A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

  Max would have none of that. Her full first name was Maxine. She danced with him the most during the night—five times—and did so solo. She made sure she had him up against a wall so that no one could cut in on her action—and she gave Errol a lot of action. She had a lot of breast and a lot of ass to shimmy, shake, and shove in his face and his crotch. And if they were giving out awards for the most scandalous outfit of the night, she would’ve won by a landslide: her dress (if one could call it that) was really a two-piece leopard-print bikini with a matching skirt wrap that left her entire left thigh exposed, and her stiletto heels were in the same style. Every other unattached straight guy at the party (including the deejay and his two-man crew) wanted to take her for a grind, but she turned them all down.

  But Max didn’t have a “special dance” with Errol.

  “Before we cut the birthday cake,” he began, “I want to invite two young ladies to the floor: Precious and Anjelica.”

  They were surprised and touched by their being selected. After complying with his request, he took the hand of each. “We grew up together. Our fathers were . . . still are the best of friends. So we’re like family. I’m so happy they are here tonight—our lives have taken some unexpected turns, but we’ve always known that no matter how crazy things got, we could depend on each other.” He was no doubt referring to Laticia, Precious’s mother, who almost died in a car crash three years ago, and Yvonne, Anjelica’s maternal grandmother, who turned up missing on 9/11. A token-booth clerk at the World Trade Center train station on the E line, she was found by Raheim and Angel at Bellevue Hospital a month later, burned over 20 percent of her body. Under Raheim’s mother’s watchful eye, she’s made a complete recovery.

  “Everybody ought to have angels in their lives—and I’m lucky to have two.” Errol kissed both of their hands.

  Everyone ooh’ed and aah’ed. Precious was on the verge of tears; Anjelica was already crying.

  “So I dedicate this song to them.” He nodded toward the deejay. With his arm wrapped around each, he rocked them to TLC’s “Turntable.” Precious rested her head near his right shoulder blade while Anjelica continued to boo-hoo on his chest. By the end of the song, several others were teary-eyed—including Mitchell and Raheim.

  By the time eleven o’clock rolled around, only Sidney, Monroe, Juliette, her best friend Ananda, and Max remained. Sidney took Juliette and Ananda home; Monroe went along for the cab ride so Sidney wouldn’t have to ride the A train back by himself (and so he could continue to holla at Ananda). After walking Max to her car and giving her a passionate kiss good night, Errol came down to the basement, where Mitchell was clearing up the cups and plates and Raheim was folding up the chairs.

  “So, did you have a jood time?” Mitchell asked.

  “I had a better-than-jood time. Thanks.” He bear-hugged Mitchell from behind.

  Mitchell smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Errol rested his chin on Mitchell’s right shoulder. “Any turkey meatballs left?”

  “I was able to hide a few from Monroe. They’re on the bottom shelf in the fridge.”

  “Cool. I’m gonna eat before I leave.”

  “Then you better do it now. Monroe and Sidney will be back soon. You still have to shower and change.” Errol and Sidney would be spending the night at Monroe’s.

  “Okay.” Errol walked over to his father. “I’m so glad you came, Dad.” He embraced him.

  Raheim hadn’t heard that sentiment in some time. He squeezed him tight. “Me, too.”

  “You’re gonna stick around until Roe and Sid come back,” Errol presumed.

  “Of course,” Raheim assured him.

  “Jood,” he grinned. He grabbed the trash bag and bounced upstairs.

  “That was one live party,” Raheim observed. “I wish I had a party like that when I was his age. Ha, I’d love to have a party like that at any age.”

  Mitchell didn’t respond.

  Raheim could tell something was up. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somethin’s botherin’ you, Lit—” He caught himself; he looked away, a little embarrassed.

  Mitchell wasn’t bothered by his slip of the tongue; he smiled to himself. “Well, I would expect most of the guests to be a couple of years older than him, since he’s in the eleventh grade. But nineteen?”

  “Who was nineteen?”

