In My Father’s House

by E. Lynn Harris

  I shook my head. There was no way I was going to send this gorgeous young boi into that swarm of sharks.

  “You did have to grow up fast,” I said, “but some things can wait. I don’t think this crowd is right for you. Let me see if I have a menu to the sub shop.”

  “Aw, B, you’re trying to change the subject. Tell me about the party.”

  His boyish face reminded me of when Anna and I would demand to know what our parents had gotten us for Christmas. All we wanted was a little hint. And the more they said no, the more curious we felt.

  “I don’t know that much, Jah. Now I’ve told you, it’s not right for you. End of story.” I found the menu on my credenza. “What kind of sandwich do you want?”

  He shot me a playfully annoyed look. “Just maybe tuna and cheese with tomatoes and lettuce.”

  “You want any chips?” I scanned the list.

  “Sure,” Jah said, sitting in one of the white leather chairs facing my desk. “I met a new guy on campus the other day. He’s really cute and I think he plays on one of the sports teams, but I haven’t found out yet.”

  I glanced up from dialing the restaurant. “How do you know if he’s gay?”

  Jah smiled. “I don’t know, but I saw the way he looks at me in my English comp class. Trust me, I’ll find out soon enough.”

  That protective feeling shot through me again; I hung up the phone. Young people just didn’t understand how dangerous it was out there. Everything from gay bashers in public, to diseases in the bedroom, were just waiting to destroy a young man trying to find his way in the world. “Well, make sure you remember what I always tell you. Be safe, Jah.”

  “I’m always safe, B. So you don’t have to worry.”

  I phoned in the order for our lunch. Jah walked over to the window and stared down below. His white pants might as well have been tights, the way they showed off one of his best assets, his ass. It was as hard, round, and muscular as the Alvin Ailey male dancers. And that filled me with panic, because my modeling career had taught me just how many predators were out there, waiting to devour fresh meat like Jah. I couldn’t help but worry about this boi who’d been forced to become a man way too soon. I wondered if I could have managed to move from home to home, never feeling like I belonged, and come out of it without being mad at the world.

  But Jah didn’t walk around with a chip on his shoulder. He had a people-pleasing personality. And he talked about moving to California after college to pursue modeling and acting, even though he was a great writer and artist.

  The restaurant said the order would be delivered in fifteen minutes. I stepped beside Jah at the window, watching cars and people on the sidewalk below. “So how do you like living in your apartment?”

  “B, I love it,” he said, smiling at me. “Every day I say, ‘Thank God for Bentley.’ I never could have gotten such a nice apartment or gone to college without your help.” I loved feeling like I was making a positive difference in his life.

  “I feel like I have everything but a man,” Jah said, staring longingly out the window. “I mean, I have the whole package. And I can cook. I gotta have you over for these southwest-style omelets I made the other day. They’d put Emeril to shame.”

  “A man?” I asked, alarmed at the determination in his voice. “Jah, you’re in school. You don’t need a man to distract you.”

  “I just want someone to love me. To hold me while I sleep. And talk to me like he cares about me.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve got the rest of your life to enjoy that. Right now, Jah’s focus should be on Jah. Period.”

  He crossed his arms and tilted his head in annoyance. “You’re too old to understand.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked with mock anger.

  “You don’t remember what it’s like.”

  “The hell I don’t. But when I was your age, I was still dating girls. You have an advantage because you’re comfortable with who you are. You don’t have to hide.” The second those words came out of my mouth, I wished I hadn’t said them, because Jah would take them as a license to find the so-called man he wanted. Deep down, though, I admired—maybe even envied—the freedom that Jah had by knowing who he was and celebrating that, no matter what the world thought.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, Jah. You should enjoy this time of your life, young man.”

  “I do enjoy my life. It just seems I’ve discovered my inner freak at a young age.” Jah laughed.

  My voice was stern: “Like I said, be careful, Jah.”

  “I want to take acting classes.”

