A House Is Not a Home (16 page)

Angel couldn't have been happier that his boyee was gettin' some—and gettin' it
jood
. Raheim's mother liked Simon and thought they made a cute couple (“If it ain't the Hershey's kiss and the Planters peanut”). And Raheim's father was also pleased his son was seeing someone—but curious about their “roles.”

“You the man, right?” he asked, no doubt thrown by his son being with someone who was taller (three inches), more pumped up, and just as “manly” (his word) as Raheim (of course, the question had never arisen when Raheim was with Mitchell). Raheim didn't have the heart to tell him that, yes, his son regularly hollered “
You da man
” as he rode Simon like a mechanical bull or wrapped his thighs around Simon's neck as Simon dicked-him-the-fuck-down (ironically, his two favorite positions for Mitchell to bang him in), so he just said, “We both are.” No doubt afraid of what
that
meant, Pop Rivers left that convo alone.

Raheim loved being with Simon, loved being around him, and
really
loved being inside of him and vice versa. And Raheim told Simon “I love you” and believed he did. But it became clear to Simon that he didn't (at least not in the way Simon hoped he did) last December when they happened to run into Mitchell and Destiny in Harlem. Raheim and Simon were coming from Raheim's mother's; Mitchell and Destiny were on their way to see Gene.

The scene was very reminiscent of Mitchell and Crystal's first meeting a decade before. While his father stood by paralyzed, Errol had to introduce his mother to Mitchell. This time, Destiny did the honors.

“Hi, my name is Destiny. What's yours?” she asked Simon, still in Raheim's arms.

“Simon.”

“Ooh. Like the game, Simon Says?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a friend of my uncle Raheim?”

“I am.”

“Well, any friend of his is a friend of mine!”

They all laughed.

Destiny pointed to her father. “This is my daddy.”

Her father put out his hand. “Mitchell.”

Simon shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

One wouldn't have known that since that was all they said to each other. Raheim and Destiny did the rest of the talking.

Simon said just as little after Raheim kissed Destiny and bid Mitchell good-bye. The reason why came out later that night.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Simon accused.

“What you talkin' about?”

“I
saw
the way you looked at him.”

“What did you see? I wasn't lookin' at him any kind of way.”

“You were.”

“What way?”

Simon searched for the right words. “In a way I . . . I know you're never gonna look at me.”

It was Raheim's turn to be silent. What could he say? He'd probably always known it was true. He loved Simon for all he did and how he made him feel, but didn't love
him
. And while he was in love with how Simon loved him, he wasn't in love with
him.
As Raheim learned, you can love the package but not the person occupying the package. Deep down, he wished it was Little Bit he was laughing with, taking these important steps with, sharing this new chapter in his life with. Maybe he'd hooked up with Simon to prove that he could move on like Little Bit had, but he hadn't moved on—he'd just moved Simon into Little Bit's place without recognizing that Simon had to create his own. And Raheim knew he hadn't been and wasn't in the space to let that happen.

Raheim had never seen Simon cry until that night. Simon refused to be comforted by him; he just wanted Raheim to leave. So he did.

Simon called the next day when he knew Raheim would be on a plane to Chicago to film a Pizza Hut commercial. His voice was shaky and solemn. “Hi. It's me. Um . . . I think . . . I . . . we can't be together anymore. I really love you but . . . this doesn't mean we won't speak again. I just need . . . time. I'll call you in like . . . six months. Uh . . . jood luck. I'll be thinking about you.”

Raheim still has the message. Simon had always been a man of his word, but Raheim assumed this would be the last time he'd hear his voice—especially when, two weeks later, he received whatever belongings he left at Simon's, via parcel post. He could see him needing six days, even six weeks—but six
months?

Raheim pressed the send button. “Hay.”

“Hay Sweets.”

Raheim still tingles when he refers to him as that. “It's jood to hear your voice, Boo Bear.”

