Yeah, I do.
And . . . Mitch-hull loves you?
Yeah. Some people think that it’s wrong for people like me and Mitchell to be together.
What kind of people are you, Daddy?
Two men . . . who love each other. But when two people love each other, that’s a jood thing.
I love you. And I love Mitch-hull. Will people think that’s wrong?
Some people might. But you know in your heart that it ain’t wrong.
Um, how long you and Mitch-hull been a couple, Daddy?
Uh . . . like four years.
Wow. That’s a long time. It’s like you married.
Uh, kinda sorta, yeah. We not married but we love you like a married couple would.
That means we a family.
Right. Me, you, and Lit—Little Bit, we a family.
Who is Little Bit, Daddy?
That’s what I call Mitchell. Like, your nickname is Li’l Brotha Man, his nickname is Little Bit.
Oh. Why do you call him that?
’Cause, standin’ next to your daddy, he’s a little bit of a man. He shorter and weighs less than me. But he’s got a big heart.
That’s what Grammy said about Mitch-hull, too.
Grammy is right.
Daddy?
Yeah?
Why didn’t you tell me before?
Well, Li’l Brotha Man . . . when me and Little Bit became a couple, you was so young . . . I . . . I didn’t know what to say . . . or how to say it . . . so that you would understand.
You coulda told me back then, Daddy.
I could?
Uh-huh. I liked Mitch-hull from the first time I met him. Like I liked Winston the first time I met him. When Mommy got married to Winston, he became my stepfather; what do I call Mitch-hull?
I don’t know, man. You can talk to him and choose somethin’ together.
Okay.
So, are you comfortable with me and Little Bit bein’ a couple?
I think so.
Jood. You lucky, Li’l Brotha Man. Your mommy and daddy both got somebody in their lives that love them and love you. And that means you get twice the love from us.
Ooh . . . like to the second power?
Yup. Like to the second power.
That’s a jood thing. If it’s twice as much that means it’s twice as jood!
Ya know it.
“. . . so, tryin’ to break that concept down is gonna be an even bigger challenge. But, like you said: ‘They may not be able to put it into words, but they know.’”
“Mmm-hmm. She acts the same way around us Errol did at her age.”
Silence.
“Have you thought of a name for the magazine?”
“I was thinking of . . . Rise.”
“Hmm. Why Rise?”
“It’s a nod to Maya’s poem. What I hope we can do is help readers understand that, no matter what they have or may be going through or will face, they can rise above and beyond it.”
“You sound like Iyanla.”
They chuckled.
“Maybe she can do a column. Or Maya. And I’d like to publish monthly essays from celebrities talking about a pivotal moment in their lives as children that shaped who they are.”
“Mmm . . . maybe I can do one.”
“Indeed. And we’ll be putting you on the cover.”
“Won’t that be a conflict of interest?”
“How?”
“Putting your . . . ex on the cover.” He’d never referred to himself as that to Mitchell before. He hoped he’d never have to again.
“You will be playing a man many of us don’t know about and should. It’s not our fault we were . . . once a couple.” Mitchell had never referred to their union in the past tense to Raheim before—and he, too, hoped it would be the last time.
“Ha, is that what you gonna tell your peers?”
“Yes. Think they’ll buy it?”
“No.”
“Like I care? We’re living in the era of the unfair and unbalanced Fox News. If anything, the controversy will help sell magazines. And movie tickets. All about spin.”
“See, you’re beginning to think like the E-I-C.”
They breathed together. Just like they used to.
Mitchell rose. “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a tray and sat it down on the coffee table. He handed Raheim the champagne bottle. “Will you do the honors?”
When the cork popped, Mitchell caught much of the bubbly splashing out with one of the glasses. Raheim finished filling them.
“Here’s to . . . new beginnings,” Mitchell toasted.
“I’ll drink to that. And . . . uh . . . happy anniversary.”
Wow, Mitchell thought. We met exactly ten years ago this evening. Raheim was always jood about remembering things like that; he wasn’t. But after they split, he found himself remembering . . . and wishing. The smile on his face told Raheim he, too, had remembered—and it was something he wanted to remember.
