In My Father’s House

by E. Lynn Harris

  “TMI,” I said playfully.

  “Sorry,” she said, taking a big forkful of sour cream–covered potato.

  “So you’re cool about us doing the private party?” I asked.

  “You’re going to do it,” she said. “It’s a boi thing, so that’s your side of the business. But I don’t have any problem if you feel good about it.”

  “I do,” I said, dipping a long fry in ketchup. “We won’t regret it.”

  “Good,” Alex said, clearing her throat. That meant she was about to change the subject. She cast a piercing stare across the table. “Bentley, do you think I’d be a good mother?”

  “What?” I stared to make sure I was hearing her right. “I need to check your ID. Back in New York the Alex I knew used to look down her nose at baby carriages. She said she’d never ruin her figure by having some man’s baby. And she’d have a certified fit if she had to sit next to a crying baby on an airplane.”

  She laughed.

  “Are you pregnant?” I asked with a shocked tone. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone seriously.”

  “No, silly! I’m not pregnant! And no, I’m not dating anyone special.”

  I scanned her face for clues.

  “I’ve been feeling the mommy gene,” she said seriously. “So I’m thinking about having a baby on my own.”

  “What?” A thousand emotions pumped through me. I was happy for her, but being a single mom was no walk in the park. And kids were expensive. With the agency on life support, and no man to foot her baby bills, it didn’t sound like a good idea. “Why now?”

  Disapproval must have flashed across my face because she crossed her arms again and looked down at the shell of her potato. Her voice was as melancholy as I had felt this morning when she said, “I’m not getting any younger, Bentley. And neither are you.”

  Father’s face appeared in my mind. And Dr. Fenton’s warning about him getting old and dying before we could reconcile echoed through my thoughts.

  “I understand,” I said. “Age has a way of making you think about things.”

  She exhaled. “I’ll be thirty-seven next month. And I left that long line of suitors back in my twenties.”

  I shook my head. “Alexandria, you are still so beautiful. I’m sure if you put your mind to it”—I glanced out at the bustling restaurant—“you could find a suitable husband and father. A brotha with a good J-O-B and wholesome values. You could even do a white boi.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve already made my decision. Now that I see I don’t have your support—”

  “I support anything you do,” I said. “I just want you to be happy. And that’s a huge commitment.”

  “I don’t have time to scour the streets for Mr. Right,” she snapped. “So I’ve talked to my doctor about being artificially inseminated. It’s all so very modern now.”

  “What? A test tube instead of making love?”

  She smiled. “No, silly. I mean you get DVDs that show you profiles of the sperm donors. A lot of them actually will meet the children if I decide I want them to.”

  I thought about my friend from Country Day who was there on scholarship because his dad had abandoned the family and his mom was never home because she worked two jobs. “But it’s hard being a single parent, Alex.”

  She sighed. “I know, but I want to be a mother so badly. There are health concerns as well.”

  I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “What do you mean? You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  Alex looked longingly toward the beach. I knew she was thinking about her mother, whom she lost to breast cancer about three years ago. They had been extremely close, even after her mother dropped two bombs on Alex along with the cancerous death sentence. First, her father was not her biological dad. Second, her real father was a rapist frat boi who’d taken her mother out on a date during her freshman year and impregnated her with the baby who’d forced her to drop out of college. Alexandria.

  All this had been too much for Alex to bear. But after a few days of furiously giving her dying mother the silent treatment, she had forgiven her and nurtured her until death.

  Now, Alex’s eyes glistened with tears. “Everything is fine and I want to keep it that way. But I read somewhere that I can reduce my risk for breast cancer if I have a child.”

  I put on my best poker face, the one I learned from watching Father and his golfing buddies as they played cards on our back patio while I pretended to swim in the pool. Not that I was frowning; I just didn’t want my thoughts to show up on my face and make her think I disapproved of her decision.

