A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

Ruth took her hand. “Me, too.”

  “Ha, me three,” Mitchell concurred, following them into the kitchen.

  Ann took Raheim’s hand as they stood. “My son—and my daughter—love you very much.”

  “I love them very much, too.”

  “I can see that. I . . . I just hope that the only tears they ever cry over you in the future will be tears of joy.”

  “I can’t promise that. But I’m gonna do everything to make sure they are.”

  She squeezed his hand. “And I’ll do everything to make sure you do.”

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Ann said as she hugged Raheim.

  “He won’t be,” Ruth answered for him as she headed down the stoop.

  “Drive safely,” Mitchell advised, standing in the doorway.

  “Shall do,” Ann promised.

  Destiny, standing next to her father, waved. “Good-bye, Gran’ma. Good-bye, Aunt Ruth.

  “Bye Sweetie Pie.”

  “Bye Sugar Dumplin’.”

  Ann opened their car doors. “And thanks again for a great meal, darlin’. Anderson’s gonna love these leftovers.”

  “So will Free. And so will I,” added Ruth.

  Mitchell, Raheim, and Destiny watched as the two women climbed into Ann’s green Camry. Ann honked her horn as she drove off.

  Raheim sighed. “Well . . . I guess I should be goin’, too.”

  “No, you can’t go now,” Destiny protested, taking his hand. “Errol didn’t get home yet.”

  “Uncle Raheim saw him last night,” Mitchell reminded her.

  “But I want him to have fun with us.”

  Mitchell looked at Raheim; the ball was in his court.

  “Well . . . I guess I can stay until he gets back.”

  “Yay!” Destiny screamed, pulling him into the house.

  Raheim shrugged; Mitchell chuckled.

  Destiny wanted Raheim and her father to watch her favorite scenes from The Wiz, so they did. Destiny sat between them on the sofa in the family room. As Destiny sang to “He’s the Wizard,” “Soon as I Get Home,” “I’m a Mean Ole Lion,” “Don’t Nobody Bring Me No Bad News,” “If You Believe,” and “Home,” her father hummed and her uncle grooved along. Mitchell and Raheim caught each other stealing glances a half-dozen times. They’d always look away, busted yet blushing.

  Destiny was showing Raheim the new words she learned from My First Webster’s Dictionary—Mitchell’d purchased it for Errol when he was Destiny’s age; Errol passed it on to Destiny last year—as they sat at the dining-room table, when she heard a key unlock the first-floor door.

  “Errol’s home!” Destiny raced to meet him. “Hi, Errol!”

  He hunched down to hug her. “Hay, Little Bitty Pretty One.” He tweaked her nose, the way her father used to do his.

  She giggled. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh.” She pulled him.

  Errol was pleasantly surprised to see his father. “Dad.”

  “Hay, son.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting,” Destiny responded for him.

  “I see.”

  “He was waiting for you to get home.”

  “And you been keeping him company, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. Me and Daddy.”

  “Ah.”

  Her daddy came downstairs. “Hey. How was your day?”

  “It was jood.”

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “Yeah. But I can eat again.”

  “Of course.”

  “Believe me, you’ll want to,” his father assured him.

  “Can I eat, too, Daddy?” Destiny pleaded.

  “No. It’s seven-thirty and you know what that means: time to take your bath and get ready for bed.”

  “Aw, Daddy,” she groaned.

  “Aw, Daddy, what?”

  “I wanna stay up.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I can, too.”

  Mitchell drew back. “Excuse me, young lady?”

  “I can, too,” she repeated, very defiant.

  Raheim jumped in. “Now, Destiny: you know you not supposed to talk to your daddy like that, right?”

  She stared at the floor.

  He lifted her head by her chin. “Right?”

  “Right,” she whispered.

  “And, you also know that if you don’t take your bath and get ready for bed, Uncle Raheim won’t tell you a bedtime story, right?”

  Her eyes bugged. “You’re gonna tell me a bedtime story?”

  “Only if you take your bath and get ready for bed.”

  “Oooh . . .” she squealed.

  “And, you tell your daddy you’re sorry.”

  She wasn’t too thrilled about that part. She slowly walked over to her father. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  He knelt down. “I accept your apology.” They hugged.

  She smiled at Raheim. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  She proceeded to tear up the stairs.

  “Stop!” Mitchell demanded.

  She did. She turned at the bottom step. “Sorry.” She giggled. She walked up.

  Mitchell giggled himself. “I’m going to help her. I’ll be back down in a bit.”

  Errol put down his bag and sat in the antique chair by the entryway. “How long you been here?”

  “Since four.”

  “Ah. You should’ve told me you were coming back today. I would’ve cut my time with the crew.”

  “How are Roe and Sid?”

  “They’re jood.”

  “What did y’all do today?”

  “Nothin’ much. A little studying. Played some slamball. And we watched Apollo 13.”

  “That musta been your pick.”

  “Yeah. Sort of a belated birthday screening.”

  “Did they enjoy it?”

  “Well, Roe fell asleep a half hour into the movie. I’m surprised he lasted that long. And Sid hung in there, but I could tell he was just doin’ it for me.”

