“Uh, I guess I can have a little somethin’.”
“Okay. You want the usual?”
“Yeah.”
His usual is the most popular item on the menu: the chicken pot pie, which has carrots, peas, corn, green beans, potatoes, chunks of white meat, and Grace’s Groovy Gravy. Food critics from as far away as D.C., Chicago, and L.A. have raved about it and entire sports teams (from junior high-schoolers to pro ballers) have made special trips to buy one (some will approach the counter and ask for “the 3Gs”). This has caught the attention of General Mills: they’re interested in packaging and selling the dish in supermarkets across the country. They’ve been in discussions to purchase the rights for two months.
They sat in her eating nook, a small room next to her office. She watched as he dug into his first pie (he usually eats three). “They came with another offer,” she revealed.
“And?”
“I said no.”
“You tryin’ to break their bank?”
“No. It’s not about the money; it’s about havin’ a say. We don’t need a contract for them to just steal the recipe and run, and that’s what they’d be doin’ if I signed.”
“They must really want it if they came back twice.”
“Well, that’s the problem: they want it, they don’t want me, and we are a team. You can’t have one without the other. They’re supposed to be sending some VP down here next week to talk to me.”
“Uh-huh, to talk some sense into you.”
She nodded. “That’s what Rico said. But it won’t matter. She’ll be wasting her time and mine.”
“How is Rico?” Rico is Enrico, her boyfriend from the Dominican Republic. He’s a forty-seven-year-old divorced father of two she’s been dating exclusively for about two years. They met at one of the quarterly mixers thrown by the city for small-business owners of color (he owns two restaurants, both called Enrico’s, in the Bronx). Raheim is happy about the relationship since he hasn’t seen her with anyone in twenty-five years (that last and only person being his father). They’re sort of an odd couple: he’s three inches shorter than she (the height difference doesn’t bother her; as she confided, “He’s got the inches where it really counts”).
“He’s jood. He should be stopping by with his grandkids in about an hour.”
“All of them?”
“Yup, all of them.”
“Mmm . . .”
“Mmm, what?”
“Nothin’.”
“That mmm wasn’t nothin’.”
“They comin’ to meet their future grandma.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Ma: Why else would he be bringin’ the whole posse?”
“To eat?”
“Uh-huh. How old are they again?”
“Nine, eight, six, five, three, and two.”
“That’s a Brady bunch.”
“I know. Tomorrow is Maya’s birthday; she’s the youngest. I made a cake for her, too.”
“See, you bakin’ birthday cakes for all your grandkids.”
She pinched him on his right arm. “Unless you have other plans, I’ll continue to be the grandmother of one.” Rico has been hinting they should marry, but she’s avoided even talking about it; she’s not interested in becoming a Mrs. again.
As he started on his second pie, she placed her elbows on the table, leaning forward. “So . . . are you ready to go home?”
“Huh?”
“You heard. You haven’t been home in some time.”
“I was there last Sunday.” He’d taken Errol back to Brooklyn after his weekend visit with his mother.
“Well, dropping off your son is different from being invited inside.”
That it is. He remembers the last time he was inside—April 16, 1999. The night before, he was supposed to attend a dinner to celebrate Mitchell’s thirty-third birthday, hosted by Babyface, B.D., and Gene. He didn’t show up, and when he showed up at the house later that eve, he looked through the window to see Mitchell on the sofa, crying. Destiny was lying against his side, asleep. The image was a moment of cruel déjà vu: his mother in that same spot on their sofa, sobbing over his father’s unannounced exit, as he consoled her. After Mitchell left early that morning, Raheim crept inside and left him a note that simply said: “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t bear to face him. While Mitchell has never said he wasn’t welcome since that night, Raheim hasn’t felt . . . worthy.
