In My Father’s House Read online

  Her face twisted with disgust. “Stop talking like that. You love pussy! I know you do, Bentley.”

  I sat up, covering my lower half with the sheet. “I love yours, Kim. And most of the time, I loved you. But what I feel the majority of the time is not fair to you.”

  “Did you ever love me, Bentley?”

  “Yes, I love you, Kim,” I said, but this wasn’t enough before Kim had another plea.

  “Then marry me, Bentley. Marry me and we’ll work through this together. Do you know what my girlfriends thought when I announced I was going to marry Bentley L. Dean? You changed my life. I want the life you promised me.”

  I shook my head, glancing at the clock. We needed to wrap this up so I could get her out of here and shower for Warren. “Those were promises I can’t keep, Kim. One day you’ll look back and realize this was the best thing in the world for you. We can still be close. We can still be friends.”

  “Friends? I don’t need friends, Bentley. I need you to be a man.”

  “I’m a man, Kim. I’m just not the man for you.”

  TWO

  My mother used to always say, “None of us are ever sane enough to not have a good shrink we can call on.”

  So every other Monday morning I followed Mother’s motto, inside the chic, taupe-walled office of Dr. Cindy Fenton in Coral Gables near the University of Miami campus.

  I wasn’t depressed or anything, but with Dr. Fenton I could talk through things that I normally wrote in my journal. And since running my business left no time for journaling, and I liked the way she challenged me to think beyond my own assumptions, this was just what I needed. It was 2003 when I left Kim, my family, and Detroit behind, yet all that “stuff” still seemed to lurk behind my thoughts every day.

  “You look stressed,” Dr. Fenton said as she shut the door and sat on a black-and-white-plaid armless chair. She set a red coffee mug on the glass coffee table between us as I took my usual position on the black leather sofa. Facing her, I inhaled the amaretto-flavored coffee scent from the steaming cup she had given me in the lobby.

  A sudden sense of relief overwhelmed me as I looked at Dr. Fenton. She was a fiftyish, petite woman with short, mousy brown hair and freckles. She always wore red half-glasses with slim-fitting slacks and sweater sets. But her manner was anything but feminine or mousy. Sometimes I thought she might be a lesbian, but on days when she wore makeup, I’d think not. And her voice was as sharp and edgy as a native New Yorker. “Bentley, talk to me. I see stress with a capital S on your face.”

  I sunk into the plush leather, grasping the decorative leopard print pillows as if to hold on.

  “My business,” I sighed. “This economy is making it easy for my models to stay slim. I can barely pay them enough to eat.”

  She cast a piercing stare over her half-glasses. “What made it worse over the past two weeks?”

  “Since I saw you last two of my bread-and-butter clients postponed their shoots until the economy picks up,” I said. “I don’t know how long I can keep my business open. It’s like we’re on life support and this month’s payroll might pull the plug.”

  “It’s rough out there,” she said. “I’ve had a few clients cancel until things get better. But you’re creative, Bentley. Can you collect on any outstanding debts?”

  I shook my head, grasping the hot cup against my palms. “The few people who owe the agency money are just as strapped. Once I do payroll this month, my business bank account will be flirting with a zero balance. I don’t know if we can make it another month.”

  “Can Alexandria bring in any new clients?” Dr. Fenton asked. “You said your partner’s been aggressively seeking new business.”

  The rock fountain on Dr. Fenton’s nearby desk made a trickling water sound that calmed my panicky thoughts.

  “Alex has a few leads,” I said, “but nobody wants to commit real money right now.”

  Dr. Fenton sipped her coffee, then laced her slim fingers around the cup, resting it on her lap. The steam rose as she said, “Bentley, you don’t want to hear this. It might sting.”

  I turned down the corners of my mouth and closed my eyes.

  “Either you can let the economy and your stubbornness destroy the business you’ve worked three years to build,” she said, “or you can dial 3-1-3—D-A-D—H-E-L-P!”