  “Now, Bentley, I know that might sound selfish, but I think I’d really be a great parent. Single or otherwise.”

  I squeezed her hand again. “I have no doubt you’ll be a great parent, Alexandria. If you decide to do this, I’ll be there for you. I’ll do whatever you need. Including helping you pick the sperm donor. Or, I mean, the father of your child.”

  Alex smiled. “Really? Because if I do this, I know I’ll need your help. I want you to be the godfather!”

  Hearing the word “father” made me want to cry. Why was fate suddenly putting this in my face? How could I serve in a fatherly role to Alex’s child without constantly being reminded of how much I missed my own father?

  “I’m there if you need me,” I said, “but don’t give up on finding Mr. Right. You’re too good of a catch for the right man not to come around. Just be patient.”

  The waiter brought the bill and Alex pulled out the gift card.

  “What about you, Bentley? Is your daddy gene talking to you?”

  Alex would have been very comforting if I shared the whole saga and longing for my father. But I didn’t feel like getting into it right here or right now.

  “So you don’t want kids?” Alexandria asked.

  “I do,” I said. “I’m thinking about adopting an older kid from the foster care system. A lot of those kids come out of that system really damaged.”

  “You’re a good person, Bentley. Your parents raised you right.”

  I leaned back, not wanting this leisurely lunch to end. “My mom might think that, but you might get some disagreement from my father. He still thinks he failed me since I’m gay.”

  “Hmmm,” Alex said, “I just don’t get that. You’re his flesh and blood! So I guess this means you still haven’t talked to your dad.”

  “You’d be correct on that assumption.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “I guess if I was talking to my doctor or maybe somebody who couldn’t read me, I’d say no. But I do miss him. Terribly.”

  My throat burned with sadness. That meant tears would be trying to blow my cool any minute now.

  “Bentley!” Alexandria grasped my hand. “Why don’t you make a move on reconciling?”

  I looked at Alexandria for a moment in silence and blinked back a single tear. “I don’t think I can stand to see that disappointment in his face again.”

  SEVEN

  It was a tight deadline for the engagement. I needed to hold a casting and get pictures to the client before the week’s end. But I sure would rather have this kind of anxiety—about getting a job done well—than to sit here as I had just twenty-four hours ago, worrying about how to stay in business.

  You can do it, Bentley L. Dean, my inner voice said.

  So I logged on to www.modelmania.com, where I’d had success in the past finding mostly black men looking for representation. Sometimes you found some real winners, but most of them weren’t signed with an agency for a reason, like being too short or just flat-out busted.

  My announcement for the casting call read: “MALE MODELS WANTED. Are you a good-looking guy who’s considered ‘eye candy’? Are you willing to do artistic nudes and underwear modeling? Then you may get the modeling job opportunity of a lifetime.” That wasn’t what I was looking for for this assignment, but I figured this would bring out the open-minded freaks.

  I had also arranged a f
ew interviews with models on my current roster that might fit the bill as well. First up was Tristan Foxxe, a former Marine and a really good-looking sports model from San Diego. I didn’t know his sexual orientation, but he was friendly and clients always rebooked him.

  He walked into my office wearing head-to-toe white: drawstring linen pants, a V-neck T-shirt, and boat shoes. The outfit looked good against his skin, which was the color of a glazed donut. Tristan was six foot five, two hundred and thirty healthy pounds of man. I remember sitting in on a photo shoot he did for an underwear line. Damn, I couldn’t get his plump, muscular ass out of my mind for days.

  “What’s up, Bentley?” Tristan said as he took a seat in front of my desk. “Did I hear your message correctly? You got a job for me? Brotha sure could use some spending money.”

  One thing I loved about owning a modeling agency was the power to help young men like this earn a living by doing something they enjoyed. Maybe it was Mother’s constant indoctrination of “God loves a cheerful giver,” and sermons in church about how you always get back a million times more than what you give.

  Or maybe I just liked looking at all these fine-ass men.