They clinked. They sipped. They sat back, shoulder to shoulder, each slightly leaning on the other.
“What are your plans for Father’s Day?” Raheim inquired.
“I’m going to the Wall. I’ll be taking Destiny. She’s asked about my father. I told her he died fighting a war. She wanted me to point out Vietnam on her globe. She said it looked like he was a million miles away from home.”
“How y’all goin’ to D.C.?”
“Amtrak. She loves taking the train. She’s been to Richmond to see her grandfather’s relatives a couple of times.”
“Uh, if you want . . . I can drive down.”
Mitchell was touched by the offer. “I . . . we’d love that, very much. But, don’t you want to spend the day with your father?”
“I think he’d understand. Besides, every day is Father’s Day for him.”
“And what about your son? He may have plans for you two.”
“He does. He wants to break our tie and be crowned the Jeopardy! champ.”
“Ah. I played him a few times and, as with his father, could never beat him.”
“He’ll probably wanna go with us. I think he’d appreciate the Wall.”
“Yeah. He would.”
The radio was on, but they weren’t paying much attention to it. But they did when . . .
“Welcome back to Midnight After Dark. I’m your host, Mr. Magic, and here’s Luther’s new one, ‘Dance with My Father.’ The CD of the same name hits stores next week . . .”
Mitchell grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. “Oh. Have you heard it yet?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
After the first verse and chorus, Mitchell began to cry. But Raheim saw it comin’—he had Mitchell’s glass out of his hands and back on the tray, and had Mitchell wrapped up in his right arm before the first tear fell. He held him as he continued to cry after the song went off.
Mitchell lifted his head, which had been buried in Raheim’s chest. “Thanks.”
Raheim thumbed away the tracks of his tears. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m the one that should be thankin’ you.”
“Thanking me? Why?”
“For lovin’ E. like he’s your own. For bein’ there for me when I didn’t deserve it. For just bein’ you.”
Mitchell sniffled. He looked down. “I’ve gotten your father’s shirt all wet.”
“It’ll dry.”
As René Moore began the first verse to “You Don’t Have to Cry,” Mitchell returned his head to his spot on Raheim’s chest and Raheim’s arm, which had dropped to Mitchell’s waist when he sat up, clutched him tighter there and pulled him in closer.
They breathed together as the songs told their story: Chaka Khan’s “Love Me Still”; Patti LaBelle’s “Love and Learn”; Miles Jaye’s “Next Time”; Chante Moore & Kenny Lattimore’s “Still”; Wendy Moten’s “Come In Out of the Rain”; Jeffrey Osbourne’s “We’re Going All The Way”; Aretha and the Four Tops�
�� “If Ever a Love There Was”; and Luther’s “A House Is Not a Home.”
After Luther’s final “Still in love . . . wi-i-i-i-ith me-e-e . . . yea-ea-eaaaa-aaaah,” Raheim broke their silence. “Uh . . . Mitchell?”
Mitchell said nothing. He just breathed.
“Little Bit?” Raheim whispered.
Mitchell only shifted, pushing and snuggling in closer. He’d gotten less than eight hours of sleep since Friday, and not only was he going to catch up, he was going to do it in the arms he longed for, dreamed of being in again. And Raheim had no intention of interrupting that sleep.
For him, it was like being home again, too.
Monday,
June 9, 2003
Chapter 21
When Mitchell opened his eyes, he didn’t hear Errol walking down the hall. Or closing the bathroom door. Or flushing the toilet. Or running the faucet or the shower. Or walking past his door to venture upstairs. Why is it so quiet?
He looked over at the clock on the nightstand (something he never does in the morning) . . .
Eight o’clock!
He jumped out of bed, sprinting out of his room and down the hall. He didn’t notice that he was still in his clothes from the day before—and that the only way he could’ve gotten upstairs is if Raheim had carried him.
He stopped at Destiny’s bedroom door; it was open and her bed was made.
Even more surprising: Errol’s bedroom door was open—and his bed was made!
Mitchell raced downstairs and followed the laughter coming from the breakfast nook. He stood in the foyer outside the kitchen.
“Jood morning, Daddy!” Destiny was seated at the breakfast table with Errol on her right and Raheim on her left.