Raheim did attempt to deflect some of the blame for their relationship ending, complaining to his mother that when Destiny came along Mitchell forgot all about him and that’s why he turned to gambling. She was just as upset as he was that it was over between them, so he believed he’d get a much-needed pat on the back—but received a slap across the face instead. As he was recovering from the shock (she had never hit him before), she apologized for striking him but broke it down like only a mother could . . .
You sure you ain’t been sniffin’ or smokin’ or shootin’ up somethin’, too? He didn’t drop you when Destiny came along; you chose to drop out when she did. Don’t be angry with him because he had the jood sense to do what had to be done. Did you expect him to put his life and his daughter’s life on hold for you? You oughta be thankin’ him: he’s the one who has been tryin’ to hold everything together. Despite what you’ve done and put him through, he’s been there for you and he still loves you—and love ain’t the reason he should stay with you, it’s the reason he shouldn’t. And if you forget that, remember who you chose to be your son’s godfather. Don’t forget who stepped in to care for and be there for him when you stepped out . . .
Needless to say, he was slapped back into reality.
He has faced and accepted another reality: Mitchell, Errol, and now Destiny will decide whether he can visit again—permanently. He couldn’t handle that kind of test a year ago, a month ago, not even a week ago.
But today? “Ain’t no big deal.”
His mother wasn’t convinced. “Ah. It is always wise to put up a brave front.”
“Ma, it ain’t no big deal.”
“We’re talking about your son, your goddaughter, and the love of your life. It is a very big deal.”
“I’m goin’ to help my son celebrate his birthday.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And help Li—”
Her eyebrows raised.
“Help Mitchell cohost.”
“Uh-huh,” she purred like Jackee Harry. “Just remember that you’re stepping into a whole new world tonight—and I don’t mean the kind Peabo and Regina were singin’ about.”
“Ma, I’m gonna be a’ight. Don’t worry.”
“How can I not? That’s what mothers do.”
“Thanks for bein’ concerned. If anybody has to worry, it’s me. I made this bed; now I gotta lie in it.”
“Uh-huh. And you want Little Bit in it with you.”
He nearly choked on his food. “Ma!”
She giggled.
Raheim held the cake in the palm of his left hand. “Maybe I should stick around and meet my future stepnieces and nephews.”
“Get out of here.” She walked him to the entrance. “Now, have a jood time.”
“I will.”
“And give my grandson a hug and kiss for me.”
“I will.”
“I would tell you to give Mitchell a hug and kiss from me, but I don’t wanna be stirrin’ up stuff—yet.”
He giggled.
“Give Destiny the hug and kiss. Give him my best.”
“I will.”
“And give me a hug and kiss.”
He did.
“Love ya, Ma.”
“Love you, too, baby.”
Chapter 17
“Mr. Rivers?”
Raheim was about to open the brownstone’s front gate. He turned. “Yes?”
“I’m Sidney. Sid for short.”
“And I’m Monroe. Everybody calls me Roe.”
Raheim shook both their hands.
“It’s jood to meet you two. I’ve heard a lot about you both.”
“Well, I hope you won’t hold what you heard about him against me.” Sidney chuckled.
Monroe frowned. “Not funny.”
“I saw you on Special Victims Unit last week,” Sidney continued. “You were jood.”
Raheim smiled; his hallmark word was being passed on to another generation. “Thanks.”
Sidney piped in. “I missed you on TV. But me and my pops saw you on the train platform down at Wall Street a couple of weeks ago.”
“The Brooks Brothers ad on the 4/5 line?” The entire station is wall-to-wall BB—and, yeah, he’s the only colored man out of the two dozen models featured.
“Yeah. Uh, did they let you keep the suit?”
“Man!” Sidney groaned.
Monroe shrugged, clueless. “What?”
Raheim chuckled under his breath. “You two came without dates?”
“My girlfriend is comin’ with her best friend,” explained Sidney.
“And my girlfriends will start arrivin’ in a half hour.” Monroe grinned.
Sidney cut his eyes. “So he thinks.”
