A House Is Not a Home (14 page)

He opened his eyes and sat up as Montee put down the tray. On one plate was a stack of syrup-soaked blueberry pancakes, surrounded by six strips of bacon; on the other, an omelet with onions and green peppers. There was also a bowl of grapes and glasses of orange juice and ice water.

“Good morning,” Montee sang.

“Good morning.”

“A promise is a promise.” He took the linen napkin folded across his arm and draped it across Mitchell's thighs. He then inched the tray up.

“Thank you so much. What a delicious-looking spread. I see you didn't have a problem finding anything.”

“Not at all.”

Mitchell pointed to the thin white vase, which had a few daisies in it. “Did you get them from Destiny's garden?”

“Destiny's garden?”

“Yes, she has her own little area in the backyard.”

“Ah. I guess I did. I hope she won't mind.”

“I'm sure she won't. Aren't you going to join me?”

“Of course I am.” He eased onto the other side of the bed, lying on his right side with his head propped up on his bent right arm. He opened his mouth.

“You expect me to feed you?”

“
Hell
yeah. That's one of the rewards of being the chef.”

Mitchell obliged. He let him have the first taste.

“This is some palace you live in,” Montee complimented.

“It's not a palace.”

“How many square feet is it?”

“Six thousand two hundred and seventy-five.”

“You don't call
that
a palace? In some parts, this would be considered an estate.”

Mitchell shrugged.

“You clean this place yourself?”

“Yes.”

“I hate to clean, so I have a maid come in once a month. You'd need one once a
week
up in here.”

“I couldn't have someone else do it. I enjoy the sweeping and the mopping and the dusting. It's therapy for me.”

“You can tell this is your house; it has a very calm, welcoming spirit. You've been doin' a lot of livin' up in here—but clearly not a lot of
lovin
'.”

Mitchell didn't want to go there with him, so . . . “You know, I always wanted to know something. It isn't on your Web site and I don't think you ever addressed it in interviews. Or maybe you were never asked.”

“What?”

“How did you get the nickname Montee?”

“Ah. My little sister could never say Montgomery. She'd always chop it. Mon-ty. Pretty soon, everyone was calling me Monty.”

“But you dropped the
Y
and added two
E
s?”

“Yeah. It didn't look right on paper, so I knew it wouldn't look right on a marquee. Uh, there's something
I
always wanted to know all these years, too.”

“Oh? What?”

“Did you . . . think about me, at all?”

“You crossed my mind—once or twice.” Mitchell laughed.

Montee wasn't laughing. “I thought you forgot about me.”

“Forgot about you?” Mitchell pushed the tray forward and scooted out of bed. He retrieved a photo album from inside one of the entertainment-center compartments. He placed it in Montee's hands.

Montee opened it. It was a clip portfolio, documenting his career: CD and concert reviews, profiles, flyers, ads, “mentions” in trend stories and gossip columns. And tucked in the very back was that issue of
Playgirl.

“Montgomery ‘Montee' Simms, this is your life,” Mitchell announced.

“
Damn.
You got stuff in here I never knew about.
You
shoulda been my publicist.” Montee finally noticed something about one of the bylines. He looked up at Mitchell, wide-eyed. “
You're
MC.”

Mitchell raised his right hand. “Guilty.”

“Why didn't you just use your full name?”

“I knew that, one day, we'd reunite and I'd reveal it. Besides, I didn't want you to think I was stalking you.”

“Ha, too late.” He thumbed through a few more pages. “Wow. I guess you didn't forget about me.”

“How could I? You served me some of the very best breakfast booty I ever had.” He smacked him on his ass.

“And you scooped it up like nobody ever did before,” Montee moaned. “Uh . . . would you like some for old time's sake?”

Mitchell licked his lips. “Breakfast wouldn't be the same without it.”

Montee squeezed him tight. “Sade said it's never as good as the first time. She lied.”

They laughed. They were soaking in the master garden tub, Mitchell between Montee's legs.

Mitchell shifted to face him. “You were as tasty as ever.”

“So were you.”

“And
freaky
as ever.”

“Ditto.”

“And, you broke your rule,
again
.”

“Say what?”

“No hanky-panky, no spanky-spanky, remember?”

“
I
broke it? I think I had some help.”

“It was
your
rule, not
mine
.”

“Uh-huh. Well, rules are made to be broken; at least mine are, by me.”

“Don't tell me: Bette Davis in
Death on the Nile
, right?”

“Yeah. How you know?”

“They showed it the other night on AMC.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was okay. The book was better.”

“Ain't it always?”

“Mmm-hmm. I take it you're still a mystery buff . . . ?”

“Yup. When I'm on the road, I take an audiovox with me so I can watch my favorite episodes of
Columbo
. I wish they'd release 'em on DVD. I've had to rerecord them all. The tapes were old and I wore them out.”

“Uh-huh. Just like me—but in a
jood
way.”

“You know it. Uh, where does that word come from, anyway?”

