A House Is Not a Home (18 page)

“Sure. Thanks.”

He poured one for them both. They sat down. They sipped.

She huffed. “Now, tell me the truth . . .” She clutched her cheeks and turned her head to the left, in profile. “Do I look
old
enough to have a fifteen-year-old son?”

“No, you don't.”

“It seems it was just yesterday that I was bringing him home from the hospital. Now he's a young stud. God, I sound like one of those irritating mothers in those cheesy movies they show on
Lifetime
.”

Mitchell giggled.

“Oh, before I forget.” She went into her pocketbook and pulled out a purple envelope. “It's from my mother.”

“What is it?”

“I don't know. Open it and we'll find out.”

Printed on the front of the card in Monaco-style lettering was:

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO A SPECIAL MAN
.

Mitchell was
stunned
—and not just because Father's Day was
next
Sunday. “
Your
mother gave this to me?”

“Yup.”

That her mother would send him a card of
any
kind was a shock in and of itself. While others might have felt the same way, she was the only member on Crystal's side of the family to vocalize her horror over her only grandson being in the company of “one of those people” (as she argued, since Raheim wasn't gay all the way, there was hope for him—and only a fifty-fifty chance Errol would turn out “like that”). When Crystal wouldn't cut ties with Mitchell, her mother refused to acknowledge him at family gatherings—and if there was a family gathering at her apartment, wouldn't invite him. They'd never even had a conversation; before the truth came out, their contact was minimal and their exchanges usually consisted of “Hello” and “How are you?” So receiving a gift from her—especially one like this—was a big deal.

He opened it:

One day just isn't enough

To truly celebrate all you are and do

So here's a reminder that you're thought of

Not just today but the whole year through!

Enjoy Your Day

Georgia

The sentiment was very short, very simple, but very sweet. And Mitchell was . . . well,
stunned
by it.
“Wow.”
He handed it to Crystal.

She read it and was stunned, too. “Well,
I'm
jealous. I didn't even get a Mother's Day card from her!”

“How nice. I'll have to thank her.”

“I'll call you when I'm with her tonight and put her on the phone. I can't wait to see her face.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Looks like you've finally converted her . . .”

“. . . figuratively speaking,” he finished with her.

They laughed. The house phone rang. Mitchell answered it. “Hello?”

“Hay,” Raheim said. He can't say “Little Bit” anymore but doesn't like calling Mitchell by his name. So he doesn't call him anything.

“Hey. How are you?”

“I'm jood. You?”

“I'm jood, too.”

Silence.

“I just wanted to know, what time I should come over?” Raheim already knew what time to come over. It may sound silly, but he just wanted to hear his voice. He missed hearing his jood friend's voice every day like he used to.

“Around six-thirty.”

“Should I bring somethin'?” Raheim also knew the answer to that, too.

“I don't think so. I think we've got everything taken care of.”

“A'ight. I'll see you then.”

“Okay.”

Silence again.

Finally Raheim says what he doesn't want to say. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Raheim hesitates before hanging up—and notices, for the first time, he's not the only one.

I
f you want
the
best chicken in Harlem—be it baked, barbecued, broiled, grilled, smoked, roasted, smothered, or fried—the Chicken Kitchen is the place to go. It actually looks like a chicken shack—the sloppy plywood decor is what Grace, Raheim's mother, was going for when she decided to open up a restaurant. She wanted the place to have a way down-home feel, like folks were stepping into a juke joint. But the CK, as many of the teens and twentysomethings call it on the streets, is not the least bit seedy. In fact, it's become the family hangout on weekends (a stream of baby strollers will be parked outside the place) and a prime stop on many bus tours through Harlem.