  “They’re really jood friends.”

  “Yeah. Uh, you wanna eat with me?”

  “I’m kinda full, but I think I can have a little somethin’.”

  Errol handled the vegetables; Raheim cut their meat.

  Raheim retrieved two glasses from the dishwasher. “What do you want to drink?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Water. I haven’t had my daily recommended ten glasses.”

  “Me neither. I guess one is better than none.”

  After their plates were nuked in the microwave, they sat across from each other at the island. Errol said a silent prayer.

  “You could’ve said it out loud, son.”

  “I know. But I think it’s rude to assume everyone you break bread with will want to say grace.”

  “Like me?”

  “Not necessarily you. I do it regardless of who I eat with or where I am. You . . . still don’t believe in God?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t believe in God. And I don’t believe in a God. But I do believe there is somethin’ out there—or up there—that holds this world in balance. After goin’ through the . . . puttin’ myself through the fire and bein’ brought out, there’s got to be. There ain’t no other explanation for it.”

  Errol nodded. “Um . . . are you still attending your meetings?”

  “I went to my last one on Friday. Well, I believe it’ll be my last one. It was also my hundredth.”

  “Wow, Dad. I read somewhere the average number of meetings people attend is twenty-one.”

  “Hmm. I guess I’m either a slow learner or got addicted to goin’.”

  “Nah. They went to twenty-one, but they probably needed twenty-two, or fifty-two, or a hundred and two.”

  “Yeah. Some of them probably thought twenty-one was still their lucky number.”

  “You did it until you felt you didn’t
need to anymore. And that’s jood news. There’s somethin’ to toast.”

  They did.

  “I’ve got more jood news.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been offered the lead in a movie.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna tell them I accept it tomorrow.”

  “That’s great, Dad! Congrats!”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s the role?”

  “Uh . . . I’ll be playin’ Glenn Burke.”

  “Glenn Burke?”

  “Yeah.”

  Errol considered it. “Mmm . . .”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does it . . . bother you?”

  “Why would it bother me?”

  “Well, he was gay.”

  Errol shrugged. “O-kay . . .”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “No. Why would it?”

  “Well, it seemed like you were . . . surprised when I said who it was.”

  “I was. But not because of who he was.”

  “No? Then why?”

  “Because of who you are.”

  Raheim’s eyebrows raised. “Me?”

  “Yeah. I guess I never thought you would play that kind of role.”

  He knows me very well.

  “But what if your friends put me down and put you down because of it. How would you feel?”

  Errol shrugged. “Then they aren’t really my friends.”

  That’s my son.

  “Besides,” Errol added, “if your being gay doesn’t bother me, why should your playing gay?”

  There was that music, uh laughter, again.

  “When will you start filming?”

  “Probably as soon as possible. The movie’s been in development for six years.”

  “So I guess we won’t be having our monthly dinner . . . ?”

  It’s a ritual Raheim instituted three years ago, similar to the “getting to know you” dates Raheim had with his own father after he reappeared, so that he never loses touch with his son again. “Oh, yes, we will. If it means they gotta fly you in, it’s gonna happen.”

  “Jood. That means I won’t miss my allowance, either.”

  They giggled.

  “I guess you won’t be around to visit the schools with me,” Errol said, looking down at his plate.

  “If I gotta take a red-eye to meet you and then hop back on a plane that night, that’s what I’m gonna do. Ain’t no way I’m gonna let my Li’l Brotha—” Raheim caught himself. Now it was his turn to stare at his food.

  Errol grinned. He might not look or feel like a Li’l Brotha Man anymore but he knows that’s who he will forever be in his father’s eyes. Hearing just a part of the title made him tingle. “I know how important this role is for your career. If you can’t make it, I’ll understand,” Errol offered.

  His father didn’t accept that. “No you won’t. And I won’t, either. You’ve had to understand way too much, way too young, for way too long.” Mitchell, Raheim’s parents, Crystal, even Angel—they’d all had to make excuses for Raheim at one time or another. Raheim was determined to make sure those days were over. “Get anything new from the top four?”

  “Yesterday, from Yale. The president of the Black Students Alliance wants to take me to dinner when I visit.”

  “Cool. But you sure you wanna go to Dubya’s alma mater?”

  Errol chuckled. “I won’t hold him against them. Besides, they have a jood astronomy program. And, they are offering that scholarship.”

  “Well, don’t go because the tuition may be free.”

  “I don’t wanna break your bank.”

  “You let me worry about the finances, a’ight? They keep comin’ correct, though: they know if anybody can bring back up their curve, you can.” Raheim noticed Errol flinched when he said that. “Uh . . . you feelin’ any pressure?”

  “Pressure?”

  “Yeah. You are the first Rivers man to go to college. And you’ll be going at an age when, unlike many of your peers, you can’t even vote.”

  Errol shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.”

  “The last thing we want is for things to overwhelm you, to stress you out. You got a lot of important decisions to make, a lot to deal with. So, if it gets to be more than you can handle, you let us know.” He didn’t want to speak it, but Raheim was worried about him becoming an addict like his father and grandfather.

  Raheim didn’t say it, but Errol had a jood idea who made up that “we” and “us.” “I will.”