I might as well tell him . . .
“My ex.”

“You mean
the
ex?”

“Yes,
the
ex.”

“Ah. Not only does he have
jood
taste, he's a clever brother. I may have to use that word in a song.”

“If you do, I expect royalties.”

“Huh?”

“After all, you never would've known about it if you hadn't met me.”

“True. How you wanna be paid: cold cash or coochie coupon?”

“Hmm . . . I can't have both?”

“Damn, you greedy.”

“
And
, I want a dedication in the liner notes.”

“
And
pushy. We'll discuss those details if and when it happens. Ya know . . . I
did
dedicate a song to you on the last CD.”

“What song?”

“‘Early E'vry Midnite.'”

Mitchell had wanted to assume the song referred to him but he might not have been
that
Mitchell. He was glad to find out the truth. “Thanks. I love that song.”

“I figured you might.”

“Why that one?”

Montee serenaded him with the first verse. Mitchell joined him for the rest of the song.

Montee squeezed him even tighter. “I was hoping that, wherever you were, you'd hear what was in my heart.”

“I did.”

They
looked
at each other. It was the type of look that could be followed by only one thing . . .

Their first kiss was soft, slow, sweet, and
long
.

When their lips parted, they were both out of air.

“Damn,”
was all Montee could muster.

“That . . . that was worth the eight-year wait,” Mitchell admitted.

“Eight years, three months, and six days,” Montee corrected. They cracked up.

Montee leaned back against the driver's side of his car. He put his hands in his pockets. “So . . . here we are again.”

“Yeah.”

They stared in silence.

Mitchell finally broke it. “You have any other concert dates coming up?”

“I got a white pride event in San Diego next weekend.”

“Ah. Who else is on the bill?”

“John Waters, Kate Clinton, and k.d. lang.”

“So you're the solo Negro?”

“Yup. I usually am. But it don't bother me—being the solo Negro
pays
.”

“I bet.”

“And I make sure I'm in
every
picture taken. No one's gonna invite me to the party and expect me to stay in the black-ground, like the help.”

They laughed.

“I'll also be doin' Atlanta's Black Pride, Labor Day weekend. You should come down the week before. I can show you the city. We can hit a club and dance the night away. And you can hear my next CD before it hits stores in November.”

“Sounds like fun. But I can't be away for a week.”

“Yes, you can. Errol's gonna be hangin' with his boys and Destiny's gonna be hangin' with her grandparents. When's the last time you've been on a vacation?”

“A month before Destiny was born.” He and Gene had gone to Honolulu for five days. It was a trip his mother paid for; as she put it, “This'll be the
only
vacation you take in the next eighteen years, so make sure you enjoy it.”

“Uh-huh. And I bet you haven't even gone away for the
weekend
since she was born, huh?” Montee presumed.

“Uh . . . no.”

“You know what they say: all work and no play. You can get rusty.”

“Given the sounds emanating from you when I was bastin' that booty, I don't think so.”

“Now, why you
even
. . .”

Mitchell giggled.

“Come on, you owe it to yourself to do somethin'
for
yourself. Just think about it, okay?” Montee wore that stray puppy-dog look again.

And, once again, Mitchell gave up. “Okay, I'll think about it.”

“Jood.”

Silence.

“Well . . . I gotta get to rehearsal.”

“Have a jood rehearsal, and a jood show tonight.”

“Thanks. I will. I had a better-than-
jood
time, again.”

Mitchell smiled. “Me, too.”

They embraced. After almost a minute, they let go. Mitchell planted a light kiss on his lips.

Montee grinned. “Thanks. You're paid in full. That was lick number fifty.”

“That was one debt I was
very
happy to settle.”

Montee opened his door and climbed in. He started the car and rolled down his window. “Ah, there's our so-long song.”

They had met two years before Erykah Badu's debut came out. It took a moment to make the connection. Mitchell nodded. “Next lifetime.”

“Next lifetime,” Montee repeated.

“I think it's your turn to count off.”

Montee held out his left hand; Mitchell took it. “One . . . two . . . two and a half . . .”

Mitchell chuckled.

Montee inhaled deeply. “Three.”

Mitchell looked away as he took off up the block and turned the corner.

Mitchell had just made it back to the kitchen when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“You answered on the first ring. You must be home-
alone
-osexual.” It was Gene. He still knew
exactly
when to call. Some things never change.

“Yes, I am.”

“So, in the immortal words of Sandra St. Victor, did he come over
and
over?”

“He did, but didn't.”

“Huh?”

Mitchell filled him in on their evening and the morning after.

“All that slurpin', slappin', snackin', and smackin', and
no
shaggin'?” Gene cracked.

“There's more to life than shaggin'.”

“Shaggin' is what life is all about. If it weren't, none of us would be here.”

“That's not the kind of connection we made. Or have.”

“Apparently.”

“I guess we're only meant to . . . make you-know-what to each other with song. When we were singing together last night, and this morning . . . it was almost orgasmic.”