  “Don’t tell me: Bette Davis in Death on the Nile, right?”

  “Yeah. How you know?”

  “They showed it the other night on AMC.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “It was okay. The book was better.”

  “Ain’t it always?”

  “Mmm-hmm. I take it you’re still a mystery buff . . . ?”

  “Yup. When I’m on the road, I take an audiovox with me so I can watch my favorite episodes of Columbo. I wish they’d release ’em on DVD. I’ve had to rerecord them all. The tapes were old and I wore them out.”

  “Uh-huh. Just like me—but in a jood way.”

  “You know it. Uh, where does that word come from, anyway?”

  I might as well tell him . . . “My ex.”

  “You mean the ex?”

  “Yes, the ex.”

  “Ah. Not only does he have jood taste, he’s a clever brother. I may have to use that word in a song.”

  “If you do, I expect royalties.”

  “Huh?”

  “After all, you never would’ve known about it if you hadn’t met me.”

  “True. How you wanna be paid: cold cash or coochie coupon?”

  “Hmm . . . I can’t have both?”

  “Damn, you greedy.”