  “Good to see you, Tristan. I sure hope I have a job for you. How’s the personal-training business going?”

  “It’s all right.” He shrugged. “But I think everybody in South Beach is a personal trainer. It’s tough getting and keeping good clients. Then when the season is over, the good-paying snowbirds go back to Europe. I see modeling ain’t doing all that good as well.”

  “We’re still standing,” I said. “And things might be picking up.”

  “So what’s the job? An underwear or swimwear gig?” He had light eyes with a rim of darkness around them, straight teeth, and full lips. I knew the client would like him, but I was not so sure he would do it.

  “Tristan, this job isn’t like your other ones. It’s actually just attending a party and smiling and being nice to the guests.”

  “Are you serious?” Tristan asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it. It pays five thousand dollars. And you get a clothing allowance.”

  Skepticism swept across his face. “What kind of party is it?”

  I wanted to be honest, and I wanted him to take the job. But how should I answer this? “Well, I know it’s on Star Island.”

  “Is it a celebrity party?”

  “It could be.”

  “It’s not any faggot shit, is it?”

  I hid my surprise by smiling awkwardly at Tristan.

  Cross him off the list, my inner voice said.

  “I don’t know, Tristan. I’m sure that there will be gay men there. Is that a problem?”

  “I know it will be gay men there,” he said in a tone like he wanted to announce he wasn’t born yesterday. “But if it’s a gay thing, then I got to be able to bring my girl and they gonna have to pay her as well. She’s a real good-looking lady and models for Elite.”

  I made an expression like I was considering that idea when I knew Mr. Sneed would never agree to that. “I don’t know if you can bring guests. Let me check with the client. Now look, Tristan, you know if you turn this down, I’ll still send you on other assignments. Don’t take this job if you’ll feel uncomfortable. Besides, I can’t assure you that they’ll hire your girl. They asked me to supply them with men only.”

  “Pffft,” he said, slumping back in defeat. “Yeah, it must be a gay thing. I’ve heard about these parties. If it’s one of those circuit type of events, then I have to pass. I don’t care how much money they offering.”

  I shook my head. “Tristan, I can assure you, it’s not a circuit party. But let me see what information I can get from the client. So do you not want me to submit your comp card? I mean, the client has the final say about whether you’re even invited.”

  He looked annoyed as he stared at the floor. “I don’t care how rich your client is or how broke I am. I ain’t tryin’ to be gay for pay.”

  Tristan looked up at all the photographs on my walls, especially the sexy jeans ad that had generated a lot of hype in Miami—and cash for my models.

  “Yeah,” Tristan said, looking wishfully at the pictures, “you can go ahead and submit my head shot, but no nudes or underwear shots.” He glared at me and said, “I don’t want some freak whacking his shit off to my pictures. You feel me?”

  I’d really heard enough of him, but I was relieved that he agreed. “I hear you. Thanks. I’ll submit your picture and see what happens.”

  “You da man, Bentley Dean,” he said, standing. “Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir. I take it you have the same cell phone number.”

  “Yeah. When will you find out?”

  I stood and came around the desk. “I’ll submit your pictures today. The client is moving fast, so I think real soon. I’ll try and find out the guest list. But I don’t hold out too many hopes of that, since they want you to sign a nondisclosure agreement stating you won’t talk about the party of guests. Will that be a problem?”

  Tristan turned down the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Sounds like some gay shit. And that won’t be a problem if I get picked and decide to do it. That is some long paper and could last me between clients. Just as long as no one expects any sexual favors from me, it might be cool.”

  “Now, Tristan, you know me better than that. I’m running a modeling agency here. Not an escort service.”

  The truth was, I wasn’t certain that I was going to submit his comp card. I didn’t know if I was dealing with a closet case or if somebody had approached him before. The client had been specific about being gay friendly.

  “I hear you,” Tristan said, giving me a quick embrace. “Just let me know what’s up.”

