A House Is Not a Home (4 page)

And then there was Li'l Brotha Man. When Raheim saw him for the first time in months he almost didn't recognize him. He had grown six inches in height, standing five feet five inches. He gained forty pounds, a solid one-thirty. His shoe size went from a boy's five to a man's eight; his waist, a young man's small to a man's thirty-one. His face was rounder, fuller, and his jawline more pronounced. And his voice: no longer falsetto-ish, it had a grainier timbre, as if he'd been sucking on lemons.

His Li'l Brotha Man was literally growing up. So it shouldn't have been a surprise when . . .

Dad?

Yeah, Li'l Brotha Man?

Uh, could you do something for me?

Sure. Anything.

Uh . . . Could you stop calling me Li'l Brotha Man?

Not call you . . . why?

Because . . . I'm not exactly li'l anymore.

Uh . . . yeah. You right. You not. But what do you want me to call you?

Errol.

Errol?

Yes.

Oh. Uh, any particular reason why you wanna be called Errol? I don't know.

I guess it just fits who I am right now.

Uh . . . a'ight.

Now, Raheim could understand why he wouldn't prefer Junior, another title he wanted retired; after all, Raheim was really the “Junior” in the family. But being asked not to call his heart, his soul, his baby boy Li'l Brotha Man anymore?

If there was such a thing as a broken heart, he had one—but he only had himself to blame.

It took some time for Raheim to call him Errol. It was painful. It was a reminder that he'd
really
fucked up, that he did the very thing he said, he vowed, he
promised
he'd never do to Li'l Brotha Man—abandon him like his father did. And while he was missing in action for two years, it might as well have been twenty. He missed the highlights: his tenth birthday party, the citywide spelling championships, his elementary-school graduation, his Little League play-offs. All those things helped turn Li'l Brotha Man into Errol, and he'd become that person without him. Not only did this make his heart hurt, it made the ulcer worse. Li'l Brotha Man no longer existed, and Errol didn't see his daddy as the sun that he revolved around.

Raheim became the invisible man in the very family he wanted Crystal, Li'l Brotha Man's mother, to embrace. And she
did
embrace it—but he was no longer a part of it.

So, these strangers became his new family. They were people he would've passed in the street, people he never would have been friends with. They didn't know him, they didn't live with him, they didn't love him . . . but they understood him. They understood what he had been through, where he was, what he needed to do, and where he needed to go. He counted on them. He confided in them. He cried with them, over their heartaches and his own. And he celebrated with them—the birthdays, the births, the promotions, the engagements, the weddings, the reunions.

They didn't know it, but today would be the final time he'd fellowship with them. It was his anniversary, his one-hundredth meeting. He made the change and made the changes to stay on the right path. He felt secure enough to step out on his own. That
welcome
he received was a hello the other ninety-nine times; this time, it was a good-bye.

But he was looking forward to hearing that
welcome
again—this time, from his other family.

M
itchell couldn't open the door fast enough.

He wasn't in a rush to put away the eight bags of groceries, which he left sitting in the shopping cart just outside the hall. Yet he headed straight for the kitchen.

He tossed his keys on the breakfast table. He went into the utility closet, put the stopper in the sink, turned on the hot water, and poured in a strong mix of Ajax and ammonia. When the water was at the halfway mark, he turned off the faucet. He then gently placed both the cookie jar and its top in. He'd found it on the way home, waiting to be picked up with the five black garbage bags by the curb.

In every home, it's those little touches, those little touch-ups that give it its character. He found many of these items at flea markets throughout the city, some costing only a dollar. There's the basket-weave mirror, shaped like an open book, hanging in the first-floor foyer; the three rusted sconces, mounted diagonally just outside the great room; the navy-blue secretary with hand-painted gold bumblebees, which is in the parlor; the green elephant clock (when the alarm goes off, it bellows and the tusks rise) that Destiny keeps on her desk; the black wood, handcrafted table that's in the recreation room; the giant Oriental throw rug, hanging on the basement wall; and the yellowish photo of Aretha and Martin Luther King Jr., which he framed and hung in his office.

