A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t say I know how you feel. But I don’t feel safe right now either.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . I’m afraid of losing them. It was the hardest thing in the world for Raheim to tell you and Junior. We knew that it wouldn’t be easy on anyone and that there was a chance . . . things might not be the same again. Telling you both could send Raheim over the edge; he’s trying to hold it together, but I know he’s on shaky ground. And Junior . . .” He took a deep breath. “I know what it’s like to have the world you thought you lived in suddenly change overnight and not know what to do, to not know what your place in it is.”

  She considered what he said. “To keep it a secret this long . . . it must have been hard on you.”

  “I hated being the secret. Or, rather, the open secret. I always felt that you . . . might have been suspicious. That you . . . knew.”

  “Uh . . . I wouldn’t say that I knew knew. But I knew something was . . . up. He didn’t have any other girlfriends—or at least he didn’t bring any around me and Junior. That alone didn’t mean much; I dated a few men but never brought them around him or Junior. But he did bring you around. I saw the way Junior interacted with you—and the way Raheim was trying not to interact with you. One day my mother asked, ‘Do you think they could be?’ And I said, ‘They could be what?’ And she said, ‘You know what.’ I told her no, but I had thought it before. I guess I didn’t want to recognize that it might be so. That she had seen it, too, and verbalized it . . . hearing about it out loud scared me. So I just ignored it. So long as I didn’t speak it, it wasn’t and couldn’t be so.”

  “Raheim decided to be blind to it, too. Thinking no one could see how he felt for me.”

  “I . . . I don’t want to hate him. Or you. I suppose it would be easy to do. It would also be very convenient and a waste of time. The fact is, I don’t want any of us to suffer—not even Raheim, no matter how mad I am at him right now.” She sighed heavily again. “I guess that’s what we get.”

  He stared at her, puzzled.

  “Falling in love with the same man.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod.

  “And, we’ve both had our hearts broken by him.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Lucky guess.” She shrugged.

  A very jood guess.

  “And . . . we both love his son.”

  He placed his hand on hers. It meant so much to hear her say that. She smiled; Mitchell was reminded of why Raheim had nicknamed her Sunshine.

  “Junior knows that I . . . well, I am uncomfortable, as he put it, with everything. But no matter how uncomfortable I may be, the last thing I want him to do is be uncomfortable and think that whatever is going on between his mommy and daddy is his fault. So . . . could you help?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just continue doing what you’ve been doing. I’m still working out my feelings. Some things I’m not sure of. But one thing I am sure of is your devotion to him. And there’s no reason why he shouldn’t continue to receive that devotion, especially at a time when things are so . . . unstable.”

  He caressed her hand. “However I can be there, I will be.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You don’t have to thank me; it’s a blessing, being there for him, for all of you. And, he may not be able to see it right now, but Raheim is very lucky that you are the mother of his son.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Raheim is lucky he has us to put up with him.”

  They laughed. And then they spent the next two hours comparing notes about the man they’d both fallen in love with—and the little boy they both loved.

  They made a pact that day to do all they could to ensure that Junior felt safe—even if they didn’t.

  That she was able to face and come to terms with all of this was a testament to her maturity (not to mention jood common sense). The resentment toward Raheim didn’t disappear overnight; that took a few years. She didn’t, though, direct any of it toward Mitchell. While Mitchell thought Mrs. Rivers, Raheim’s mother, was the cheerleader most responsible for Crystal’s turnaround (upon being told by her son that he and Mitchell were a couple, she exclaimed, “Tell me something I don’t know!” and immediately called Mitchell to express her pleasure in having a “son-in-law” like him), someone else indirectly influenced her handling this situation with such a level head: Raheim’s father. Mr. Rivers had abandoned Raheim and his mother when Raheim was five, and Raheim was still dealing with the residual effects of that. Crystal realized that keeping Mitchell away from Junior when his development had been positively impacted by Mitchell’s presence for half his life could seriously jeopardize his current (and future) mental and emotional health. She didn’t want Junior to be torn up and conflicted as Raheim had been, filled with so much angst and anger. And she wasn’t about to be one of those bitter mothers who puts her own ambivalent feelings, selfish needs, or misguided beliefs ahead of her child’s well-being.

  So things stayed the same; the only thing that changed was the guise under which they all interacted. Mitchell was no longer just Junior’s godfather but Raheim’s “mate,” as Crystal dubbed him (Mitchell rejected the outdated “lover,” and “boyfriend” was a bit too juvenile for him and a bit too close for comfort for Crystal since that’s what Raheim once was to her). Even though Junior now had a stepfather, Mitchell attended those “father and son” events with Junior when Raheim’s disappearing acts began. When Mitchell and Raheim split, the breakup didn’t break up the relationship Mitchell had with Junior or the one he was cultivating with Crystal. When Junior was accepted into Brooklyn Tech in the spring of 2000, there was no question as to (nor was there a formal discussion about) whom he would live with to attend the high school. And when Errol began attending classes at Tech, Raheim started splitting the eight-hundred-fifty-dollar child support payment with Crystal; each month, they both sent Mitchell a check.