  “Will you have time for that, with classes and all?”

  “I’ll make time. I don’t have time for the gym, but I make time.”

  The thought of him in workout clothes in the middle of that meat market known as the gym made me shake my head. “Are you still going to the David Barton gym?” It’s just as much of a pickup place as it is a fitness club for all the beautiful people, straight and gay.

  “Whenever I can get a monthly membership,” Jah said, “because you know it’s very expensive. But one day real soon I won’t have to worry about money.”

  “How are you going to avoid worrying about money?”

  He looked at me with a face full of confidence, optimism, and dreaminess. “Because I’m going to be rich.”

  I felt like I was bursting his bubble, but he looked naïve with a capital N. “It’s good to have a big dream, but you’ve got to be realistic. Remember, I left my family’s wealth so I could be myself. Money isn’t everything, Jah.”

  “But it takes care of a lot of things,” he said with a look that let me know he wasn’t even trying to hear me.

  “And it can bring a lot of problems if you’re not careful,” I said.

  My assistant, Laura, knocked on the door and walked in with two yellow bags. She set our lunch on the small glass table between the two leather chairs. Laura, in a flowy orange dress with sparkly earrings, said, “Bentley, can I talk with you for a second?”

  I followed her into the hallway. Laura whispered, “I tried to use the company credit card to pay, but it was rejected. So I took a twenty out of petty cash.”

  “Did you tip the guy?” I asked coolly, not wanting to deal with another minute of financial stress.

  “Yeah, I gave him fifteen percent.”

  “Cool,” I said confidently. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you if you wanted anything. And don’t worry, the credit card situation will be resolved today.” I was so glad I had said yes to Mr. Sneed. I spoke low so that Jah couldn’t hear me. I could see out of the corner of my eye, he was craning his neck to eavesdrop. But I hated to admit just how desperate my financial situation had become.

  “My mom had the same problem at the airport,” Laura said. “The credit card companies are like going bonkers on everybody.” She smiled. “I’m brown-baggin’ it today so I can afford a manicure during my lunch break.”

  Laura was about to step away when I said, “Please just take messages for the next hour for me, unless it’s Alex.”

  Laura’s earrings sparkled as she nodded. “Okay. Alex is in a meeting in Fort Lauderdale, so I think you’ll be free to enjoy your lunch.”

  I turned back to Jah, who still had that dreamy look in his eyes. Hopefully, after the agency got paid for this mysterious job, I’d be feeling that optimistic about money, too.

  NINE

  Sometimes on the weeks when I didn’t see Dr. Fenton, I would have a session with a mentor and friend, Mitch Proctor. He owned one of the hottest male modeling agencies in the country called Mitchell Men of Miami International. He had the most gorgeous white and Italian male models in America.

  I had met Mitch at a modeling seminar when I first started my agency, and he immediately took me under his wing. I liked him because he seemed sincere and honest. During one of our first meetings, he said he admired me for having an agency that used only African American male models. His agency never got calls for any, so Mitch nev
er hired any. And on those rare occasions when he did get calls, he would refer his clients to me.

  This Wednesday morning, we met for breakfast at the Setai resort in the heart of South Beach. When I arrived at the upscale, Asian-style restaurant, Mitch was already on his second cup of coffee.

  What he lacked in the looks department, he made up for with his money. Mitch was short and a little pudgy, but everything about him said “rich.” His year-round tan could give George Hamilton a run for his money. He was about five foot eight and could have passed for a Miami businessman if he were not so fond of pinks and light blues. Today he was wearing a dark pink oxford shirt with a blue sweater hanging on his back, white slacks, and alligator loafers without socks.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said as I leaned over and kissed Mitch on the cheeks. It wasn’t my normal way of greeting business associates, but this was Mitch’s style.

