A House Is Not a Home Read Online Free PDF Page A

were the people who made up that world. Sure, Little Bit and Li’l Brotha Man were still there —but they were no longer Little Bit and Li’l Brotha Man . They had done a lot of growing—individually and collectively—in the time he was missing in action. While they were e volving, he was de volving.
    Little Bit always said he wouldn’t fight over him but he would fight for him, and he did. He hounded and harassed Raheim to stop. He left Gamblers Anonymous pamphlets around the house and in Raheim’s suitcase and pants pockets. Once he tried to trick Raheim into going to a meeting. He even enlisted Raheim’s mother, Angel, even Babyface, B.D., and Gene to step in and attempt to talk some sense into him. Raheim didn’t feel it was anybody’s business what he did and it was nobody’s business what was happening between them, so he told folks to mind their fuckin’ business (except his mother—he might’ve been out of his mind but he hadn’t lost his mind).
    And then there was the time Little Bit followed him on one of his excursions, “confronting” him at the craps table. Raheim didn’t notice him standing right next to him until another gamer asked if he wanted to join in. Raheim wasn’t surprised to see him there.
    Their eyes locked. Little Bit didn’t have to say a word; he’d already said all that needed to be said. And as far as Raheim was concerned, he had heard enough. He turned his attention back to the dice and his back on Little Bit—and let Little Bit walk away.
    Raheim didn’t know it then, but that was the day he forfeited the right to call Mitchell Little Bit. By not heeding Little Bit’s silent cry that day, Raheim pronounced that what they had was over.
    Little Bit didn’t bail on him; he bailed on Little Bit. And Little Bit didn’t break up with him because of what he had become; Little Bit broke up with him because of what he had stopped being .
    And then there was Li’l Brotha Man. When Raheim saw him for the first time in months he almost didn’t recognize him. He had grown six inches in height, standing five feet five inches. He gained forty pounds, a solid one-thirty. His shoe size went from a boy’s five to a man’s eight; his waist, a young man’s small to a man’s thirty-one. His face was rounder, fuller, and his jawline more pronounced. And his voice: no longer falsetto-ish, it had a grainier timbre, as if he’d been sucking on lemons.
    His Li’l Brotha Man was literally growing up. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when . . .
    Dad?
    Yeah, Li’l Brotha Man?
    Uh, could you do something for me?
    Sure. Anything.
    Uh . . . Could you stop calling me Li’l Brotha Man?
    Not call you . . . why?
    Because . . . I’m not exactly li’l anymore.
    Uh . . . yeah. You right. You not. But what do you want me to call you?
    Errol.
    Errol?
    Yes.
    Oh. Uh, any particular reason why you wanna be called Errol? I don’t know.
    I guess it just fits who I am right now.
    Uh . . . a’ight.
    Now, Raheim could understand why he wouldn’t prefer Junior, another title he wanted retired; after all, Raheim was really the “Junior” in the family. But being asked not to call his heart, his soul, his baby boy Li’l Brotha Man anymore?
    If there was such a thing as a broken heart, he had one—but he only had himself to blame.
    It took some time for Raheim to call him Errol. It was painful. It was a reminder that he’d really fucked up, that he did the very thing he said, he vowed, he promised he’d never do to Li’l Brotha Man—abandon him like his father did. And while he was missing in action for two years, it might as well have been twenty. He missed the highlights: his tenth birthday party, the citywide spelling championships, his elementary-school graduation, his Little League play-offs. All those