  Thanks to their collective efforts, Errol is a well-rounded, well-grounded young man, who has made them all proud. That’s not to say he’s been a complete angel. There have been some bumps in the road, and most of them have come during the teen years. But compared to the tribulations other teens put their parents through, even his major infractions have been somewhat minor. He’s talked back, neglected to do his chores, and broken curfew. Last year, he skipped school to go to the first showing of The Scorpion King (that got him grounded for a week). Four months ago, he, Monroe, and Sidney decided to take Monroe’s father’s car for a joyride (never mind that none of them has a license or a permit). They didn’t get far; they backed into a fire hydrant trying to get out of the parking space (that earned Errol a month on lockdown and the allowance he would have received over two months went to help pay for the damage done to the car).

  And then there’s this past Thursday, his birthday, when he came home with his left ear pierced. Mitchell knew Crystal would have something to say about that. She inspected it as Mitchell had done days earlier—and wore the same frown he had. “And why did you do it?” She even asked the same first question.

  He gave her the same answer. “Because it looks jood.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, it does look jood. But I’d appreciate it if, for the next three years, you’d consult us before putting any other holes in your body—or designs on your body.”

  Errol wore that busted look. “How you know?”

  “A mother knows.”

  Mitchell giggled to himself.

  “So, is it in an area you wouldn’t be embarrassed to show me?” she queried.

  He lifted his T-shirt on his right side. A couple of inches above his waist was a heart with an arrow through it and “Mom” was spelled out in the center.

  She grinned. “I guess I can’t argue with that, huh? You plan to get any other work done?”

  “I might get another tattoo. And I might get my right ear done.”

  “Hmmph. I might for you means I will. I just don’t w
ant you walking around looking like you just got out of—or belong in—prison.”

  “Okay. I won’t be. Uh, how long you staying?”

  “Are you tryin’ to get rid of me already?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t worry, I won’t be here when your homies start to arrive. Couldn’t give them the impression you’re a mama’s boy, now, could we?”

  His cell phone rang (he’s under Mitchell’s family and friends plan). He took it off his belt clip and looked at the name and number. “May I be excused?”

  Crystal clutched her chest with both hands. “So, you’d rather talk to one of those little hoochies than visit with your mama?”

  “I won’t be long,” he argued. “She . . . needs directions.”

  Mitchell and Crystal glanced at each other. “Sure she does,” they echoed together.

  She waved him on. “Go ahead.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.” He answered it. “Hay.” He jogged out of the kitchen.

  “How did you know about the tattoo?” Mitchell asked.

  “He had mentioned it a while back, saying he might want to do it and get his ear pierced on his birthday. He was just throwing them both out there to see what I would say.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing. I knew he wanted to and I didn’t have a problem with him doing either one. At least he picked something sane.” She looked around. “You sure I can’t help you with anything?”

  “No. Thanks for offering. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He poured one for them both. They sat down. They sipped.

  She huffed. “Now, tell me the truth . . .” She clutched her cheeks and turned her head to the left, in profile. “Do I look old enough to have a fifteen-year-old son?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “It seems it was just yesterday that I was bringing him home from the hospital. Now he’s a young stud. God, I sound like one of those irritating mothers in those cheesy movies they show on Lifetime.”

  Mitchell giggled.

  “Oh, before I forget.” She went into her pocketbook and pulled out a purple envelope. “It’s from my mother.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Open it and we’ll find out.”

  Printed on the front of the card in Monaco-style lettering was:

  HAPPY FATHER’S DAY TO A SPECIAL MAN.

  Mitchell was stunned—and not just because Father’s Day was next Sunday. “Your mother gave this to me?”

  “Yup.”

  That her mother would send him a card of any kind was a shock in and of itself. While others might have felt the same way, she was the only member on Crystal’s side of the family to vocalize her horror over her only grandson being in the company of “one of those people” (as she argued, since Raheim wasn’t gay all the way, there was hope for him—and only a fifty-fifty chance Errol would turn out “like that”). When Crystal wouldn’t cut ties with Mitchell, her mother refused to acknowledge him at family gatherings—and if there was a family gathering at her apartment, wouldn’t invite him. They’d never even had a conversation; before the truth came out, their contact was minimal and their exchanges usually consisted of “Hello” and “How are you?” So receiving a gift from her—especially one like this—was a big deal.

  He opened it:

  One day just isn’t enough

  To truly celebrate all you are and do

  So here’s a reminder that you’re thought of

  Not just today but the whole year through!

  Enjoy Your Day

  Georgia

  The sentiment was very short, very simple, but very sweet. And Mitchell was . . . well, stunned by it. “Wow.” He handed it to Crystal.

  She read it and was stunned, too. “Well, I’m jealous. I didn’t even get a Mother’s Day card from her!”

  “How nice. I’ll have to thank her.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m with her tonight and put her on the phone. I can’t wait to see her face.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Looks like you’ve finally converted her . . .”

