“Oh, don’t forget these.” Errol went over to his desk and took something off the printer. He handed them to his father. They were copies of the pictures Sidney snapped: Errol and his father before the party began and Raheim with Mitchell as things were winding down.
Raheim grinned. “Wow. These are beautiful.” He recalled Max’s reaction, learning he was Errol’s father. “We could be brothers.”
“Yeah.” Errol play punched him in the right arm. “But you would be the older one.”
They laughed again. This time it was lighter but just as lovely.
Raheim trudged into the kitchen, where Mitchell was wrapping up leftovers.
“So?” Mitchell queried.
Raheim filled him in.
“Well . . .” Mitchell mused. “Your son never ceases to impress me.”
“Listenin’ to him, it’s hard to believe he is my son.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like I’m lookin’ in a mirror, sixteen years ago. But he’s doing everything I didn’t do. Graduatin’ from high school. Goin’ to college. Stayin’ a virgin. I guess he’s really learned from my mistakes.”
“Your mistakes? You think he’s pursuing his own life according to how you haven’t lived yours? He’s doing everything you would want him to do. Besides, if you had stayed a virgin, he wouldn’t be here.”
Raheim sighed. “Yeah.”
Mitchell noticed the printouts in his hand; he reached for them. “You two could be twins”—he looked up at him—“if it weren’t for that single gray hair.”
They laughed.
When Sidney and Monroe returned around midnight, Raheim offered to drive them to Monroe’s house—which was only three blocks away. They accepted—Errol, so he could spend a little more time with his dad; Sidney, to continue their discussion about Raheim’s being on one of his favorite shows, Forensic Files; and Monroe, so he could finally say he rode in a Benz (a 1991 model, it’s the only piece of property Raheim owns; the fact that he got the car at a police auction last year for $6,300 when his own car was repossessed was not lost on him). Raheim unlocked the doors as they were all walking out of the gate.
“Raheim?” Mitchell called.
Raheim turned. “Yeah?”
Mitchell stepped out of the doorway. “Uh . . . my mother and Anderson will be coming over for dinner tomorrow. They’ll be bringing Destiny home. I . . . I know Destiny would love to see you.”
Raheim didn’t think about it for a second. “What time?”
“Say, four o’clock?”
“Should I bring somethin’?”
“No.”
“A’ight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Jood. Have a jood night.”
“You, too.”
Sunday,
June 8, 2003
Chapter 18
“Hello?”
“Mornin’, Mitch.”
“’Chelle?” It was Michelle Snipes, Mitchell’s former coworker at Your World magazine. Mitchell looked at the clock above the top oven: 11:05 A.M. “What are you doin’ up this early on a Sunday?”
“I know, right? Chile, I’d usually be rollin’ over about now. The only thing that could get me out of bed this early is a patient. I had an emergency root canal.” She had realized her dream of becoming a dentist in 2000 and has had her own practice in Los Angeles the past two years.
“He or she must’ve been in a lot of pain if they couldn’t wait until Monday morning.”
“Uh-huh, and their pain was my pleasure.”
“But of course. Who was it?”
“Now, you know I can’t reveal that information . . .” She’s managed to rope a few celebrity clients, but won’t disclose their names. She will, however, give him clues, like . . . “They were in Ocean’s 11,” “They just won a Daytime Emmy,” “They were recently arrested for drunk driving,” or “They just got out of rehab” (given where she was, the latter two could be almost anybody).
Today’s hint: “They were on Three’s Company.”
“Well, it can’t be Suzanne Somers—her teeth are as straight and blond as her hair,” Mitchell argued. “Are you still in the office?”
“Yeah. I’m ’bout to leave, get myself some breakfast. I’m sure you must be about done eating yours. I hear Mrs. Karen Clark-Sheard in the background.”
“I haven’t even started it and probably won’t. I’ve been so busy with Sunday dinner.”
“Oh? What’s on the menu?”
“A turkey with stuffing, a ham, greens, peas and rice, baked macaroni and cheese, candied yams, corn bread, and chocolate cake for dessert.”
“Damn. What are you not cookin’? Isn’t smothered chicken your usual second Sunday—uh-huh.”
“What?”
“You finally invited him to dinner.”
He inhaled. “Yes.”
“Hallelujah!” she shouted. “There could only be one reason why you’d be slavin’ in that Emeril kitchen. I take it things went very jood last night?”
“Yeah. The party went off without a hitch.”
“I wasn’t talkin’ about the party. Is he still asleep, or standing just a few feet away?”
“He’s not here. He didn’t spend the night.”
“Ah. How long you been up cookin’?”
“Since five.”
“Oooh,” she purred. “He musta put some spell on you for you to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for two.”
As it turns out, Raheim did put a spell on him. It wasn’t seeing him for the first time in almost six months (Raheim attended Destiny’s birthday party last December), but Raheim’s aroma that worked some magic. It’s a natural scent Raheim exudes that is . . . hypnotic. It actually turned Mitchell off during the years they became estranged, and he never noticed it after their breakup. He also didn’t remember smelling it last year. But last night? It was so intoxicating that Mitchell made up that excuse about Destiny so he could invite Raheim back and breathe him in some more.