  “No problem, Bentley.” Mitch’s blue eyes glowed with happiness to see me. He had a clean-shaven baby face that would have looked more mature if he lost weight and had some cheekbone definition. His sharp nose was always slightly pink with sunburn, as if he’d just gotten in from a leisurely day on a sailboat. His straight brown hair always looked freshly trimmed and brushed back. “Did we have a hot date last night?”

  “I wish,” I said as the waiter poured me some coffee. “How are you doing?”

  Mitch pushed a small black square plate holding sugar cubes and a tiny pitcher of cream toward me. “Doing great, considering the tough times we’re all facing in this business. If things don’t pick up, I’m going to have to dip into the trust fund,” Mitch said with a laugh.

  I only used a little cream and sugar. Then I looked over the menu and decided on an egg white omelet and some fruit.

  “I know you can’t be watching your weight, Bentley. I’d kill to have a body like yours,” he said, sipping his heavily creamed coffee. “And don’t forget what I told you about if you ever decided to go back into modeling. I would get you some bookings, buddy.”

  I smiled. “So I’d be your first African American model. Wow. Do you think we’ll ever live in a country where there are no more ‘first this’ and ‘first that’?”

  “Now, Bentley, I think our country has come a long way,” Mitch said. “And if Mr. Obama comes through, I think that day will come real soon. And you can celebrate at my party. Election night. We’ll have flat screens all over the place. Fabulous food. An endless bar. And a waitstaff to make sure you don’t have to do a thing but cheer for President Obama.”

  I smiled. “I’d love to come to your party, Mitch,” I said, remembering his phenomenal high-rise condo with 360-degree views of Biscayne Bay, the Miami skyline, and the Atlantic Ocean. His place was on Fisher Island, one of the ritziest pieces of real estate in the world.

  Mitch raised his coffee cup as if it were a champagne flute. “Cheers! To our new president, and to you gracing us with your presence at the party.”

  I felt happy about watching the election results and hopefully celebrating in a gay-friendly scene.

  Mitch said, “I can’t believe he’s leading in Florida, because I believe if he wins this state, it’s a runaway.”

  “I know, but I doubt if he wins here. I still think it’s Bush country.”

  “Mr. Dean, please don’t ruin my breakfast. How is business coming?”

  I smiled. “Looking up. I might be booking a big party, but I don’t want to talk about it until it’s in the book.”

  “I understand,” Mitch said. “I’m sending about five guys to Milan for the runway shows and it’s helping me to pay some bills. I really would like to go, but that’s a frivolous expense my firm can’t handle this month. So I’ll just stay here and enjoy what Miami sun I can find.”

  As I enjoyed my omelet and he devoured pancakes with bacon, Mitch told me about some of the areas on Lincoln Road where he’d seen a lot of good-looking black guys. He recommended that I might want to spend some time down there scouting.

  That was an example of why I liked Mitch so much. He was always giving me pointers. We also had a lot in common. Mitch was from old-money Texas, having been raised in Highland Park, a tony Dallas neighborhood. He had been educated at Rice University in Houston and was in his second year of law school at Southern Methodist University when he decided he wanted no part of the family business and outed himself.

  Just like me, he faced resistance from his father, but support from his mother and sister. Mitchell moved to Miami and never saw his father again. When he died suddenly of a heart attack, Mitch fell into a depressed mode for almost a year. He, too, had a female co-owner, Trudy, who saved his ass while he nearly drank and almost drugged himself to death.

  There was also one other difference between us besides the color of our skin. In the middle of his year of despair, Mitch contracted HIV while having unprotected sex during a drug binge. But thanks to remarkable meds, Mitch’s HIV was currently undetectable and he lived an active and seemingly happy life.

  “So have you met anybody lately?” I asked. “Or are you still happily single?”

  “The latter, for sure,” Mitch said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “And I can’t tell you how wonderful safe sex is when you’re simply under the influence of the moon.”

  “I know that’s right.”

  Mitch always looked at me like he really cared about how I was doing, both as a friend and as a business associate. I didn’t get the feeling that he wanted anything from me except for that. And in the modeling business, and in Miami, that was a rare feeling.