  “Maxine.”

  “How you know?”

  “I asked her.”

  Raheim laughed to himself. That’s just like Mitchell to be overly concerned. It’s one of the things he’s always loved about him. “There ain’t no law that says he can’t hang with folks three or four years older than him. Besides, he don’t look—or act—fifteen,” he argued.

  “I suppose. But coming to the party is one thing; giving an inappropriate gift is another.”

  “Inappropriate?”

  “Yes. You think it’s appropriate for a nineteen-year-old woman to give a fifteen-year-old boy underwear?”

  Errol had opened his gifts while the cake was being served. Raheim thought the boxers were from his mother.

  “She ain’t a woman,” Raheim said.

  “Okay. A nineteen-year-old young lady.”

  “She a teenager.”

  “Maybe in number. In the eyes of the law she’s an adult, and he isn’t. Don’t you think it’s odd that of all the things she could buy him—a CD, a book, a shirt, even some socks—she chose that? It makes you wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “You know what. If he and Max are having sex. Why else would she buy him that?”

  “That don’t mean they havin’ sex. Now, if she bought him a six-pack of condoms . . .” Raheim chuckled.

  Mitchell frowned. “Okay, let’s say it was your fifteen-year-old daughter, and a nineteen-year-old teenage boy gave her some Victoria’s Secret lace panties as a present.”

  “What?” Raheim shrieked.

  “Now, how did I know that that was the reaction I’d receive . . . ?” Mitchell smirked.

  “Some grown man buyin’—”

  “And he’s grown, while the female in that same position would be a teenager?”

  Raheim thought about it. “I see whatcha sayin’.”

  “It shouldn’t and doesn’t make a difference what the genders are.”

  “A’ight. I’ll ask him about it.”

  Raheim knocked on Errol’s door.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  He entered. “Hay.”

  “Hay.” Errol was sitting at the foot of his bed, putting on sweatsocks. He had on a pair of boxers Max just gave him (white with red hearts).

  Raheim surveyed his room: posters of Aaliyah (who was over his bed), Ashanti, Janet, Halle, J-Lo, The Rock, Alex Rodriguez, Barry Bonds, Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods, the comic strip The Boondocks and the TV show Justice League covered his walls, which were a chocolate brown. A dartboard with a black-and-white snapshot of a smiling George W. Bush (which was full of holes) was tacked to his closet door. A periodic-table-of-elements chart hung above a maple bookcase; encyclopedias occupied its bottom two shelves, and several dozen copies of American Scientist, Astrology, and Macworld were stacked on top. On his desk was the Power Mac G5 his father purchased for Christmas (images of last month’s lunar eclipse and Michael P. Armstrong, who died in the Columbia shuttle crash in February, flashed on the twenty-three-inch display); to its right were the Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings books and their DVD companions, The Sorcerer’s Stone, The Chamber of Secrets, and The Fellowship of the Ring, which were in a case along with Spider-Man; The Mask of Zorro; The Iron Giant; Chicken Run; The Matrix; The Scorpion King; Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon; The Tuskegee Airmen; and Soul of the Game (the last two he received as birthday gifts from his grandfather last weekend). On top of his dresser were photos of him with his mother; his grandfather; Mitchell; Destiny; Monroe and Sidney; and Neil de Grasse Tys
on, director of the Hayden Planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History, who had given a lecture at Brooklyn Tech earlier in the week.

  Raheim pointed to that last picture. “Did you get to talk to him yesterday?”

  “Yeah. He said I could get an internship at the planetarium next spring.”

  “You must’ve made an impression. Will it be a paid one?”

  “I don’t know. I was so excited when he mentioned it, I forgot to ask. But it doesn’t matter. Just being there with him would be payment enough.” He grabbed a pair of black jeans off the bed and slid into them.

  Raheim made out the drawing over his bed: it was a piece he’d done on a night they were celebrating their birthdays. He got closer to it. Li’l Brotha Man—1994. He smiled. “I wondered what happened to that.”