  Her words sent something red-hot through my whole body, making me almost shout, “He disowned me!”

  I lowered my voice. “And in Father’s homophobic eyes, owning a modeling agency full of gorgeous men is about the last thing he wants his namesake to be doing! Especially in South Beach! I might as well be living at the top of the hill in Castro.”

  She sipped her coffee and shook her head. “He’s still your father. I think enough time has passed for you to at least try.”

  “You didn’t see the way he looked at me when I called off the wedding with Kim,” I said as the memory of his furious brown eyes flashed in my mind. “He could’ve spit bullets. He even balled his fists.”

  Dr. Fenton nodded. “Tell me again what he said.”

  I deepened my voice to imitate him. “ ‘Not in my house.’ ”

  It seemed like yesterday that he was standing in the two-story foyer of my childhood home, where the huge double staircase—with its Persian-carpeted steps and polished wood banisters—curved down around a chandelier and a mahogany table holding a giant spray of aromatic tiger lilies. On one side of the foyer was his masculine library; on the other was the two-story ballroom where America’s black bourgeoisie attended my parents’ soirées that even got featured in Town & Country.

  “Dr. Fenton, he stood there and pointed to the double front doors. They’re wood with stained glass that were custom-made with our family’s crest. ‘Go!’ he said. The sun was shining through the red glass, and it reminded me of blood. Like if you say the word ‘gay,’ blood doesn’t matter.”

  Her eyes softened as she listened.

  “I was so shocked, I just stood there. I’m six-one, but Father is six-four. So he stood there towering over me. It was a Saturday, so he had on a white Detroit Golf Club polo shirt and white khaki slacks. Mother and Anna were standing on the balcony, looking down and crying.”

  I sighed. I hadn’t meant to come in here this morning and get all bogged down in this historic drama. But here I was, and I trusted that Dr. Fenton was doing this for a good reason.

  Her pencil-thin eyebrows drew together as if she were hearing this for the first time, not the fifteenth.

  “Then my father opened the door and said, ‘Not in my house.’ I left. And those were the last words he spoke to me.”

  I sipped the sweet coffee to wash down the bitter taste in my mouth.

  “You’re not in his house anymore,” Dr. Fenton insisted. “And I’d bet a hundred dollars right now that he misses you like nobody’s business. You’re still his son.”

  I stared into the cup and swirled the creamy liquid as if it were a crystal ball. “If he’d take the call, I know exactly what he’d say.”

  She tilted her head, listening.

  “That if I hadn’t abandoned his business empire in Detroit to run off and become a model in New York, and if I hadn’t come down here to the pastel la-la land of pretty girls and even prettier bois—”

  “Stop!” she said. “Don’t speculate what he’ll say. How would you feel if he died and your sister told you he’d had a change of heart about you?”

  Her words slammed me in the throat. I coughed. To never speak to my father again, to never forgive him, or let him accept me as I am—

  “Gotcha,” Dr. Fenton said with a sassy tilt of her head.

  I stared back hard, but she blurred through the tears stinging my eyes. I shivered, hating that she was right.

  “Call your sister first,” she said. “Test the waters through her. Who knows, maybe she’ll loan you the cash to keep your business afloat.”

  I sipped the hot, sweet coffee. It soothed me from the inside out. But thi
nking of Father chilled me all over.

  I shook my head. “Father would find out. His accountants watch all the accounts like hawks. And since Anna’s husband runs one of the companies, their money gets scrutinized, too.”

  “Do you resent your sister?”

  “No!” I snapped, glaring at Dr. Fenton.

  She removed her glasses and leaned forward. “Anna has the picture-perfect life. Husband, two kids, European nanny, huge house, financial security, and your parents’ approval. That could’ve been you.”

  “I can’t live a lie!” I slammed the coffee cup on the table. “I’d rather be down here struggling with my business, and being true to myself, than be up there on easy street pretending to be what everybody expected.”