“Yours, too.”

“How are you?”

“I could be better. But I'm here. You?”

“Uh . . . I'm jood.”

“Jood. I'm glad.”

“I wish
you
were feelin' jood.”

“Me, too. But I will again soon. At least I don't feel like I did months ago.”

“Uh . . . I . . . I wanted to call, but . . .”

“It's a jood thing you didn't. If I heard your voice I wouldn't have been nice. I had . . . a lot inside. And I had to deal with it. Making you feel bad might've made me feel better, but it wouldn't help me get better.”

Raheim decided to change the subject altogether. “Thanks for my gift.” Simon had sent him an aqua-blue French Connection shirt.

“You're welcome. Happy belated.”

“Thanks.”

“What did you do?”

“Pop cooked dinner for me, and made me a cake.”

“Nice. You've got a fifteen-year-old son. You're really gettin' up there.” Simon snickered.

“You ain't too far behind me.” He'll be twenty-eight next month. “What do you plan to do for yours?”

“I don't know. Milt is talkin' about headin' to New Orleans.” Milt, or Milton, is Simon's best friend. He reminds Raheim of Gene, the mouth that roared. It seems almost every friend has a best friend like them.

“How is Milt?”

“He's jood. We'll be working the seven o'clock to L.A. tomorrow night.” They're both flight attendants with United. They were put on six-month furloughs after the 9/11 attacks. When Simon was called back in April last year, Raheim always arranged to fly with him (having someone he knew on board made him less jittery) and Simon knew how to take care of him—he made sure Raheim got as much food as he wanted and never deplaned without a bottle of bubbly or sparkly (which they'd share at Raheim's hotel room). And because of Simon's careful planning, Raheim had flown first class on companion passes with him to Paris, Santo Domingo, and Bangkok. In January, Raheim switched his preferred carrier to Continental so they wouldn't run into each other.

“I miss serving you,” Simon disclosed.

“I miss that, too. Nobody can serve me in the air
or
on the ground like you.”

Raheim could see and feel Simon blush.

Raheim wasn't sure if he should say it but did anyway. “And, I miss
you
.”

Simon's blush turned into a smile. “I miss you, too.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For . . . for everything.”

“You shouldn't be. Everything was jood between us.”

“I mean, I . . . I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“Now, usually when a man says that, he don't mean it. But I know you do. And you really didn't hurt me. You never made promises that we'd be together; you never made
any
promises. You gave what you could and it was more than enough. It was probably too much: I fell in love with you.” He sighed. “That's what happens when I fall for a fantasy.”

“So, I was just a fantasy to you?”

“You were until the day you walked into the restaurant!”

They laughed.

“Uh . . . do you regret us meeting that day?” Raheim hesitantly asked.

“No. I regret getting in over my heart. Milton told me to be careful. He said you were probably on the boomerang.”

“On the boomerang?”

“Yeah. He said when you love someone hard, it's
hard
to get over. There's so much history and your lives are still so connected, so interconnected. And because there is so much unfinished business, chances are you'll probably boomerang back to them.”

“I haven't boomeranged back.”

“Yet,”
Simon bluntly stated. He huffed. “Ya know, in a way, I
do
regret meeting you when I did.”

“Why?”

“Because, if it had been years earlier, someone else would've been the stand-in and
I'd
be the one you'd be boomerangin' back to.”

“I . . . I wish things coulda be different.”

“Me, too.”

“I do love you.”

“I know you do. I felt it. I still feel it.”

“And, this is gonna sound like a cliché but . . . I'd like to be friends.”

“You're right, it
is
a cliché. I think we can be but . . . not right now.”

“I understand.”

Silence.

Simon sighed. “Every time I bench press two twenty-five, I'll be thinkin' of you.”

Raheim giggled. “I hope that's a jood thing.”

“It is.”

“S
o, what did the letter say?” Mitchell asked as he finished retwisting Errol's hair.