  “I found it in a box, with a lot of your other work. Grandma framed it.”

  Raheim looked over at his nightstand; there was the framed Your World cover with Errol sitting on his daddy’s lap as he blew out his candles at age five (Raheim was surprised to still see this displayed on the mantel over the fireplace in the great room, along with one of Raheim holding Destiny a few hours after she was born), and a photo of them that was taken when Raheim received his GED last year. As he glanced back at Errol, he caught the glint of color on his very flat, ripped abs.

  Errol noticed him squinting. “Oh, I got the tattoos.”

  “Ah. Did your mom see them?”

  “Just one of them.”

  As Raheim made out the one on his left side, he was shocked to see “Dad” also spelled out in a heart with an arrow through it. “Wow. Nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  Caught off guard by this tribute, Raheim stumbled over his thoughts. “Uh, you’ve got a jood-lookin’ setup.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Uh, can we talk?”

  “Sure.”

  Raheim plopped down in his desk chair.

  Errol sat back on the bed. He put on a red St. John’s University T-shirt. “It’s about Max, right?” he guessed.

  “Yeah. Where did y’all meet?”

  “At a college fair in April. She’ll be a sophomore at NYU this fall.”

  “Ah. And . . . how does she know what size you wear?”

  “She asked me.”

  “Well, exactly what . . . how . . .”

  “Yeah, she wants me.”

  “And you?”

  “The feeling is mutual. I mean, come on, Dad: Look at her. She’s what B2K and Diddy are singin’ about in ‘Bump Bump Bump.’”

  “So, you two haven’t . . .”

  “No.”

  “Do y’all plan to?”

  “I have no plans to, unless she ends up being my wife. I’m saving myself.”

  “For what?”

  “For when I get married.”

  Raheim’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  “So, you a virgin?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’ve never had sex?”

  “Nope.”

  “Never?” “Yup, never.”

  He was . . . well, shocked. “Really?”

  Errol chuckled. “Yeah, really.”

  “Uh . . . when did you decide you would do this?”

  “On my birthday.”

  “And how. . . . what brought you to . . . make this kind of choice?”

  “I want my first time to be with the woman I love, not just some female I like or lust.”

  “You’re not gonna be intimate with any woman until your wedding night?”

  “We can be intimate—kiss and stuff.”

  “And stuff?”

  “Yeah. I can be with her without being with her. We can hold and caress each other. Smooch.”

  “Have you done those things with any young ladies?”

  “With a few.”

  “How many is a few?”

  “Like three or four.”

  Raheim replayed Errol’s dance sessions at the party with Max. “Don’tcha think doin’ those things—especially if it’s with a young lady that looks like Max—could be dangerous?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could put your plan in jeopardy. You start holdin’ and caressin’ and then smoochin’ and kissin’ and then feelin’ and rubbin,’ and the next thing you know, y’all are bumpin’ and grindin’.”

  “I know when to put on the brakes.”

  “Are you datin’ Max?”

  “No.”

  “Are you datin’ anybody right now?” Raheim knew Errol had been on a few study dates to the library and caught a movie and grabbed some pizza with several young ladies, but up until now hadn’t had a steady girlfriend.

  “No. There are a few girls tryin’ to holla, but I got too much on my plate to get caught up or tied down. It takes a lot of energy to deal with females.”

  Raheim laughed to himself. It takes a lot of energy to deal with the men, too. “And . . . you plan on bein’ a total virgin until you get married?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, Dad. Unlike some of my peers, I do know that oral sex is sex.”

  He read my mind . . .

  Now, how do I ask him about this? “You haven’t had sex, but have you . . . do you . . .”

  Errol’s eyebrows rose. “Whack my wood?”

  They laughed. Raheim noticed how similar in volume and texture their laughs were.

  “I have and I do,” Errol admitted. “Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I can’t have sex with myself.”

  “You want your wife to be a virgin, too?”