The cookie jar, though, remained an elusive item. He'd been searching for it since he moved into the brownstone six years ago. Can a house
really
be a home without one? It's one of those trappings that signal you are living “the American Dream.” But it just couldn't be
any
cookie jar; it had to be
the
cookie jar. Only problem was he didn't know what color he wanted it to be, how small or large it should be, what kind of design it should have, whether it had to say COOKIE JAR, COOKIES, or nothing at all. He must have seen hundreds of them over the years, in department stores, at street fairs, at the homes of others. But none of them spoke to him. He'd know it was
the one
when he saw it. And he did this morning.

This cookie jar had certainly seen better days: it was chipped in several areas, only the outline of the word
cookies
remained, and even after a good scrubbing some of the dark spots on its yellow-and-off-white ceramic frame wouldn't come out. But it didn't matter. He polished it up as if it were silver and placed it in the space he reserved for it: in the very center of the island. He sat on one of the dark mahogany stools, gazing at it, beaming.

But the longer he looked at it, the less triumphant he felt. He couldn't pinpoint why, but the moment was more bitter than sweet. He sighed, shrugged, and retrieved the groceries, occasionally glancing at it as he put them away.

When he was done, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I'd like to speak with Mitchell Crawford, please.”

“This is he.”

“Mr. Crawford, this is Emmet Paisley at Palmer Publishing Group. How are you?”

Palmer Publishing Group. That's the company that purchased
Your World
magazine, Mitchell's former employer, several years ago.
What do they want with me?
“I'm . . . fine. And you?”

“I'm quite good, now that I have you on the phone. It took me some time, but I finally tracked you down. I have your e-mail address, but felt that introducing myself and presenting a proposal to you through that channel would be impersonal.”

Hmm
. . . “A proposal?”

“Yes. I'm the vice president of development in the magazine division and would like to offer you a position with our company.”

“Excuse me?”

“We wish to create a new lifestyle magazine for young African-American adults, and considering your education and experience, you're our first—and only—choice to be the editor-in-chief.”

Did he just hear him right? “I'm sorry?”

“We'd like you to come on board as the editor-in-chief.”

Yeah, he heard him right. But this
had
to be a joke. Why would they want to hire him? Although they didn't have a hand in the racist treatment he received at
Your World
, they were aware of the million-dollar settlement he received in 1996 (it enabled him to purchase and furnish the brownstone) and the various mandated affirmative-action programs implemented because of his lawsuit.

Mr. Paisley must've known that that's where he'd immediately go. “I take it by your silence that you think this is a joke, but it's not. We know you had an unfortunate experience with one of the titles we currently publish.”

Unfortunate?
Try
fucked up
.

“But we hope you won't hold that history against us. And it
is
history—those individuals are no longer employed with the magazine.”

Those individuals—Elias Whitley, the plagiarist and Yale dropout promoted over him, and Steven Goldberg, the editor who kept Elias on staff after his fraud was exposed—had received their walking papers less than a month after Paisley acquired
Your World
. Steven paid a high price for their charade: after being unemployed for three years, he settled for an assistant copy-editor position at a small daily newspaper in Phoenix. But Elias's questionable credentials and character didn't prevent him from landing a plum job as a shock jock at a conservative radio station in Austin, Texas.

“Palmer is very serious about working to ensure that what we create and who we employ reflect the true diversity of the world in which we live.”

Mitchell couldn't argue with him there: For the past eight years, they'd been selected by
Black Enterprise
as one of the top one hundred firms (each year they'd placed in the top thirty) for Blacks to work for
and
prosper at (too many companies will hire people of color but track them into the lowest-level, lowest-paying positions with no room for advancement or growth).

But, still, why me?