  She nodded. “Bentley, could you present it to your father in a way that shows he taught you the value of integrity? Now you’re living an honest life—”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve thought this through frontwards, backwards, and sideways. He told me we couldn’t talk about anything until I came to my senses and moved back to Detroit. It’s either work in the family business or be an outcast from Father’s empire.”

  Dr. Fenton focused hard on me. “The life expectancy of an African American male is sixty-eight years old. How old is your dad?”

  “He was thirty when I was born, so he’s sixty-five,” I said. “His birthday was—” My gut cramped, either from the sudden surge of caffeine or from the melancholy mood that had struck last week. “His birthday was Friday. Anna said they had a beautiful dinner party for him at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant in the MGM Grand Detroit.”

  Dr. Fenton raised her eyebrows. “They’re celebrating over gourmet food and your models are starving.”

  I glared at her.

  “I won’t go crawling back to my father, begging him for money or his love,” I said. “I won’t let him lecture me again about his disappointment and disgust with my life choices. I don’t need money that bad.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’ll find new clients. I refuse to—”

  “Look, Bentley. You’re not the first gay man I’ve counseled through a situation like this. But you may be making it harder on yourself than necessary.”

  I crossed my arms so hard that I coughed.

  “Bentley, yesterday I had a client in a very similar situation as yours. And guess what? His father and his favorite uncle just died in a boating accident. My client hadn’t spoken with them for ten years. Now he never will.”

  Goose bumps raced across my body. How would I handle that? Sometimes I wanted to pick up the phone and call Father so bad. At least it’s an option. What if I lost that forever?

  Dr. Fenton said, “He and I had had this same conversation for six years. But he responded the same way you are. Then he sat there and cried me a river about wanting one last chance to reconcile with them. But it’s too late.”

  I crossed my arms tighter. “It’s not that easy.”

  “I’m here to help you navigate the now,” Dr. Fenton said, “but I want to steer you on the best path for the future as well. So let’s review your options one more time. A bank loan?”

  I shook my head, remembering that dreadful meeting with my banker just last week. “Most banks won’t even give out loans with collateral. They even froze the line of credit I had against my condo. Man, I’m so glad this election is almost over. Our new president has to bring us some relief.”

  Dr. Fenton made a pretend scoreboard in the air with her fingertip. “Banks? No deal. A loan from your mother or sister?”

  I shook my head. “Another thing about my sister is if Father found out, he’d get mad and maybe cut her off for helping me. And since her husband is under Father’s complete control, he’d go down, too.”

  Dr. Fenton marked the pretend scoreboard with her finger.

  “Sister, no. Mother?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mother is so caught up with her twenty-four-year-old boyfriend. When she calls, that’s all she talks about. She’s definitely found her inner Demi Moore.”

  My biting tone inspired an intrigued look from my therapist, who said, “So she has no time for you. We haven’t talked a lot about this. How do you feel about her dating someone younger than you?”

  I thought for a minute about Dr. Fenton’s question. About a year after I left Michigan, my father and mother divorced after thirty years of marriage. Part of the reason was my father’s changed attitude about me, which my mother thought was stupid and childish on his part.

  “It’s not my business,” I said, reaching for the coffee. “I guess as long as she’s happy. I haven’t met dude yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a motive. I mean, don’t get me wrong, because my mother looks damn good for a fifty-six-year-old woman, but I think this guy has got his eye on her pocketbook.” I let out a sly chuckle. “Too bad dude doesn’t know Mother like I do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She’s very smart. Nobody is going to pull anything over on her. I don’t care how much in love he thinks she is. Lucinda Dean is tight with her money. I guess that’s why she still has a lot.”

  “Then she could help you,” Dr. Fenton said as if the matter were resolved.

  “I wouldn’t feel comfortable,” I said. “Mother didn’t disown me. But she sort of sent me on my merry way, without any offer to help.”

  Dr. Fenton marked the pretend scorecard with a question mark. “Mother is still a maybe. So what does this young lover of hers do for a living?”

