A House Is Not a Home by James Earl Hardy Page B

. . . “No. But I may be soon. I got an offer today to helm a new Black magazine. They want to meet with me on Tuesday.”
    â€œThat’s great, Mitchell! What’s it called?”
    â€œNothing yet. They say that’s up to me.”
    â€œWow. Have you made a decision yet?”
    â€œNo. I’m gonna see what they have to say next week.”
    â€œGood luck with that, man.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou still in Fort Greene?”
    â€œYeah. I bought a brownstone six years ago.”
    â€œAh, we’re both home owners. Your settlement must’ve come through.”
    He remembered that, too. . . . “It did.”
    â€œAnd you live in this big brownstone all by your little brown self?”
    â€œNo. With my daughter and—”
    â€œYour who?” This time Montee stopped so cold in his tracks he almost tripped over his feet.
    â€œMy daughter.”
    â€œ You . . . have a daughter ?”
    â€œYes. Her name is Destiny. She’s five.”
    â€œHmmph . . . this is a conversation I have to have sitting down.” Montee opened the door to Tiffany’s.
    Mitchell entered and couldn’t believe his eyes. The place had received a total makeover. Everything was different: the floors, the wallpaper, the booths, the tables, the chairs, the stools, the bar, the menus, even the silverware and table napkins. For a moment, he thought he was in the wrong restaurant. Time really does fly: he hadn’t been there in close to a decade. One thing hadn’t changed, though: the place was packed with SGL men (and a few women) of various shades of brown, kee-keeing away. He laughed to himself as they settled in a booth.
    â€œWhat’s funny?” Montee asked.
    â€œJust thinking about my times here when it didn’t look like a Four Seasons knockoff.”
    â€œI take it they were very good times.”
    â€œThey were. I first ventured down here fifteen years ago. I didn’t know how I managed to exist without it, and couldn’t imagine not coming down every weekend. But now . . . my nights taking the homo stroll down Christopher Street, then eating here and watching the sun come up are over.”
    â€œBut not your days of being a homo?” Montee chuckled.
    â€œNever.”
    The waiter took Montee’s order and left. “So,” Montee began, “I know you’ve got a wallet full of pictures of Destiny you can’t wait to show me.”
    He did. There were twelve pictures arranged chronologically, beginning with her first day on earth in her hospital bin and ending with her Easter-egg hunting in Central Park two months ago.
    Montee couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. “She is a baby doll .”
    â€œShe is.”
    He studied father and daughter. “She’s got your eyes.”
    â€œWell, she should.”
    â€œAre you telling me you actually . . .”
    Mitchell laughed. He revealed how she was conceived.
    â€œDamn,” Montee said, as he chomped down on his cheese-burger and fries. “I thought you fathering her was wild, but that story is even wilder.”
    â€œAnd why is it so hard to believe that I could have fathered her?”
    Montee didn’t miss a beat. “If the phrase strictly dickly was in the dictionary, your picture would be next to it.”
    â€œYes. But as a wise man once explained to me, ‘Just because someone is oriented toward one sex does not mean they cannot be attracted to or be intimate with the other.’”
    It took a few seconds, but it registered: he had said that. “What are you, an FBI agent?”
    Mitchell chuckled.
    â€œSo, you’re raising a daughter.”
    â€œAnd my godson, Errol.”
    â€œThe fifteen-year-old having the birthday party?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow did he come to be with you?”
    Mitchell gave his stock answer. “Since I live two blocks from his high school, his