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.”
Chapter 15
“So, 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 something.”
She looped her arm in his. “Believe me, something is better than nothing.” They both laughed, heading for the kitchen.
Some would call their relationship strange. Bizarre. Even unreal. After all, there probably aren’t many heterosexual women who, upon learning that the father of her child is not heterosexual, would allow his significant male other to continue to play a role in that child’s life.
But Crystal isn’t your (stereo)typical Baby Mama and theirs isn’t your (stereo)typical Baby Mama Drama Tale.
After Crystal became Mrs. Winston Sledge in June 1997, Mitchell felt it was time for Raheim to tell her the truth about himself—and them. Of course, he balked. But Mitchell pressed him, arguing that now was as jood (and, in some respects, safe) a time as any. She didn’t react the way Raheim thought; she didn’t cry, curse, or carry on. Yes, she was upset, hurt, angry, even confused. But it wasn’t because she felt jilted or rejected because Raheim was now with a man; she had moved on and found a man of her own who made her very happy.
And it wasn’t because Raheim introduced Mitchell into their son’s life and presented him as one thing when he was something else. Would she have agreed to let her son have an openly gay man for a godfather? She admitted she probably wouldn’t have (even though her son’s father wasn’t straight). But she was a very different person back then and would not have given him the chance to prove that he was worthy. Whatever concerns or fears she might have had had already been erased by the time the truth was out.
It was about Raheim. He was, at least on the surface, bisexual—if not in his orientation at least in his expression. Even if he wasn’t gay all the way he was gay half the way, and even she knew that didn’t happen overnight. He’d known all along; he had to. And that was the kicker: he had not only been able to fool her, he’d also made a fool of her. It wasn’t about whether he wasn’t man enough or she was too much woman (which is what too many women ignorantly and arrogantly reduce these situations to). It was about playing with her emotions, playing with her heart, playing with her love. And not only did he play with her, he played her by bringing the person who, in at least a figurative sense, was standing in the way of her family really being a family. No matter what Raheim said, no matter what h
e did over the years, she had faith that they would one day be a them again. And even though she had a husband, a new family of her own, there was still a tiny part of her that felt Mitchell had taken her place. And was helping to raise her son. With her baby’s daddy. The man she wanted to be her husband.
If Mitchell had been in her shoes, he would’ve blown a gasket, too.
She felt betrayed. Deceived. Used. The love, the life they shared, had been a masquerade. An act. A lie. And if she felt she could not trust the father of her son, a man she thought she knew for a decade, how could she trust his . . . his . . . friend with her son?
But she got over the shock, and then shocked Mitchell when, just a month after getting the news, called and requested to talk with him in person. He hadn’t expected to hear from her—especially since, according to Raheim, she promised that “He will never see my son again.” Mitchell knew that that might be the price he had to pay but just prayed she would come around sooner rather than later.
They met at a coffee shop not far from where she worked on a rainy Saturday afternoon. It’s a meeting that Raheim was not (and, as far as she knows, still isn’t) privy to. She didn’t want to know all the details of their “affair” (as she labeled it)—where they met, when it began, when they started seeing each other exclusively. She wanted to talk about the person who would be most affected by the revelation and its aftermath: Junior.
“I see how jood you are with him,” she observed. “I see how much he enjoys being with you. And . . . I know he doesn’t want that to stop.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“No. It doesn’t.” She sighed heavily. “I’m . . . I’m just having a hard time digesting everything. And I guess I don’t feel . . .”
“Safe?”
A House Is Not a Home Page 12