A House Is Not a Home (6 page)

“I mean, I see how you are with Raheim's son.”

“Yes, but that's
his
son. This might have been yours.”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

“I'm not really shocked that you feel that way. After all, you're heterosexual.”

“It's still no excuse.”

“No, it isn't.”

“And you'd think that after so many years being your stepfather . . .”

“You'd know better? Well, you
do
know better.”

Anderson shrugged. “I guess old beliefs . . . they do die hard.”

“Indeed. It's very hard to totally shake them off. They become a part of you.”

“Funny thing is, I didn't really consider that until someone else mentioned it.”

Hmm
. . . “Was this someone else Sally?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sally is Anderson's first cousin. She'd kicked out her sixteen-year-old daughter, Erica, when she discovered copies of lesbian porn videos in her room, hidden in a hole cut out in the middle of her bed's box spring. Erica was taken in by her gay uncle, whom Sally hasn't spoken to in fifteen years. Sally has been giving Erica the silent treatment for eight.

“I can hear her now,” Mitchell began, scrunching his face then sneering in a hoarse voice similar to hers: “‘You gonna let
him
raise your son and turn him into a
homo
?'”

Anderson chuckled. “Something like that. I tried to brush it off, but . . . it bothered me. And the fact that it bothered me
really
bothered me. I thought I was over thinking like that.”

“Well, there will always be some fragments that remain. The feeling probably isn't as strong now that you know it'll be a girl, but it probably is still there. That doesn't make you a horrible person.”

“But I feel like one.”

“The important thing is that you recognize it and grow from it. And you've made the effort over the years. Don't you remember asking whether seeing you walk around half-naked made me this way?”

Anderson thought back. He remembered. He looked embarrassed.

“I understood where that came from; you just didn't know. And you've come a long way since then. You didn't view my being the father of your son or daughter as negative until she put that bug in your ear, and that says a lot. Did you tell Mom?”

“No. I knew she would tell me what I already knew to be true.”

“Then why did you tell me?”

“I . . . I don't know. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“See. And you thought you didn't know any better . . .”

Anderson continued to feel guilty about it but (unbeknownst to his wife and Mitchell) felt twice as guilty about passing the responsibility of raising his only child onto someone else, especially when he had the means to do it himself. And his angst was fueled by how much more desirable and sexy he found his pregnant wife to be, not to mention the excitement he felt over seeing the ultrasound, feeling the baby kick, attending the Lamaze classes, and witnessing the birth (he didn't become ill or faint in the delivery room).

But all that changed the first time Destiny (Raheim chose her name) spent the weekend with her grandparents. The romantic cloud that hung over Anderson's prebirth experience quickly disappeared, thanks to the 2
A.M.
feedings; the nerve-racking, never-ending crying; and those dreaded diaper changes. And this was the easy stuff: the older they get, the more complicated and stressful the mechanics of caring for them becomes (and the worries multiply). He couldn't get used to any of this seven days a week for the next eighteen-plus years. So he, like his wife, is always glad when that first and third Friday rolls around and Destiny visits—and almost as glad when she goes back home to her daddy on Sunday. Anderson is very content with her being
Granddaddy's
little girl.

Grandma, on the other hand, treats her like a mama's girl. And while she hasn't verbalized it, even Destiny can see that the connection they share is something that could exist only between a mother and daughter. So while the plan is to tell Destiny the whole story when she turns eighteen (she knows that she was adopted and that, in the words of her uncle Gene courtesy of
Mommie Dearest
, “Adopted children are the luckiest because they were chosen”), Mitchell predicts it will happen sooner than they think (just last month, Destiny noticed how much she looked like Grandma when she was a little girl). And given how close they are, it won't be that big a shock (or, as these revelations usually do, cause turmoil and trauma). In fact, Destiny will probably start calling her “Mama”; that's the only missing ingredient in their relationship right now.

One thing's for sure, though—she
spoils
her like a grandmother. She knows Mitchell doesn't like Destiny to eat a lot of candy, but she will always try to sneak her a treat.