  “And . . . are you scared?” Mitchell had mentioned to Raheim that he might be.

  “Kinda,” Errol mumbled.

  “It’s okay to be scared, son. Like the show says, it’s gonna be a different world from where you come from. And, if anybody knows that it ain’t gonna be easy bein’ away from home . . .” Raheim sighed. “But that’s more than a year away. You’re gonna be a senior, and that kinda membership does have its privileges. The senior trip. The prom. Bein’ the envy of all the underclassmen and gettin’ the eye from all the underclass women . . . those are the things you should be concerned with. So make sure you enjoy it.”

  Errol’s eyebrows raised. “There is a particular ring that would help me celebrate my senior year in style . . .”

  “So long as it don’t cost as much as the teeth in O.D.B.’s mouth, you got it.”

  There goes their song again. They concentrated on their plates.

  “Son?”

  “Yes?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t know how to ask this.”

  “Just ask. I don’t have to be afraid to tell you something, and you don’t have to be afraid to tell me something. Remember?”

  Yeah, I remember . . .

  “Uh . . . are you still angry with me?”

  “Angry with you? About what?”

  “You know, over how things went down. Me . . . gettin’ sick. Disappearin’ on you ’n’ Lit—Mitchell.”

  Errol grinned at that slipup. He pondered this query carefully. “I don’t know if I was all that angry. I was more disappointed.”

  “I’ve . . . disappointed you a lot.”

  “You’re not perfect. No one is.”

  “I know I said it before, but I’m sorry.”

  “I know. I forgive you. I forgave you some time ago.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I saw that if you could forgive Grandpa, I could forgive you.” Errol leaned in closer. “And Uncle Mitch has, too.”

  He’s so sharp it scares me.

  “You wanna play Jeopardy! after you read to Destiny?” Errol asked.

  “Sure. I haven’t played in . . . years.”

  “I’ll try to have mercy on you.”

  “Oh, you will?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want a man of your years to have to strain his brain too much.” Errol chuckled.

  “You only fifteen; you don’t even know all the ways to use your brain yet.”

  “And you can teach me how?” It wasn’t a challenge; it was an expectation.

  Raheim smiled. “I sure can.”

  Mitchell peeked into Destiny’s room. She was in her pink long-sleeve Strawberry Shortcake pajama suit, sitting up with her legs crossed, her elbows on her thighs and her fists under her chin, looking and listening intensely as Raheim, seated on the hall ottoman, finished Little Bill’s Elephant on the Loose.

  Raheim closed the book. “Did you enjoy that?”

  “Uh-huh. Thank you.” She hugged him.

  “You’re welcome. You repeated it, word for word. You must have heard it lots of times.”

  “Uh-huh. It’s my favorite. Sometimes Daddy reads it and sometimes Errol does. But I like the way you read it best.”

  “Thanks.” He turned to place the book back.

  “No, read it again, pleeze?”

  “Baby Doll, you gotta go to sleep.”

  “But I got a little more
time left. See . . .” She pointed to her elephant clock. “The little hand is on the eight and the big hand is on the five. I have five more minutes until lights-out!”

  “You don’t want your song?” Mitchell interjected. She gets one every Sunday night.

  “Um . . . may I have both?”

  “There’s not enough time for both. But I could sing you a story if you want.”

  Destiny recognized the facial expression and the tone in her father’s voice. “Oooh. You mean ‘Fly’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Joody! Uncle Raheim, you have to stay and hear it, too.”

  “Okay.”

  Destiny hopped off the bed. She got on her knees and clasped her hands. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Daddy, and Gran’ma, and Gran’pa, and Errol, and Aunt Ruth . . . and Uncle Raheim. Amen.”

  Destiny scooted back in bed and folded her arms over the covers. Mitchell sat on the left side of her bed, placing his hands on top of hers. He began singing about the unorthodox friendship between a spider that hasn’t “spun a single silver thread since 1968” and a fly that, as a poet, steals his inspiration from the Sunday New York Times.

  “I just wanna give you a sweet . . .” Mitchell crooned. He kissed her on her forehead. “. . . sweet . . .” Then her nose. “. . . sweet . . .” Then her mouth. “Jood night, Sugar Plum.”

  “Jood night, Daddy,” she whispered.

  Raheim leaned in and kissed her on the right cheek. “Jood night, Baby Doll.”

  “Jood ni . . .” was all she could muster.

  Raheim turned out her light. Mitchell smiled at her as he closed her door.

  “That was beautiful,” Raheim complimented.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s obvious where Destiny gets her voice from.”

  Mitchell gushed.

  “I never heard that song before. Who recorded it?”

  “Lena Horne. She did it in her one-woman show on Broadway.”

  “Ah. It’s the perfect lullaby.”

  “Mmm-hmm. That’s why she says her prayers before. By the time the song is over, she’s off to dreamland.”

  They stood in silence, studying their shoes.

  Dressed in his nightclothes (a gray baseball tee and black cotton leisure pants), Errol emerged from his room with the Jeopardy! box under his left arm. “I’m ready when you are, Dad.”

  Errol took the first game, his father the second.