Mitchell didn’t admit this to Michelle, though; he was embarrassed (yet tickled) by his reaction. “No, my mother, stepfather, and Destiny will be here. And Errol, depending on what time he comes back.”
“So you’re gonna let your mom and Destiny do the interrogation. Jood plan. And since you brought up my future husband: Did E. enjoy himself?”
“He had a ball. Those girls just couldn’t get enough of him.”
“I can understand why.”
“But one young lady had his attention for most of the evening. She goes to NYU.”
“Ah, my alma mater. And how old is she?”
“Nineteen.”
“See: he does have a thing for older women.”
“Yes, older women, not old women.” He snickered.
“Don’t get it twisted, okay? Three more years and he is mine. We can have a double wedding; I’ll be marrying the son and you, the father.”
“Maybe you should set your sights on the grandfather.”
“Ain’t he like fifty years old? I don’t want a man who carries a senior citizens’ discount card. You gotta get ’em before they get set in their ways. I’d be spending half the time frustrated over stuff he couldn’t change if he wanted to, and the other half fighting with him over things he can but won’t.”
“Don’t you know you’re supposed to accept folks just the way they are?”
“Where you hear that, in a song? I got another one for ya: Like Anita, I don’t believe in fairy tales. Forget the shining armor; just give me the knight!”
They laughed.
“And what time are you expecting your knight?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Well, have a jood time. And have an even jooder time after the kids are put to bed.”
“He can’t spend the night.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s way too early to be even thinking about something like that.”
“My dear, you two have a very long history of doing something like that.”
“Yes, we do, but it’s a history. Besides, I’ve never had a man spend the night with the kids in the house.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Besides, he ain’t a stranger.”
“Still . . . I don’t know if Destiny is old enough to shoulder something like this.”
“Ha, now you sound like one of those Concerned Caucasian Women for America. Puh-leeze. You don’t think Destiny knows her father is in love with her uncle Raheim? It’s written all over your face whenever you talk about him. And Raheim the Third ain’t gonna be bothered. You think it’s a coincidence that he decided to have his first birthday party in five years at his godfather’s house and asked his father—not his mother, not his stepfather, not his grandfather—to help chaperon? They’d be surprised if he didn’t spend the night.”
“Before we even think of going there . . . a lot has to be said. And a lot has to happen.”
“Well, you can play it safe; just know you don’t have to. You two were meant to be—and will be again. Even Miss Cleo could predict that!”
Chapter 19
“Okay. What about this?”
It was two o’clock and Raheim was still trying on outfits. Unsatisfied with anything in his own closet, he was now going through his father’s.
And, as he had done in his son’s room, the elder Rivers stood back, amused by the whole spectacle. “It looks jood,” he said for the tenth time.
“Just jood?”
“Just jood?”
“Yeah. Just jood ain’t jood enough, Pop.”
“It ain’t?”
“Nah. I wanna look better than jood.”
He chuckled. “Son, everything you tried on in the past hour has been better-than-jood.”
“You just sayin’ that.”
“No, I’m not. You think I’d let you walk out of this house lookin’ wrecked?”
Raheim eyed something in his father’s closet. He pulled it out. He held it up. “What about this?”
“My blue suit? Don’t you think that’ll be a little too dressy? You’re not meeting with the president of Paramount Pictures. It’s just dinner.”
“It ain’t just dinner, Pop.”
“It ain’t?”
“Nah. This is . . . it’s different.”
“How?”
“It . . . it just is. The way he asked me. The look in his eyes.” And the way he used Destiny as a security blanket, the way I used to with Li’l Brotha Man. . . .
His father shrugged. “Okay.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I do believe you. I can tell by the look in your eyes that you heard what you heard and saw what you saw. And I know you’re excited—you woke me up early this mornin’ singin’ that song, over and over and over again. You ain’t Gladys or a Pip.”
“Sorry,” Raheim said, a little embarrassed.
“You don’t have to be sorry; just be careful. I know you anticipate this leadin’ to somethin’, but . . . just slow your roll.”
Raheim was shocked he even knew that phrase.
And the elder Rivers could tell. “Your father may be older but he ain’t ancient.”
They smiled.
“You’ve been through a lot. And you just got out of a relationship.”
“You’re the one who said I need to date more,” Raheim reminded him.
“Yes, date, not mate. You’re already lookin’ forward to a reconciliation. But that kind of reunion ain’t gonna happen just like that.”
“I know it ain’t gonna happen just like that.”
“And the reality is . . . it might not happen.”
“It’s gonna happen.” Raheim pouted, hanging the suit back up.
His father approached him, putting his left hand on Raheim’s right shoulder. “Son, if you get your hopes up and it doesn’t come off, you’ll be crushed. I don’t wanna see you get hurt. Besides, I want it to happen, too. That’ll mean you’ll finally be moving out of here.”
“You tryin’ to get rid of me?”
“Tryin’? I thought I was succeedin’.” He winked.
Their doorbell rang.