Mitchell noticed the colorful wrapper she placed into Destiny's hand as she put her down. “Mom,” he huffed.

“One piece of candy ain't gonna hurt her. Besides, it's sugarless.”

He caved. “Okay.”

Since she didn't know the difference, Destiny was more than pleased with it. “Thank you.” She popped it into her mouth.

“You're more than welcome. You ready to go?”

“Uh-huh.” Her little clutch bag rested on her back, having been looped under her right shoulder. She took her grandmother's right hand.

“Okay. We better hit the road. It'll be rush hour soon.”

“You mean
slow
hour, Gran'ma. The cars don't rush.”

“Right. Slow hour. And we don't want to be stuck in it, do we?”

“No!” She turned to her father, wearing a rather serious look. “Daddy, don't forget.”

“I won't forget,” Mitchell promised.

“Forget what?” asked Grandma.

“I made Uncle Raheim a birthday card,” explained Destiny. “Daddy's gonna give it to him for me.”

“Ah.” She studied her son. “I don't think your daddy will forget.” She knew that Errol wasn't the only one looking forward to Raheim's return tomorrow evening.

Grandma leaned forward, kissing Mitchell on the lips. “See you Sunday, darling.”

Destiny followed her grandmother's lead. “See you Sunday, Daddy.”

Mitchell leaned down and accepted her kiss, too. “You be a jood girl.”

“I will.”

“Love you both,” Mitchell called out as they headed out the gate.

They turned. “And we love you, too, times two!” they both sang, dissolving into giggles like the Powerpuff Girls.

Destiny hadn't been gone five minutes when Earth, Wind & Fire showed up.

Mitchell hears them come in before he sees them. Every Friday after their lab sessions at Brooklyn Tech (today they were twenty minutes early), they invade the house. They'll drop their book bags in a chair or on the floor, and march in step into the kitchen.

They met on their first day at Tech. They were the only Black males in their homeroom freshman class—and that was (and still is) the only thing they have in common . . .

While Errol is roughly six feet, Sidney is just over five feet and Monroe falls somewhere in between.

While Errol has a swimmer's build, Sidney is a teenage bodybuilding champ and Monroe is chunky.

While Errol loves baseball, Sidney's favorite pastime is (of course) weight lifting, and Monroe's, football.

While Errol is a space nut, Sidney is fascinated with forensics and Monroe is attracted to architecture.

While Errol is a hip-hop soul kinda guy, Sid is a jazz freak (his father plays drums for the likes of Cassandra Wilson and Norman Brown) and Monroe a reggae/dance-hall fan.

While Errol is personable yet unassuming, Sidney is very quiet (unless he is ribbing Monroe) and Monroe very loud.

And they come in different shades (Errol being ebony-hued, Sidney a light caramel, and Monroe a dark brown) and wear different 'dos (twists, buzz cut, and an Afro, respectively). With so much to separate them, it's no wonder they aren't always at one another's throat. But Mitchell has yet to see them in an argument in the almost three years they've known one another. Each one's distinct personality seems to provide the balance the others need.

Which is why Mitchell nicknamed them Earth (Errol), Wind (Sidney), and Fire (Monroe). Errol is the sky, Sidney is the breeze, and Monroe is the smoke and heat.

And, since he burns rubber faster than the others, Fire always reaches the refrigerator first. “Hay, Mr. C, how you lookin'?” he announced as he pulled out the two thirty-two-ounce bottles of lemon-lime Gatorade.

Mitchell was seated at the breakfast table. “I'm lookin' jood.”

“Hay Mr. C,” repeated Sidney.

“Hay, Unc,” said Errol. He only calls Mitchell that around his friends.

“Hey. How was school?”

“Same ol', same ol',” they all chimed as Sidney took three glasses out of the dishwasher and Errol grabbed three bananas from the fruit basket on the kitchen counter. If there's
anything
they have in common, it's food: they'll eat just about everything.