Mr. Paisley was ready for that silent query as well. “We've been following your career over the last several years—your influential stint as a creative-writing teacher at Knowledge Hall, your brilliant work in the
Times, Esquire, Essence
, and
Newsweek
. You possess the kind of journalistic integrity, critical cultural eye, writing talent, and dedication to youth that we value and need.”

Okay. He knows my résumé and can lay the compliments on well.
“Thank you, Mr. Paisley, but—”

“Please, call me Em.”

“Uh, okay. Thanks, Em, but at this point in my writing career, I'm not sure if I want to go back to the daily grind of a nine-to-five.”

What he wanted to say was at this point in his
life
. He'd gotten accustomed to (and become quite fond of his freedom as) a stay-at-home (god)father.

Em was there once again to turn a negative against Palmer into a positive. “At Palmer, it could be a ten-to-six. Or an eleven-to-seven. Even a noon-to-eight. We believe in working around the life schedule of our employees. And we know giving up the freedom you enjoy now may be hard to do. But we're willing to make you an offer you can not refuse.”

Oh?
Mitchell couldn't wait to hear—or, rather, read—about it.

And Em couldn't wait to let him. “Is there a number I can fax the proposal over to?”

Em was on it. Mitchell gave him the number.

“Great,” Em chirped. “It'll explain the position, what the magazine's mission is, the launch schedule we're on, and a little background on us. You should receive twelve pages. If you don't, do let me know.”

“All right. What's the name of the magazine?”

“It doesn't have one yet. That, along with its final look, style, and point of view, is something you, uh, the editor-in-chief will decide.”

The man is focused—and persistent.

“After you've had the weekend to consider the proposal, let's talk Monday morning. Or, better yet, you can come into the office and we can discuss things in person.”

Mitchell wasn't about to commit to a meeting, no matter how persuasive the man was. Besides, if he really wanted to hire him, he'd have to work on
his
timetable. “I won't be able to get back to you until Monday afternoon. If I like what I see on paper, maybe we can meet on Tuesday.” He might as well enjoy this; he hadn't had many enthusiastic offers lately (truth be told, he hadn't had any).

Em was agreeable. “Okay. That's fine.” Then he decided to leave no loose ends. “If you have a question or concern over the weekend, my cell and home phone numbers will be included, so don't hesitate to call. And, if—and I do hope it's a
big
if—we can not convince you to join the staff, I'm sure we could come up with an arrangement that would satisfy us all. But do know that we would very much like to have you on board.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the interest and consideration.”

“No, thank
you
for the interest and consideration. You should receive the fax in the next minute. I do look forward to hearing from you on Monday—if not sooner—and working with you in the very near future. Have a good weekend.”

“You too.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Ten seconds later, the fax rang. All twelve pages came through. He read the proposal in ten minutes—and ten minutes and one second was all it took.

I
t had been a
loooong
time since Troy, Raheim's agent, had a job for him. Not a gig—which is what his “acting” in cable series like
The Justice Files, The FBI Files
, and anything else with a
files
or
justice
in its title was—but a job. He was thankful for the work: because of the reputation he earned for not being dependable, it was a miracle that even those in the criminal-reenactment genre would take a chance on him. And the pay was jood: along with his walk-ons (the
Law & Order
franchise), commercials (Verizon Wireless, American Airlines, Amtrak, Citibank, and Target), and infomercials (yup, that's him doin' the Ab Slide and the Body By Jake), he's been able to settle his debts and begin rebuilding that nest egg.

But, after almost three years of playing the Detective, the Forensic Scientist, the State Trooper, the FBI Agent, the Prosecutor, the Judge, the Witness, and the Victim's Husband/Father/Brother/Son (each “character” having no more than eight audible lines of dialogue in any given episode), he ached for a
real
role in a TV series (he'd like to forget the guest shots on
BeastMaster, Stargate SG-1, Xena: Warrior Princess, Tarzan
, and
Andromeda
) or, better yet, a theatrical film (his only movie appearances in the last seven years include a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo in
Zoolander
and three STDs, aka Straight-to-DVD releases, and he had even fewer lines in those).