“Well, jood morning.” He approached them. “How come you all didn’t wake me?”
Raheim rose. “I figured you could use the extra hours.”
“Uncle Raheim cooked us breakfast.”
“He did?” Mitchell knew it had to be a joke; Raheim had never cooked breakfast for him, and the one time he tried to make dinner it was a disaster.
“Yeah. I saved a plate for you.” Raheim took it out of the top oven. He removed a tinfoil cover. He placed it on the table.
Mitchell looked at the dish. He looked at Raheim. “You cooked this?”
Raheim chuckled. “Yeah, I cooked this.”
Mitchell eyed him suspiciously. “You sure this wasn’t delivered courtesy of the twenty-four-hour diner on Flatbush Avenue?”
“They can’t make home fries like these,” promised Errol, wolfing his down.
Mitchell said a silent prayer over his food. The home fries were fabulous.
“Isn’t it jood, Daddy?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Mitchell’s eyes flickered over to Raheim. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“My pops.”
“Mmm . . .”
Errol popped up, taking his and Destiny’s dishes over to the sink, rinsing them off, and placing them in the dishwasher.
Enjoying the breakfast, Mitchell realized they were about to leave. “Your lunch!”
Destiny stood up. “Uncle Raheim already made it.” She took her lunch box from Raheim.
“He did?”
“Uh-huh. I got a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, Oreo cookies, a apple, and raisins.”
“Ah. I’m sure you can’t wait for lunchtime to come.”
Raheim knelt down on his left knee in front of her. “Bye, Baby Doll.”
“Bye.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, times two!”
They hugged.
“Are you gonna be here when I get home from school?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
She frowned.
“But if I can’t be, I’ll call you, okay?”
Her face lit up. “Okay. Make sure you call before Dora the Explorer is on.”
“What time does she come on?”
“Three-thirty.”
“I’ll call you at three-twenty.”
“Jood!”
Mitchell got up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Bye, Sugar Plum.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
He pinched her nose. “I love you.”
She pinched his. “And I love you, too, times two!”
They embraced.
“Later, Dad.” Errol raised his fist.
Raheim raised his and they “shook.” “A’ight, son.” He handed Errol his lunch (he has three PB&J sandwiches).
Errol turned to Mitchell. Mitchell once again aimed to pinch his nose—but for the first time in almost three years, Errol didn’t flinch or move away. Instead of a pinch, Mitchell tapped it with his middle knuckle. Errol’s smile said he approved of the new send-off.
Mitchell and Raheim followed them as they exited the front door. “You two have a jood day,” they wished in unison. They glanced at each other. They blushed.
“We will,” Destiny and Errol replied together, grinning back at them.
As she and Errol walked out the front gate, Destiny waved good-bye; her father and uncle waved back. She then took Errol’s right hand and they made their way to the corner. Raheim and Mitchell stood in the doorway watching them. Mitchell leaned back, brushing Raheim’s chest; Raheim leaned forward, gently settling against Mitchell. They exhaled as their children crossed the street and headed up the block.
About the Author
JAMES EARL HARDY has written for Essence, Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, the Washington Post, the Advocate, and the Source. The recipient of many prestigious honors and awards, he lives in Atlanta, Georgia.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by James Earl Hardy
Love the One You’re With
The Day Eazy-E Died
If Only for One Nite
2nd Time Around
B-Boy Blues
Credits
Cover design by Laura Klynstra
Top cover photograph © Camille Tokerud/Getty Images
Bottom, left cover photograph © Brad Wilson/Photonica
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2005 by Amistad, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME. Copyright © 2005 by James Earl Hardy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
First Amistad paperback edition published 2006.
* * *
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Hardy, James Earl.
A house is not a home : a B-boy blues novel / James Earl Hardy.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-06-621249-9
1. African American gays—Fiction. 2. African American men—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Gay men—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.A62375H68 2005 2004062774
813’.54—dc22
* * *
ISBN-13 978-0-06-093660-0 (pbk.)
ISBN-10 0-06-093660-6
EPub Edition March 2013 ISBN 9780062284471
06 07 08 09 10 BVG/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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