A House Is Not a Home (13 page)

“Well, it ain't really the body I'm interested in, it's da booty.”

Mitchell laughed.

Montee shrugged. “If it won't bother me . . .”

“Yes, it would.”

He sat back and huffed. “Yeah. It would. I tell you, that brother is
always
messin' up my plans. Well . . . instead of gettin' our freak on, how about we get our
friend
on? You look like you could use a chest to lay your head on.”

Mitchell smiled. “That, I'd like.”

“And I think it's
my
turn to fix breakfast.”

“And I'd
really
like that.”

T
hey decided to live together because they had to. Now they live together because they want to.

His father is the
last
person Raheim ever thought he'd be splitting the bills with. Actually,
splitting the bills
is the wrong phrase to describe their living arrangement: his father covers and writes all the checks each month for the two bedroom co-op in Jersey City (the mortgage, electric, gas, phone, and cable are all in his name). When he saw that his son was having an emotional meltdown in the summer of '99, Mr. Rivers insisted that Raheim come live with him; after being an alcoholic for much of his twenties and thirties, he knew how tough conquering an addiction and getting one's life back on track could be. Raheim appreciated the offer but was a little suspicious; was this his father's way of making up for the fact that he stepped out on him when he was a kid? There had been other attempts over the last decade since he resurfaced, starting with the invite he and Li'l Brotha Man received to attend the Million Man March (since they were going anyway, Raheim accepted; it would be, as his father told him later that night, the very best moment of his life, having his son with him to share that special day and finally meeting his grandson). And while Raheim did reach out to him that night in that hotel room because he needed him, he didn't believe he needed him
that
much. But he had to reconsider that position after he had a relapse (after his sixth Gamblers Anonymous meeting, he thought he had it beat and knew he could walk into a casino and not be tempted—and nearly had another Flintstone fit when he was). Also, because he was facing a mile-high stack of gambling debts, credit-card bills, and default notices (he had to sell the Jeep, the jewelry, and his overpriced fashions) and had been evicted from his three-bedroom apartment in Harlem (he was late with or had not paid his rent at all for six months), he accepted since his father only expected him to chip in for food and other incidentals.

After he moved in, though, Raheim learned there were a few other things expected of him. Since his father would be doing all of the cooking, Raheim had to do the dishes (as well as take out the trash). Because his father sometimes worked double shifts as a tollbooth clerk at the Holland Tunnel and had so few clothes to clean (the man hadn't purchased a new pair of jeans in ten years and still wore a very faded and tattered Kareem Abdul-Jabbar T-shirt), Raheim was on laundry duty. He was also responsible for dusting and polishing the furniture, sweeping and mopping the floors, and cleaning the bathroom.

And then there was “the check-in”: if Raheim was out late or planned on not coming home, he'd have to call to let him know. Naturally, Raheim balked: even if the man was his father, that didn't give him the right to know where he was, who he was with, what he was doing, and when he'd be home. After all . . .

“I'm a grown man,” he defiantly argued.

His father laughed. “You ain't a grown man until you reach your thirties—and by that time you'll wish you
weren't
.” Before Raheim could recover from that blow, he hit him with another one: “I know you can do the right thing—but you gotta show you can be trusted to do it.”

“So, you don't trust me?”

“Of course I do. If I didn't, I wouldn't have let you move in here. You could rob me blind, put me in the hole. But that's a chance I'm willing to take. The real question is, can you trust yourself?”

Jood
question. His life had been out of sync the past four years and he had already slipped once on the road to recovery. So, even though the check-in and household chores initially made him feel like a teenager, he realized they were for his own jood, his father's way of keeping an eye out and providing him with some structure and stability. All his life he'd been carrying the weight himself, unwilling to let others help. Everybody needs a safe place to fall, where they can just be without judgment, a world away from the world that hasn't been patient with or kind to them—and the person who
was
that soft place for Raheim, he pushed away.

So while his father hadn't raised Raheim, he now stepped in to raise him
up.

Raheim had kept him at a yard's distance since he popped back up nine years ago, but that wall came crumbling down during the almost four years they've been housemates. He's become a papa's boy—and he's proud of it. He's enjoyed living under the same roof and, in some ways, having the kind of relationship with his father he didn't have growing up. But he knows their being roomies will have to end, sooner rather than later. As his father has been hinting over the past year, “Now that you're in your thirties, you're officially a grown man—which means you've
out
grown me.” Being a grown man means you have to be, not act, grown—and he sees that he was indeed acting the role over the past decade. After turning eighteen, he (like so many other young men) tripped into and stumbled through his twenties—and much of that tripping and stumbling was due to being hardheaded. He's finally grown up, thanks to his father, and although he hasn't made any announcement or started looking for a place of his own, he knows that has to be his next step. He can empathize with those adult children who find themselves back at Mom and Dad's doorstep after a divorce, losing a job, or out of plain homesickness.

Saturday morning has become their time to catch up. When Raheim emerged from the bathroom in green BVDs and a white tank, he walked toward the kitchen and found his father (also in green BVDs and a white tank; yup, they're dressing alike) standing over the stove, mixing a bowl of oatmeal.

The elder Rivers smiled. “Well . . . jood mornin', son.”

“Jood mornin', Pop.” Raheim took the orange juice out of the refrigerator.

“I was happy to see you weren't home when I got in last night. Hot date?”

Raheim filled their glasses, which were already on the table. “Not really.”

“Not really? That means it started out red-hot and turned ice-cold.”

He ain't lyin'. . .

He turned the eye under the pot off. “It happens—especially when you been off the market.”

Raheim sat down at the dinette table. “Off the market?”