That morning, Errol had received something from Yale, one of the many Ivy Leagues courting him. He's a hot commodity on the higher-education market: a Black male with a 3.97 GPA and a combined SAT score of 1520, who isn't an athlete
first.
And his being such an overachiever at such a young age (he skipped the third and sixth grades) will make him a Major Catch for the college that manages to sign him up.

The letter from Yale was probably yet another gauntlet thrown down in the war to woo him. At the moment, Yale, Stanford, Princeton, and MIT are tops on his list; he'll be visiting each campus this summer.

Errol slightly tilted his head back. “I didn't open it yet.” He was parked on the floor, between Mitchell's legs. Mitchell was on the sofa. They were in the parlor.

“Why not?”

“I . . . I don't wanna deal with it until the weekend is over.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“I was thinking . . . maybe I should just go to Columbia.”

Hmm . . . it's not even on his B-list
. “Why?”

“It's a jood school—as you know.”

“Yes, I do.” Mitchell graduated from Columbia's Journalism School in 1990. But the university didn't offer the type of aeronautic/astronautic program Errol was interested in. Mitchell recalled having a similar exchange with him a few weeks before, about NYU. “Are you still having butterflies about leaving home?”

“Nah,” he immediately shot back. “I . . . I just want to make sure I'm covering all the bases.”

“Don't worry. You are.”

Silence.

“Sure you and Destiny will be all right without me?”

“Destiny won't. But I'll be fine once I turn that room of yours into my den.”

Errol nudged him in the left thigh with his arm. “Funny.”

“And, since I brought that up: Have you cleared that path yet?”

“Yes. Dad will be able to see the floor in my room. He'll be able to
eat
off of it, if he wants.”

Mitchell had thought he'd heard the vacuum cleaner while he was doing laundry in the basement. Errol had never Hooverized his own floor before. Mitchell knew that only his father's homecoming could prompt Errol to turn into Felix Unger.

“I just hope he doesn't look in your closet . . .” Mitchell figured that was where Errol had probably put everything that was on the floor.

“I hope so, too.” Errol snickered.

Mitchell checked out his work. “There. All done.”

Errol popped up and headed for the mirror in the half bath. Mitchell couldn't see him but he knew what he was doing: tossing his head from side to side. And he also knew what he'd say.

“Lookin'
real
jood. Thanks.”

Mitchell ducked his head inside. “You're welcome. Your hair will be as long as Destiny's soon. Make sure you wrap it up tonight before you go to bed.”

“I will.”

The doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” Errol volunteered.

It was Crystal. She was dropping off a bag of presents and the two pies (both cherry) she'd made for the party. Errol was more interested in the dessert. After hugging and kissing her, he grabbed them. He took a long whiff of the aroma. “Mmm. My favorite. Thanks, Mom.”

“You're welcome.” As Errol walked up the hallway, she embraced Mitchell. “How are you today?”

“I'm jood.”

“Oh?” She recognized there was something different about that “jood.” She stepped back, looking at him quizzically. “What's his name?”

“Huh?”

“You've been with a man, haven't you?” she declared in her best Sophia Petrillo tone.

Mitchell glanced back in Errol's direction. “Crystal . . .”

“If I know my son, he's already slicing into one of those pies, so he is paying us dust.”

Mitchell closed and locked the door. “How do you know?”

“A woman
knows
these things. I'm glad one of us is gettin' some.”

“Your husband still holding out?” She had confided in Mitchell about Winston, whose interest in intimacy went from a frenzy in their fourth year of marriage to a funk in their fifth (and current) one.

“Yes. But now, instead of once a month, it's once every two weeks.”

“At least he's doubled the dose.”

“I'll throw him a ticker-tape parade when he quadruples it.”

“Well, I didn't get some, but I did get some
thing
.”

She looped her arm in his. “Believe me,
some
thing is better than
no
thing.” They both laughed, heading for the kitchen.