He playfully pushed Raheim out the room. “You get that. This way I know you’re not trying on something else.”
Raheim trudged up the hall. He looked through the peephole. He opened the door.
“Hay, Amelia.”
“Hey, Junior.”
They hugged and kissed.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m jood. You?”
“I’m jood, too. Ooh, I love that shirt.”
“You should. You bought it for Pop.”
“Oh. You look even jooder in it. And I’m sure Mitchell will love you in it.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely. Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Well, you should be. But that’s a jood thing. It’ll keep you focused and on your toes. Just don’t start trippin’ over your feet and knockin’ shit over. That will not make a jood impression.”
“Ha, I won’t.”
“Is your father ready?”
The elder Rivers appeared with his bowling bag. “I am. Hey, baby.”
“Hey, TB.” She calls him TB, short for Teddy Bear, since he’s six inches taller and almost a hundred pounds heavier. They kissed.
“Have a jood time, son.”
“I will.”
“And, please, don’t spend another hour goin’ through our closets.”
“I won’t. Jood luck today.”
“Thanks. But we know luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.” He trumped up his chest.
“That’s why I love this man—he’s so humble.” Amelia turned to her man. “Uh, aren’t you going to wear a jacket?”
Pop Rivers frowned. “What for?”
“It’s raining,” Amelia matter-of-factly stated.
He shrugged. “I’ve had worse things fall on me.” He opened the door.
“And when you catch the flu and have to miss the championships . . . ?”
He stopped. He turned. “I’ll get a jacket.” He made his way up the hall.
She looked at Raheim. “Right.”
“Son, I’m gonna borrow your light blue breaker.”
“A’ight.”
“What would that man do without me?” she boasted.
Raheim chuckled. “You two act like husband and wife.”
“And that’s how it’s gonna stay. Girlfriend is not messin’ up a jood thing by gettin’ married again.” She’s been divorced—twice. “Did you pack a toothbrush?”
“Huh?”
She put her left hand on her hip. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain that.”
She didn’t; he got it. “He only asked me over for dinner.”
“Uh-huh—and you’ll be the dessert.”
Chapter 20
Raheim rang the downstairs bell at 3:59 P.M. Mitchell opened the door. “Hi.”
“Hay. These are for you.” He presented him with a dozen roses—four white, four yellow, four red.
It had been years since a man had given Mitchell flowers (and, yeah, that man had been Raheim). “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” He beamed.
The look on his face was something Raheim hadn’t seen in a long time—and one he never thought he’d see again. He beamed, too. “You’re welcome.”
“Come on in.”
As soon as he stepped into the house, Raheim caught a whiff of the food; it was heaven. “Somethin’ smells real jood.”
I could say the same thing about you . . . “I hope it’ll taste jood.”
He followed Mitchell into the kitchen. “I’m sure it will.”
Mitchell filled the aqua-blue vase on the island with water. “I love that shirt.”
It was canary yellow; Raheim’s ensemble also included black slacks and shoes. He’d known Mitchell would love it. “Thanks.”
“I’m sure your son will want to borrow it.”
“He’ll have to as
k his grandfather.”
“Mmm . . . loving bright-colored clothes must be genetic.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Mitchell arranged the flowers, admiring them, while Raheim admired him.
“Would you like another cranberry-apple mix?”
“That’d be cool.”
As he made his drink, Mitchell eyed the black leather clutch under Raheim’s arm. “That’s a handsome case.”
Raheim had forgotten all about it. “Oh, thanks. I’ve got a script in here. It’s the lead in a movie.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I was hopin’ you’d read it. Tell me what you think.”
It had been a loooong time since he asked Mitchell for guidance in his career, for his opinion on any decisions he planned to make—and it felt jood to be asked. “I’d love to.” He handed Raheim his juice.
“Thanks.” Raheim handed him the case.
They stood in stone-smiling-silence for several seconds. The bell rang.
“Excuse me.” Mitchell placed the case on the hall vanity as he made his way to the door. Raheim guzzled down his juice.
“Hi, Daddy!” Destiny had her arms up to hug him.
Mitchell knelt to receive it. “Hi, Sugar Plum. Oh, I missed you . . .”
“I missed you, too, times two!”
“How was your weekend?”
“It was . . .” Destiny caught a glimpse of the figure standing in the hall. Her entire face glowed; her mouth opened and she breathed in a sigh of joy. “Uncle Raheim!” Her arms stretched wide, she zoomed into his arms.
He scooped her up. “Hay, Baby Doll. How you been?”
She lovingly clutched him by the neck. “I been jood. How you been?”
He chuckled. “I been jood. Thank you for my card.”
“You’re welcome. You liked it?”
“I loved it.”
“Jood. I’m glad. Ooh, I saw you on TV yesterday.”
“You did?”
“Uh-huh. With Janet Jackson. In a video. Gran’ma said you was in Africa.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“It looks so pretty. Was that a real elephant?”
“Sure was.”
“Wow. It looks so big. Did you get to touch it?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“You like elephants?”
“Uh-huh.”
A House Is Not a Home Page 16