  I couldn’t wait for him to get his foul mouth out of my office. “Will do, Tristan. Good seeing you. Hopefully things will pick up for the both of us.”

  “I hope you’re right, Bentley,” he said as he walked through the door. I admired his beautiful physique. “Hit me up when you find out something.”

  Damn, I hated it when something I thought was a sure thing turned out to be a question mark. Maybe this casting wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.

  EIGHT

  As soon as Jah appeared in the doorway of my office, I switched into my fun-loving but protective big-brother mode. Jahron Anthony Borden was the little brother I’d always longed for as a child. Today I was taking time out from work on the party to have lunch with Jah and catch up on his life as a college student.

  “What do you feel like eating, Jah?” I asked, walking around my desk.

  “It doesn’t matter, B,” he said, smiling and standing there in his too-tight blue jeans, light blue boxers visible, tan Timberlands, red mock-neck T-shirt, and a brass belt buckle that said JAB in block letters. He was so handsome, and his natural charisma glowed like a spotlight around him. “I’m just glad I’m getting to spend some time with you.” He gave me a big hug.

  I had this overwhelming urge to shield him from all the bad stuff in the world. I wanted to guide him every step of the way through his life so he never felt any more of the terrible things that he’d already experienced.

  I had taken him on as a mentor some three years ago when I met him at a foster care home in North Miami. We’d hit it off right away when he jokingly said my name sounded so fancy. That was when he’d started calling me “B.” Back then when I met him, he was only fifteen, but he said he was interested in modeling. I told him this was a tough business, but that I would let him give it a try once he turned eighteen.

  But I’d also insisted that he go to college, so I helped him get a full scholarship at Florida International University. Now that he was eighteen, I was so proud that he was earning good grades, studying hard, and making school his top priority. Jahron wanted to be a lawyer and become an advocate for children’s rights. I’d promised to do whatever I could to help.

  Six months ago, I helped Jah move into his own apartment. I will never forget the image
of Jah, his eyes filled with pools of tears, the first time he sat on his bed, slowly taking his hands over the bedspread we found at T.J. Maxx. He did the same with the shiny pots and pans I bought him because he loved to cook.

  The model scout in me had recognized Jah’s potential immediately. A shade over six feet, he weighed about a hundred and eighty-five pounds. He had dark curly hair with sun-glazed skin and beautiful green eyes the color of peas. He was a boi with a man’s body. Jah had accepted the fact that he was gay at the age of fifteen and had already had several boyfriends. Still, he had not yet engaged in full-out sex. He had spent the majority of his young life in the foster care system of Florida, having never met either his father—who he knew was African American—or his mother, who was Hispanic.

  When he was twelve, he was almost adopted, but his foster parents brought him back for what they called his “sissy tendencies.” I hoped that the time I spent with him would show him the love and acceptance that he’d never felt from an older person.

  “Jah, let’s go get some subs at that sandwich place you like off of Washington Street.”

  “That’s cool, B. You know they deliver. We could just eat here in your office.”

  “Are you sure? I thought you wanted to go out.”

  “I know, but you’re busy.” Jah glanced toward my desk, which was covered with eight-by-ten glossies and copies of the nondisclosure agreement that I’d been reviewing for the casting. “I just wanted to catch up with you. To let you know how school is going.” He looked up at the posters on the walls. “Hey, B, you got any modeling jobs that have come up that might be good for me?”

  I stood between my desk and Jah so he couldn’t see my work for the event. “I’m working on this big party, but I don’t think it’s right for you. It’s more grown folks stuff. But let me look around on some of the other requests that have come in. I’ll see if any of them are good fits for you, Jah.”

  Excitement sparkled in his green eyes. He tried to look around me at my desk. “Why do you think I wouldn’t be right for the party? It sounds hot! You know I like older men, anyway. I may be just eighteen, but look at how I’ve had to grow up. B, you know better than anybody, I’m more mature than most teenagers.”