  “. . . figuratively speaking,” he finished with her.

  They laughed. The house phone rang. Mitchell answered it. “Hello?”

  “Hay,” Raheim said. He can’t say “Little Bit” anymore but doesn’t like calling Mitchell by his name. So he doesn’t call him anything.

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “I’m jood. You?”

  “I’m jood, too.”

  Silence.

  “I just wanted to know, what time I should come over?” Raheim already knew what time to come over. It may sound silly, but he just wanted to hear his voice. He missed hearing his jood friend’s voice every day like he used to.

  “Around six-thirty.”

  “Should I bring somethin’?” Raheim also knew the answer to that, too.

  “I don’t think so. I think we’ve got everything taken care of.”

  “A’ight. I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence again.

  Finally Raheim says what he doesn’t want to say. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Raheim hesitates before hanging up—and notices, for the first time, he’s not the only one.

  Chapter 16

  If you want the best chicken in Harlem—be it baked, barbecued, broiled, grilled, smoked, roasted, smothered, or fried—the Chicken Kitchen is the place to go. It actually looks like a chicken shack—the sloppy plywood decor is what Grace, Raheim’s mother, was going for when she decided to open up a restaurant. She wanted the place to have a way down-home feel, like folks were stepping into a juke joint. But the CK, as many of the teens and twentysomethings call it on the streets, is not the least bit seedy. In fact, it’s become the family hangout on weekends (a stream of baby strollers will be parked outside the place) and a prime stop on many bus tours through Harlem.

  It has achieved this status in less than three years, and no one is more surprised by its success than its owner. In late 1999, Grace had put in her twenty years working for the city and was all too ready to leave (she was offered an early retirement package that was too jood to pass up). But she got bored quick—in a week. At forty-nine, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life watching the rest of her life pass her by in some retirement village in Florida, and she was years away from buying and settling into her dream home in Greenville, North Carolina (where her family is from). So she volunteered at the local Red Cross and Boys and Girls Club, but neither was very fulfilling (they were more stressful than the job she left).

  Her grandson provided her with the answer during a weekend visit. He was chowing down on her famous barbecue chicken when . . .

  “Grandma, you should open up a restaurant.”

  “Me? Open a restaurant?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “I don’t know the first or last thing about runnin’ a business.”

  “You can learn.”

  “And the last thing Harlem needs is another soul-food restaurant.”

  “Then don’t open a soul-food restaurant.”

  “What kind of restaurant, then?”

  “Do the specialty thing.”

  “The specialty thing?”

  “Yes. I learned about that in marketing class. You can concentrate on one type of food—like chicken—and serve it up in a variety of ways. You got so many jood recipes.”

  The more she thought about it, the more she thought . . . why not? Not only would it give her something to do, that something would be something she loved to do and she might even make a little money doing it. And even if it didn’t fly, at least she couldn’t say she didn’t try. So, she took an adult-education class at Hunter College on starting your own business; pooled her own resources (fifteen thousand dollars of the equity she had in the co-op Raheim purchased for her in ’95) with grants from minority and women’s business in
itiatives throughout the city; chose a lot on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard (two blocks south of 125th Street, close enough to but away from the maddening crowds); and, three months after signing a lease, had her grand opening on her birthday: New Year’s Day 2001.

  Since her grandson had come up with the idea, she let him name the place. He didn’t have to think longer than ten seconds. “The Chicken Kitchen.”

  “The Chicken Kitchen,” she repeated. “I love it.”

  And so do Lou Rawls, Al Green, Eddie and Gerald Levert, B.B. King, James Brown, Shirley Caesar, Russell Simmons, LL Cool J, and Magic Johnson; they all stopped by, sampled the grub, and took photos with her. Even white public figures such as Mayor Mike Bloomberg and former President Bill Clinton have visited (they were running for office or opening up an office in the community). The number one celeb, though, is and has always been her son—snapshots of him as an A-A model, holding his Independent Spirit Award moments after winning, and standing by her side on opening day remain in the very center of her wall of fame. Raheim is almost never recognized, though—and he likes it that way. As far as he is concerned, his mom is the true star; along with Eva Isaac, the Queen of the Apollo Theater, she’s become another Mother of Harlem. And with Harlem looking like the Mall of America thanks to Ben & Jerry’s, HMV, and the Disney Store on 125th Street, the restaurant has become a community center, a home away from home for folks to not only eat but meet and greet.

  When Raheim entered, she was greeting new customers and catching up with the regulars. Like Sylvia of Sylvia’s, she wants them to know there is a real person behind the name (even if the restaurant isn’t named after her).

  She smiled as he approached. “Oh, excuse me,” she told a young man and woman seated at one of the six fountain tables in the restaurant. “Thanks again for your business and please come again.”

  “Hay, Ma.” He bear-hugged her.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m quite jood. And you?”

  “Ditto.”

  “You wanna eat somethin’?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Since when has that ever stopped you?”