  “What about yourself?” he asked. “Are you still against meeting someone on the Internet?”

  “Yes, most definitely,” I said. “Mr. Right will have to meet me without the help of modern technology.”

  Mitch’s face lit up. “Oh, Bentley, I got a call the other day from the office of tourism for the island of St. Lucia. They’re using some of my guys, but I’m going to suggest we use some men of color. Do you have any guys that might fit the bill?”

  Cha-ching! I played it cool as I secretly wanted to pump my fist with excitement. A job like that would bring in some nice bricks of Benjamins for the agency and my models.

  “I’m sure I do have the models you’re looking for,” I said. “I guess you’ll need Island guys, or mixed.”

  “Or all black. I will let you know.”

  “How many do you think you might need?” I asked as the waiter refilled our coffee cups.

  “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” the waiter asked. He was an attractive white guy with brunet hair and I watched Mitch give him the once-over. When the waiter left, Mitch said he was going to give him one of his cards but thought he’d seen him on the Boss Models of Miami roster. Boss Models was Mitch’s only competition.

  “How is that young guy you mentor?”

  “Jah? Oh, he’s doing fine.”

  “ ‘Fine’ would be the right word to describe that fine young specimen,” Mitch said. “Now I really think I could manage him and when people hear his story, I think it makes him even more marketable. Let me know if you think you’re too close to market his look right. If you can’t be my first, then maybe Jah can.”

  Now here was one subject where I didn’t need Mitch’s advice.

  “I’m bringing him into the business slowly,” I said. “I want him to concentrate on school. I don’t know how long the state will pay for his education, so I want Jah to get his degree as quickly as possible.”

  “He’s lucky to have you in his life,” Mitch said.

  “And I’m lucky to have you in my life,” I said while lifting my coffee cup and gently tapping it against Mitch’s.

  Around 5:30 P.M. on Wednesday, a dream walked into my office in the form of Daniel Baxter. He was a referral from Boss Models in New York and had sent me some pictures by messenger the day before. He looked better than his pictures.

  Daniel was a mixture of African American and Puerto Rican, with golden bronze skin,
dark curly hair, and a body, from what I could see, that was awesome. This guy was so handsome that I could hardly look him straight in his hazel-green eyes. I found myself stuttering as I told him about my agency. The conversation took a different turn when I mentioned the upcoming party and asked if he might be interested in making some good money.

  Daniel’s deep voice was just as intoxicating as his appearance. “So basically what your client is looking for is eye candy.”

  “I guess you could say that,” I said, sitting behind my desk.

  “That doesn’t sound right to me,” he said, taking one of the white leather seats. Daniel said with authority in his voice, “I think they’re looking for more.”

  I looked him straight in the eye and asked, “Why would you say that, Daniel?”

  He looked at me like he wasn’t born yesterday. “I think I did one of those parties when I was living in Los Angeles. They’re looking for more than eye candy, Mr. Dean.”

  I put on an air like I didn’t need to stoop to that level of thought or conversation. “Please call me Bentley. Let me assure you, I’m running a respectful modeling agency here. I have made it clear that my models are models. Not escorts.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He shrugged as if he understood that I wasn’t going to acknowledge the unspoken, just as Mr. Sneed hadn’t. Daniel radiated authority as he said, “But I think I’ll have to pass on this.”

  I showed no reaction, hoping he would change his mind. He would be perfect for the party.

  “I love sex as much as the next guy,” Daniel said, “but I’m not selling my body to a bunch of old men who think they can buy people with their money. Daniel Baxter does not have a ‘for sale’ sign across his forehead or his ass.”

  Daniel stood up to show off what he said wasn’t for sale. He was just over six feet tall, about one hundred and eighty-five pounds. A muscular body with a tiny waist. Daniel’s ass pushed out of his tight jeans so firm and plump that you could have placed a tea service on it. It looked so yummy, I was getting aroused. Good thing my desk was protecting me.