“Yeah. Something's wrong when your father dates more than you do.” He poured them both some coffee in their favorite mugs (Raheim's from Gladys & Ron's Chicken & Waffles in Atlanta, his father's from the Professional Bowling League of America). He placed the coffeepot back on its holder. “So, who is he?”

Raheim grinned. There was a time when his father couldn't (or wouldn't) acknowledge that his son slept with men. And, like other fathers, he blamed himself . . .

It's my fault.

Why would you think that?

Because . . . I wasn't around.

If that was the case, a lot more bruthas out here would be.

But . . . how did it happen?

How?

Yeah. Did somebody do somethin' to you?

No.

You sure? If so, you can tell me. You can tell me anything.

Pop, nobody did anything to me.

But something must have happened for it to . . . happen.

It didn't just happen, and it didn't happen because something didn't happen. It just is. I guess I always knew.

You did?

Yeah.

When?

Uh, since I was a kid.

You mean, even when I was around?

Yeah.

But . . . how did you know?

I was feelin' the same way about girls I was about boys.

Ah. Do you still have feelings for both?

I haven't been with a female in some time but . . . I still have feelings for 'em.

His father took this disclosure as a sign of hope, and over the next three months tried to hook his son up with every attractive and available twentysomething sister he came across. His attempts failed, and not just because Raheim wasn't interested: many of those he approached believed the elder Rivers was using his son to get a date for himself. It wasn't until Raheim went out with the
brother
of one of these women that his father realized his efforts were in vain. He has, in his own way, come to accept who his son is—that he inquires about and is genuinely interested in Raheim's love life is proof.

“This brutha I . . . met years ago,” Raheim revealed.

“Mmm . . . a booty call?”

“Pop!”

“I've had a few booty calls in my lifetime, too, ya know? Hey, whatever it takes so you don't lose your groove.”

“
Lose
it? Ain't no way.”

“Ah, spoken like a true Rivers man. Our rivers run
deep
.”

They laughed.

He placed a bowl of cinammon oatmeal and a plate of turkey sausage and scrambled eggs with cheese in front of him.

Raheim's eyes danced. “Thanks.”

His father chuckled. “Welcome.” He filled his own bowl.

“How was
your
date last night, Pop?”

“
Very
jood.”

“And how was Millie?”

“As
nasty
as she wanted to be.”

“And you loved every minute of it.”

“You know I did. Thanks again for the tickets, son.”

“You welcome.”

“Like Al Sharpton, Millie is one person you don't wanna cross. 'Cause if you do,
he'll
be walkin' and
she'll
be talkin'.”

“Did Amelia enjoy the concert?” Amelia is his girlfriend; they've been seeing each other for a year. At forty-one, she's a decade younger than him.

“She did.”

“I still can't believe she never heard of Millie Jackson.”

“She heard of her, she just never
heard
her before.”

“Ha, then she got a earful last night.”

“Yeah. She kept sayin' Millie reminded her of Lil' Kim. You know I ain't know who she was talkin' about.”

“Yeah, I know.” Raheim snickered under his breath.

“So on our drive back to Jersey she played a few of her songs. I was like,
damn!
Millie got a mouth, but that girl got
mouth
. She said things Millie probably wishes she coulda put on wax back in the day.”

“I think they did a commercial together a few years ago.”

“For who—
Hustler
?”

They laughed.

The elder Rivers sat down, prayed silently over his food, and was about to pick up the salt when Raheim swiped it. His father huffed. “A little sprinkle ain't gonna hurt me, son.” His blood pressure is up, so he has to watch his intake.

“Like you know how to sprinkle on a little?”

His father frowned. He doubled up on the pepper instead.

“I'm goin' food shoppin' later on. You need somethin'?”

“Nah. What you cookin' tomorrow?”

“I ain't cookin' nothin'. Amelia will be. I'll be too busy keepin' my eye focused on the prize.”

“Oh, yeah. You got practice today?” He's a member of the Mellow Fellows, a bowling team. They'll be competing in the Jersey City Bowling League's quarter finals tomorrow.

“Son, you know your father don't need to practice. But my
teammates
. . . ?”

Raheim chuckled.

“I'll be watchin'
them
practice to make sure practice
does
make perfect.”

“What was your average last week?”

“One-ninety.”

“Wow, Pop. Y'all should win.”

“We better. I'm not losin' three years in a row.”

“Is Amelia gonna be cheerin' you on?”

“Yeah. You know the fellas love her to death—and the women can't stand her. They just hatin'. She younger, prettier,
and
smarter.”

“And you never let 'em forget it.”

“You know it. Uh, you got my jersey?”

If he can't find it in his own closet, it's in Raheim's. “Yeah. I'm gonna—”

“—wash it today, yeah, I heard that before. You got a full day—
and
night.”

“I'll do it right after breakfast.”

“You know that laundry room is always packed on a Saturday.”

“If it is, I'll just head to the one around the corner.”

“And you'll be waiting for a washer and a dryer all day, there, too.”

“I'll get it done before the tournament tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Raheim turned on
Soul Train
. They finished the rest of the meal in silence, watching Heather Headley belt out “I Wish I Wasn't.”

Raheim slurped up the rest of his oatmeal. “That was
so
jood, Pop.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

Raheim sighed heavily. He peered at his father.

The elder Rivers was familiar with that pitiful look. “Okay, okay,
okay
: I'll do the dishes and you get the laundry done,
to-day
.”

“Thanks, Pop.” Raheim beamed. “I'll get to it right now.”

M
ontee woke Mitchell up by ringing his bell.

It's a facsimile of the Liberty Bell that Mitchell purchased years ago when he visited Philadelphia. It had come in handy last November when Destiny caught a bug; bedridden for a couple of days, she'd ring it when she needed her father.