  “That’d be a plus. But if I fall in love with a woman who isn’t, I wouldn’t hold that against her. So long as she doesn’t hold my being a virgin against me.”

  “Do your boyz know you a virgin?”

  “Yeah. They’re cool about it. Sid is like a born-again virgin.”

  “A born-again virgin?”

  “Yeah. He’s had sex a few times, but now he plans to wait until he marries Juliette. And Roe is glad one of us is a virgin ’cause there can only be one Mack in the crew, and he’s it.”

  “Ha, from what I could see, you was the Mack tonite. Those young ladies were all over you.”

  “You get perks when it’s your birthday.” He grinned.

  “Does Max know?”

  “Nope. If she did, she’d be trying to change that situation!”

  They laughed again. There goes that echo . . .

  “There’s gonna be a lot of Maxes out there. Sure you gonna be able to hold out?”

  “Yeah. It’s about being true to myself.”

  “And there’s gonna be fellas who won’t be as understandin’ as Roe and Sid. They’re gonna rib you. I remember when I was your age.” And Raheim was the fella who did much of the ribbin’, since he started sexin’ at thirteen. Raheim was so sure Errol would also begin dippin’ at an early age that he gave Errol “the birds and the bees” talk just before he entered high school, at twelve—at the end of which Raheim demonstrated, with a banana, how to place on a condom.

  “I’m not concerned with what people think. All that matters is that I’m comfortable with it.”

  If only I’d been as confident and self-assured when I was fifteen.

  “And what if you’re my age or older and you still haven’t found that one? It might be harder as the years go by to keep that promise to yourself.”

  Errol shrugged. “It can be done. A. C. Green did it. Besides, sex is so overrated. I’m interested in making love. And if I get that frustrated, I can always wave my magic wand.”

  Raheim shook his head in admiration. “Wow, son. I’m proud of you. There aren’t many young bruthas like you out here takin’ a vow like that.”

  “Thanks. But I think there are. It’s just that the ones having sex get all the press. I know bruthas at Tech who are virgins—and some of them try to convince everybody they do it all the time.”

  “How can you tell they’re lyin’?”

  “Not only a
re there not enough hours in a day for them to do it as much as they say they do, they haven’t been alive long enough to have experienced all they say they have. But enough about my sex life: let’s talk about yours.”

  Raheim did a double take. “Pardon me?”

  “Come on, Dad. I know you and what’s-his-name broke up.”

  What’s-his-name. Errol had never called Simon that to his face, but whenever he talked to Raheim about him, it was always . . . “How is what’s-his-name?” “You out with what’s-his-name?” “Is what’s-his-name there?” “Grandma said you and what’s-his-name came by the restaurant the other day.” Raheim always figured that he refused to speak Simon’s name because he’d have to accept Raheim’s not being with Mitchell anymore.

  “How did you find out?” Like I don’t know . . .

  “Grandpa.”

  Of course. “I guess jood news travels fast.”

  “Is it jood news?”

  “It probably is for you.”

  “Why would it be jood news for me?”

  “I thought you never liked Simon.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s not that I didn’t like him. I didn’t like him for you.”

  Of course. “Well, we were . . . we couldn’t . . . I . . . he . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain what happened. How have you been handling it?”

  “It’s been . . . kinda rough. I . . . still care for him. Hmmph, this is kinda weird.”

  “What is?”

  “Talkin’ to my son about breakin’ up with my . . . friend.” Raheim still hadn’t come up with the right word to describe the men in his life.

  “Ha, you were much more than friends!” Errol corrected him.

  They laughed again. It was like music.

  “Are you still friends?”

  “Just bein’ friends right now . . . that would be difficult.”

  Errol contemplated his next question; it was as if he was afraid what the answer would be. “Are you dating?”

  “No.”

  Errol wasn’t doing it on the outside, but Raheim knew he was smiling on the inside.

  “Uh, thanks for askin’, son. I appreciate that.”

  Errol nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  “Well, I’ll let you finish gettin’ ready.” Raheim rose to leave.