It has achieved this status in less than three years, and no one is more surprised by its success than its owner. In late 1999, Grace had put in her twenty years working for the city and was all too ready to leave (she was offered an early retirement package that was too jood to pass up). But she got bored quick—in a week. At forty-nine, she didn't want to spend the rest of her life
watching
the rest of her life pass her by in some retirement village in Florida, and she was years away from buying and settling into her dream home in Greenville, North Carolina (where her family is from). So she volunteered at the local Red Cross and Boys and Girls Club, but neither was very fulfilling (they were more stressful than the job she left).

Her grandson provided her with the answer during a weekend visit. He was chowing down on her famous barbecue chicken when . . .

“Grandma, you should open up a restaurant.”

“Me? Open a restaurant?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“I don't know the first or last thing about runnin' a business.”

“You can learn.”

“And the
last
thing Harlem needs is another soul-food restaurant.”

“Then don't open a soul-food restaurant.”

“What kind of restaurant, then?”

“Do the specialty thing.”

“The specialty thing?”

“Yes. I learned about that in marketing class. You can concentrate on one type of food—like chicken—and serve it up in a variety of ways. You got so many jood recipes.”

The more she thought about it, the more she thought . . . why not? Not only would it give her something to do, that something would be something she loved to do and she might even make a little money doing it. And even if it didn't fly, at least she couldn't say she didn't try. So, she took an adult-education class at Hunter College on starting your own business; pooled her own resources (fifteen thousand dollars of the equity she had in the co-op Raheim purchased for her in '95) with grants from minority and women's business initiatives throughout the city; chose a lot on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard (two blocks south of 125th Street, close enough to but away from the maddening crowds); and, three months after signing a lease, had her grand opening on her birthday: New Year's Day 2001.

Since her grandson had come up with the idea, she let him name the place. He didn't have to think longer than ten seconds. “The Chicken Kitchen.”

“The Chicken Kitchen,” she repeated. “I
love
it.”

And so do Lou Rawls, Al Green, Eddie and Gerald Levert, B.B. King, James Brown, Shirley Caesar, Russell Simmons, LL Cool J, and Magic Johnson; they all stopped by, sampled the grub, and took photos with her. Even white public figures such as Mayor Mike Bloomberg and former President Bill Clinton have visited (they were running for office or opening
up
an office in the community). The number one celeb, though, is and has always been her son—snapshots of him as an A-A model, holding his Independent Spirit Award moments after winning, and standing by her side on opening day remain in the very center of her wall of fame. Raheim is almost never recognized, though—and he likes it that way. As far as he is concerned, his mom is the true star; along with Eva Isaac, the Queen of the Apollo Theater, she's become another Mother of Harlem. And with Harlem looking like the Mall of America thanks to Ben & Jerry's, HMV, and the Disney Store on 125th Street, the restaurant has become a community center, a home away from home for folks to not only eat but meet and greet.

When Raheim entered, she was greeting new customers and catching up with the regulars. Like Sylvia of Sylvia's, she wants them to know there is a real person behind the name (even if the restaurant isn't named after her).

She smiled as he approached. “Oh, excuse me,” she told a young man and woman seated at one of the six fountain tables in the restaurant. “Thanks again for your business and please come again.”

“Hay, Ma.” He bear-hugged her.

“Hi, honey.”

“How are you?”

“I'm quite jood. And you?”

“Ditto.”

“You wanna eat somethin'?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

“Uh, I guess I can have a little somethin'.”

“Okay. You want the usual?”

“Yeah.”

His usual is the most popular item on the menu: the chicken pot pie, which has carrots, peas, corn, green beans, potatoes, chunks of white meat, and Grace's Groovy Gravy. Food critics from as far away as D.C., Chicago, and L.A. have raved about it and entire sports teams (from junior high-schoolers to pro ballers) have made special trips to buy one (some will approach the counter and ask for “the 3Gs”). This has caught the attention of General Mills: they're interested in packaging and selling the dish in supermarkets across the country. They've been in discussions to purchase the rights for two months.

They sat in her eating nook, a small room next to her office. She watched as he dug into his first pie (he usually eats three). “They came with another offer,” she revealed.

“And?”

“I said no.”