Raheim motioned for them to go in first. “Let’s get out of this rain.”
Monroe rang the bell. Mitchell opened the door.
“Hay Mr. C,” Sidney and Monroe harmonized.
“Evenin’ gents. You two look jood.”
“Thanks,” they echoed.
“Where’s E?” Monroe asked.
“Upstairs, still gettin’ ready.”
Monroe headed for the stairs. “He was gettin’ ready when I called him a hour ago.”
“Man, you should talk,” snapped Sidney. “You spent a half hour in the bathroom shavin’ them two hairs on your chin.” He turned to Mitchell and Raheim. “Excuse us.” He dropped his umbrella in a stand near the door and followed Monroe.
Mitchell smiled at Raheim. “Hey.”
“Hay.”
“Come on in.” Mitchell closed the door behind him.
Raheim inhaled deeply. He felt . . . at home. Like he never left.
“Let me take your hat and jacket.”
Raheim took them off; Mitchell hung them up on the hooks Raheim had mounted to the back of the door years ago.
Mitchell eyed the box Raheim had placed on the hall bureau. “Is that the cake?”
“Yeah.” Raheim picked it back up. “Where do you want it to go?”
“In the fridge for now.”
Raheim followed him into the kitchen. Mitchell opened the refrigerator. “You can place it right there.” Raheim did. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
“We have orange juice, orange-pineapple juice, grape juice, cranberry juice, apple juice . . .” He looked up. “This is a juice house.”
“So I hear.”
“Maybe you’d like a cran-apple mix?”
He remembered . . . “That sounds jood.”
As Mitchell made his drink, they were silent.
Raheim took his drink. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Please, have a seat.”
They both did, across from each other, at the island.
“So you finally met the other Musketeers.”
“Yeah.”
“They remind me.”
Raheim knew who they reminded him of . . .
“Speaking of: Have you seen Angel lately?”
“We hung out last night.”
“Ah. How is he?”
“He’s jood.”
“Jood.”
Raheim sipped. “My moms sends you her best.”
“Do send her mine. How is she?”
“She’s jood.”
“Jood.”
“Where’s Destiny?”
“She’s at my mother’s for the weekend. Oh, before I forget . . .” Mitchell went into the dining area and took something off the table. He returned. “This is for you.”
The standard-size piece of construction paper was powder blue. Outlined in glued rainbow glitter was a giant cake with a single lighted candle. Written in green Crayola in the body of the cake was the message:
Uncle Raheim,
Have A JOOD Birthday!
I Love You,
Destiny
Raheim grinned. “This is really sweet.”
“So, how does it feel to officially be in your thirties?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know yet.”
“Still trying to get a feel for it, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmm-hmm. Welcome to the club.”
“It . . . it seems like only yesterday I was twenty-one. And now . . . I found my first gray hair the other day.”
“You did? Where?”
Raheim leaned forward, pointing to it.
Mitchell laughed. “You call that a gray hair? That’s not even a follicle. When you’ve got it like I do, then we can talk.”
“Your hair has grown a lot.”
“And grayed a lot.”
It had. Raheim always wondered if he was responsible for that. “You wear it well.”
“The locks or the gray?”
“Both.” And he meant it. Not everyone could.
“Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
Errol appeared. “Hay, Dad.”
“Hay, son.”
They shook with their fists and hugged.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for askin’ me to.”
“I see you’re finally red-y,” Mitchell observed. He was wearing the very bright fire-engine-red shirt Mitchell had purchased for his birthday.
Errol laughed. “I am. How do I look?” He double-backed, posing.
“You look jood.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you spray your entire body with that cologne?” That was one of his other presents: a bottle of Bijan.
“No.”
“It sure does smell like it.”
“All it took was two sprits.”
“I love that shirt, son,” Raheim admired.
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you’ll let me borrow it.”
Errol smiled at Mitchell. “You might not have to.”