“Oh, is that the article?” Monroe asked, peeking over Mitchell's shoulder as he placed the Gatorade on the table.

“Yes, it is.” He, Errol, and Sidney have been Mitchell's designated focus group the past two years: when he hears about some new trend, he quizzes them. This way, he keeps his ear to the street, always finding out what's on top and what's no longer hot, and earning his keep as a contributing editor at
Teen People
. Their reward is one of the complimentary video games or CDs Mitchell receives. This time, the topic was the increasing number of males on high-school and college cheerleading squads.

“How did it come out?” piped in Sidney.

“Very jood.”

“See, told ya your sources would come through,” boasted Monroe.

“Man, you ain't do nothin',” Sidney reminded him. Sidney provided an important contact for the story: an interview with his cousin in Chicago, who leads his high-school squad and was the lone Black male featured.

“Yo, it's a team effort,” Monroe argued.

Errol wasn't buying it. “Yeah, someone else makes the touchdown and
you
take the glory.”

Each
has
had his own glory, being quoted in different articles: Errol, on getting more students of color interested in science and math; Sidney, on steroids, which he does not and has never used (a pic of him at the school gym pumping up was also featured); and Monroe, as the child of a “multicultural” couple (not surprisingly, Mitchell had to fight to keep him in it since Monroe's father is Jamaican and his mother is Filipina, and the editors only saw the concept through the very narrow prism of Black and white). Of course, Monroe was the only member of the trio to request a hundred copies of the issue he appeared in (he had to settle for ten).

“You got another assignment for us?” Monroe asked, eager and ready.

“I might, next week. If I need your expertise, I'll let you know.”

“A'ight.”

“The Monica CD came today. It's on the coffee table in the family room.”

“Jood.” Errol grinned.

“You gotta make us copies, yo,” Monroe reminded him.

“I will.”

“Well, before y'all disappear upstairs—” Mitchell began.

“We gonna hook it up, Mr. C,” Monroe assured him (the “it” being the basement).

“Okay.” He turned to Errol, who was about to say something. “And no, I didn't forget the colored bulbs.”

Errol nodded. “Cool.”

“Didja see the trial on CNN last night?” Monroe asked Mitchell.

“The trial” being the one for the Morehouse student accused of attacking another student with a baseball bat after he thought he was leering at him in the shower (turns out the other student was heterosexual and peeked into his stall because he thought he was his roommate). Mitchell did catch the report last night, but . . . “No, I didn't. Has it gone to the jury yet?”

“Any day now, they said. You still think he's gonna get off?”

“I didn't say he would get off. There's no question he assaulted him without provocation, especially since he left the bathroom to get the bat. I just don't think he'll be convicted of the added hate-crime charge. If the student he attacked was gay, maybe. But we are talking about the South. They're not as liberal as folks on the East or West Coasts when it comes to gays and lesbians.”

And
Monroe
hasn't always been as liberal about gays and lesbians. He was more than shocked to learn from Errol that Mitchell was gay; he was
flabbergasted
. Weeks after the disclosure, he finally got the courage to bring it up: “How can you be gay when you have a daughter?”

Mitchell's response? “God didn't bless a heterosexual man with equipment I don't have—or that I don't use even better.”

That led to an hour of myth murdering and stereotype slashing. And after that conversation, Mitchell became Monroe's pet project—anything and everything specifically or remotely dealing with homosexuals that he reads about, sees on TV, or overhears, he asks Mitchell about. So far, the topics have included “don't ask, don't tell” (“If I was in the army, I wouldn't be comfortable knowin' a gay guy is showering or sleeping next to me”), Pedro and Sean on MTV's
The Real World
(“Why do gays need to get married?”), Matthew Shepard (“If they had such a problem with him being gay, why even mess with him?”), even John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo (“You think the rumor that they were . . . together is true?”), and Ernie and Bert from
Sesame Street
(“How could people think muppets could be gay?”).

Last week, it was about “homo thugs” . . .

“Ain't no such thing,” Mitchell informed him.

“Whatcha mean?”