“You tryin' to break their bank?”

“No. It's not about the money; it's about havin' a say. We don't need a contract for them to just steal the recipe and run, and that's what they'd be doin' if I signed.”

“They must really want it if they came back twice.”

“Well, that's the problem: they want
it
, they don't want
me
, and we are a team. You can't have one without the other. They're supposed to be sending some VP down here next week to talk to me.”

“Uh-huh, to talk some sense
into
you.”

She nodded. “That's what Rico said. But it won't matter. She'll be wasting her time and mine.”

“How is Rico?” Rico is Enrico, her boyfriend from the Dominican Republic. He's a forty-seven-year-old divorced father of two she's been dating exclusively for about two years. They met at one of the quarterly mixers thrown by the city for small-business owners of color (he owns two restaurants, both called Enrico's, in the Bronx). Raheim is happy about the relationship since he hasn't seen her with anyone in twenty-five years (that last and only person being his father). They're sort of an odd couple: he's three inches shorter than she (the height difference doesn't bother her; as she confided, “He's got the inches where it
really
counts”).

“He's jood. He should be stopping by with his grandkids in about an hour.”

“All of them?”

“Yup, all of them.”

“Mmm . . .”

“Mmm, what?”

“Nothin'.”

“That
mmm
wasn't nothin'.”

“They comin' to meet their future grandma.”

“I don't think so.”

“Come on, Ma: Why else would he be bringin' the whole posse?”

“To eat?”

“Uh-huh. How old are they again?”

“Nine, eight, six, five, three, and two.”

“That's a Brady bunch.”

“I know. Tomorrow is Maya's birthday; she's the youngest. I made a cake for her, too.”

“See, you bakin' birthday cakes for
all
your grandkids.”

She pinched him on his right arm. “Unless you have other plans, I'll continue to be the grandmother of
one
.” Rico has been hinting they should marry, but she's avoided even talking about it; she's not interested in becoming a Mrs. again.

As he started on his second pie, she placed her elbows on the table, leaning forward. “So . . . are you ready to go
home
?”

“Huh?”

“You heard. You haven't been
home
in some time.”

“I was there last Sunday.” He'd taken Errol back to Brooklyn after his weekend visit with his mother.

“Well, dropping off your son is different from being invited inside.”

That it is. He remembers the last time he was inside—April 16, 1999. The night before, he was supposed to attend a dinner to celebrate Mitchell's thirty-third birthday, hosted by Babyface, B.D., and Gene. He didn't show up, and when he showed up at the house later that eve, he looked through the window to see Mitchell on the sofa, crying. Destiny was lying against his side, asleep. The image was a moment of cruel déjà vu: his mother in that same spot on their sofa, sobbing over his father's unannounced exit, as he consoled her. After Mitchell left early that morning, Raheim crept inside and left him a note that simply said: “I'm sorry.” He couldn't bear to face him. While Mitchell has never said he wasn't welcome since that night, Raheim hasn't felt . . .
worthy
.

Raheim did attempt to deflect some of the blame for their relationship ending, complaining to his mother that when Destiny came along Mitchell forgot all about him and that's why he turned to gambling. She was just as upset as he was that it was over between them, so he believed he'd get a much-needed pat on the back—but received a slap across the face instead. As he was recovering from the shock (she had never hit him before), she apologized for striking him but broke it down like only a mother could . . .

You sure you ain't been sniffin' or smokin' or shootin' up somethin', too? He didn't drop you when Destiny came along; you chose to drop out when she did. Don't be angry with him because he had the jood sense to do what had to be done. Did you expect him to put his life and his daughter's life on hold for you? You oughta be thankin' him: he's the one who has been tryin' to hold everything together. Despite what you've done and put him through, he's been there for you and he still loves you—and love ain't the reason he should stay with you, it's the reason he shouldn't. And if you forget that, remember who you chose to be your son's godfather. Don't forget who stepped in to care for and be there for him when you stepped out . . .