“What do you mean?” Raheim quizzed.
“Uh, did everyone e-mail you back their RSVP?” Mitchell interrupted.
“Yup.”
“And they know if they don’t have the e-vite, they don’t get in?”
“Yup.”
“And that they can’t bring any tagalongs?”
“Yup.”
“And that—”
“—there will be no drugs or alcohol of any kind allowed? Yes. Dad, will you man the door?”
“Sure.”
“Cool. I’ll get the list for you.” Errol hustled out.
“I have something for you.” Mitchell went into the hall closet. He returned with a rectangular box wrapped in gold paper and tied with white ribbon. “Happy birthday.”
Raheim studied it—and not because he was trying to figure out what it was. It had been five years since he received a birthday gift from Mitchell. Mitchell’s never forgotten his birthday, though: Raheim’s always gotten a card and/or a phone call, and Raheim has saved each one of those Hallmarks and voice-mail messages (little does he know that Mitchell has saved all of his birthday acknowledgments, too).
“You can open it,” Mitchell advised.
He did. It was the same shirt Errol had on. “Wow. Thanks.”
It was a look of joy Mitchell never thought he’d see again. It made him beam too. “You’re welcome.”
“Like father, like son, huh?”
“Indeed.”
Errol returned with Monroe and Sidney. He handed his father the list. “Here ya go, Dad.”
“Mr. R, if anybody gets outta hand, we can take care of ’em.” Monroe winked, elbowing Raheim in the side.
“The only thing you’re gonna be takin’ care of is your appetite,” predicted Sidney.
&nb
sp; “That, too.” Monroe eyed the food laid out on the island. “Whoa! Turkey meatballs!”
“You won’t be eating anything until the party begins,” Mitchell informed him.
“Dad, can I get a picture with you?”
“Of course.”
Sidney clicked it. They all viewed it on the digital camera’s screen.
“Very nice,” observed Mitchell.
“Yeah. Y’all could be twins,” added Monroe.
Father and son grinned.
The rain didn’t stop and it didn’t stop the show—the party still got under way at seven sharp. It was reminiscent of so many hip-hop videos: honeyz in various states of hoochie undress (halters, minis, and spaghetti-strapped formfitting dresses) on the left and fellaz thugged up (Timbs, tanks, jeans, jerseys, and sweatsuits) or casual down (button-down shirts, chinos, and cowrie-shell-draped necks) on the right. There were an even number of boyz and girlz (forty guests in all), and they came in every color (and noncolor) of the rainbow (mainly Black and Latino, with others from places as far as Tokyo, Bangladesh, and Saudi Arabia, and the lone “wigga” and “wiggette”—who did not come or leave together). The “10 percent” was also in the house: a female couple (serving butch and femme), and two SGL males, both falling under the “homo-thug” category. Most were Tech students, some were from the neighborhood, and a few ventured from Harlem (such as Precious, D.C.’s daughter, and Anjelica, Angel’s daughter, both escorted by Precious’s older cousin, Juwan). After playing some “mingling music” (i.e., catchy midtempo tunes by the likes of Jaheim, Tweet, and Whitney Houston that had a few folks on the floor but that most grooved to in place while chatting with others, drinking, and eating) for about an hour, the deejay announced: “A’ight, y’all, it’s time to really get this party started right!”
And the room went up as he spun 50 Cent’s “In da Club.” Everybody chanted “We gonna party like it’s your birthday,” surrounding Errol as he did just that, rocking the floor. And on every other song, he continued to be THE STAR. The ladies were literally pushing one another out of the way to dance with him. Monroe had to run interference several times, taking one by the hand and usually leaving two to duke it out. There was a little eye-rollin’, teeth-suckin’, neck-twistin’, and hand-wavin,’ but no catfights. But some didn’t mind sharing—one would work him in the front while the other took the back (and if they were really in a generous mood, switch places during the song).
A House Is Not a Home Page 14