  I savored the coffee, not wanting to waste my energy or my expensive therapy minutes on her boi toy. “He plays football. At least I think he still plays football. The ironic thing is that he plays for the team that Father lost in the divorce settlement. I know that ticks the hell out of him. First he loses his team in the divorce settlement, and then all of his business associates know his former wife is sleeping with someone half her age. And that everybody in their social circles are talking about it.”

  “So image is everything for your father,” Dr. Fenton said.

  “Everything! Me, I think it’s funny that Mom found a stud muffin that Dad most likely drafted.” I laughed.

  “Speaking of football,” Dr. Fenton said, marking her imaginary scoreboard. “Would your ex help you out?”

  I made a disgusted sound. “Yeah, right. Warren is all about Warren. I haven’t talked with him for a couple years.”

  She removed her red glasses and pointed them at me. “Bentley, you sound bitter.”

  “You’d be bitter if you abandoned your life of luxury for the man of your dreams who turned around and left you for some B-list actress. Ain’t that a bitch? Just because I’m not a trust fund baby anymore.”

  She put her glasses on, squinting over them.

  “So much for old-fashioned love,” I said. “Besides, I made the choice to be out. Warren struggles with that.”

  “Struggles? From what you’ve told me, ‘refuses’ is the better word.”

  “Dr. Fenton,” I said playfully, “I can’t get anything past you, can I?”

  “No, but would Warren consider helping you financially as an old friend?”

  I sipped the coffee. It was now as cold as I felt toward Warren. “No, Warren is too busy following the money his damn self. When he gets it, he’s keeping it. And every time I open up Ebony or Jet, there he is with a different woman. I don’t know who’s stupider, the women or my dumb ass.”

  My therapist nodded with that perplexed look again. “You haven’t used profanity all morning until we’ve talked about Warren. You don’t even feel that angry toward your father. Two men who loved you and basically abandoned you.”

  My cheeks stung, as if her words had slapped me. I stared down at the heel of my black leather loafer. The inch of ashy ankle exposed by the bottom of my beige linen pant leg let me know just how stressed I must be. I was usually diligent about rubbing shea butter into dry areas to avoid that unsightly dry skin.

  “Bentley? Where did you go?”
>
  “I’m right here. But putting Father and Warren in the same category, that was a sucker punch to the gut.”

  “The truth hurts,” she said. “So I should cross Warren off the list of potential financiers? Even though you said the two of you were once deeply in love.”

  “Were,” I emphasized. “And like my mother, I don’t play the fool. Besides, I love me more.”

  “Then you should do everything possible to solve this problem that’s draining your vitality,” she said, scanning her imaginary scoreboard. “Next source?”

  I shrugged. “That’s the problem. I don’t have one.”

  “Can you make cold calls? Solicit business from companies you’ve never worked with? Or tap into a new area of the business?”

  I shook my head. “People want to go with what they know in this atmosphere.”

  “Okay,” she said, “let that percolate while we talk about your personal life. Have you met anyone new here in Miami that you’d like to date?”

  I glanced at the plump leaves of the jade plant near her desk. “Well, let’s just go from bad to worse, okay?”

  She half smiled.

  “No, I don’t have the time to make a new love connection. I got a few fuck buddies. You know, friends with benefits. Besides, I’m not into the Internet dating scene. That’s the hot ticket these days. Straight or gay, everybody seems to be hooking up online. That’s too scary for me.”

  Dr. Fenton’s eyes lit up as if she were having a lightbulb moment. I sat up straighter. Maybe she’d just figured out how I could bankroll my business for the next couple of months.

  “Bentley, tell me something. What if Warren did come back into your life, on your terms?”

  My excitement deflated. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because men like Warren will never be able to admit who they are.” I set down the coffee cup; it clanked against the glass like an exclamation point after what I said.

  “Bentley, you were that way once.”

  “I was, but I’m smart. With that, anyway. But not smart enough to solve my problems at the moment. Personally or professionally.”