Getting to Happy Read online

  Unfortunately, my world started shrinking not long after I married Mr. Wonderful. Since I didn’t have kids, I was used to doing what I wanted and going where I wanted. I ate out at least two or three times a week. Enjoyed going to plays and live concerts and dance performances. Loved foreign films. Didn’t mind the subtitles. In fact, I used to go to the movies at least once a week except in August, when the slashers came out. I loved reading in bed. Unfortunately, Isaac couldn’t fall asleep without the television blaring. Turns out he wasn’t keen on eating in restaurants except Denny’s and The Olive Garden. I never saw him open a book but he couldn’t get enough of Outdoor Projects or Dream Decks & Patios or Wood Magazine. He didn’t like taking bona fide vacations because it was a waste of good money. He was also afraid of flying, which meant everywhere we went had to be by car. We rented movies, except during holidays. Isaac also liked fish, so once a month we went to the aquarium. Yahoo.

  Last August, I flew to Chicago for the Democratic National Convention and was able to hear the young senator Barack Obama give a speech that sounded like it might go down in history. Flying wasn’t the only reason Isaac didn’t want to go. Right before the 2004 primaries, I inadvertently opened his absentee ballot. He had the nerve to be registered as a fucking Republican! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I don’t know any black Republicans. I was not only offended, but confused. I felt like I was married to a Nazi or something.

  “Of course you have the right to align yourself with whatever party you so choose,” I said when I confronted him. “But what on earth would possess you to support the Republican party, Isaac?”

  This was Mr. Millionaire’s answer: “Because they make sure we get the best tax break.”

  I left his ass standing in the bathroom dripping wet, since he was waiting for me to bring him a towel. So it was his dumbass vote that helped reelect that dumbass George Bush. Twice. I wondered who in the world I was really married to. It worried me.

  I can’t lie, I spent a lot of energy trying to give Isaac as much love as I possibly could as often as I could for as long as I could. Right after he lost his job, I tried to make him feel valued. I asked him to share his dreams with me. I listened. He changed his mind about getting his degree in engineering, opting instead for a construction management program. I paid his tuition. When he talked about all the things he wanted to build one day, I shared his enthusiasm. I also slowed down, said no to some travel. The Olympics in Australia was the biggest. I cooked almost every day. Washed and folded his work clothes. Took pills for car sickness. Everywhere we drove: “You see that sagging fence right there? That’s a sign of a rookie.” Watching the History Channel and This Old House was like foreplay. And wrestling: like witnessing phony cavemen perform acrobatics. I went to football games, which I didn’t like because it was violent and took too long to make a fucking touchdown. I went camping and fishing but I didn’t like getting dirty and putting stinky things on the end of a pole, and grabbing a wiggling fish that was headed for a hot skillet gave me the heebie-jeebies. Did I complain? No, I did not. I tried to do what made my husband happy.

  Over the years, Isaac stopped showing interest in what I felt or what I did. I had to bribe him to go to or do anything that didn’t have an outcome. Whenever I wanted to talk about my stories, he always seemed to have the remote in his hand. I’m tired of not feeling respected. Since he’s become a successful entrepreneur, Isaac’s arrogance has pierced right through his beauty, which is why I don’t like him.

  Make no mistake, I still love Isaac. I haven’t been in love with him for quite some time. It’s not an easy thing to admit. I’m not one of those women who feels I need a man to complete me. I also don’t think there’s just one person in the world meant for you. Sometimes you luck up and sometimes your luck runs out. I’m beginning to wonder if a good marriage is even possible. What I do know is I’m tired of feeling navy blue when I have a right to feel lemon yellow.

  Ever since I turned fifty I’ve become more aware of the passage of time and what I’m doing with it. If I dropped dead today, what legacy would I leave? Would I have done a lot of the things I wanted to do? Seen some of the places I wanted to see? And would I—if I took a few minutes to think about it—feel as if the time I was blessed with was well spent or had I just bullshitted my way through it?

  Even though I have an interesting job, it still feels like I should be doing more. All I ever wanted was to do something with my life that would have a positive impact on other people. To do something to make us look in the mirror or slow down long enough to see what our behavior really says about us. Mostly about our inhumanity, since it leaves red marks. I believe the only way to evaluate how we’re living is how we’re not living.

  This is why I’m on a mission to start doing things that make me feel good. I’ve made a vow to start eating healthier and exercising on a regular basis because I know better. I’m twenty-five pounds away from being fat. I don’t want to have to start buying all my clothes in Encore at Nordstrom’s. My goal is to be fit at fifty-two and sixty-two and seventy-two. I want to feel better than I look. I’m not trying to be a middle-aged centerfold, I just want to look at myself naked and not be disgusted. It may sound naïve, but I always thought as you got older the quality of your life would improve, that things would be smoother, calmer, and you could finally exhale.

  If only.

  I’d probably be in the nuthouse if it weren’t for my girlfriends: Bernadine, Robin and Gloria. Fifteen years ago, we thought we were hot shit. I was thirty-six and had just moved here from Denver, where I’d been a publicist for the gas company. Thrill thrill. Bernadine and her then husband, John, talked me into moving here after a visit, when a position in PR opened up at a local television station. The three of us went to Boston University together. I was her bridesmaid. She worked in finance for a real estate developer, had become a C.P.A. She introduced me to Gloria, a single parent who had her own hair salon. And Robin: Miss Congeniality. She worked in an executive capacity at an insurance company but was still on the verge of becoming a slut. She was and still is a hoot.

  After years of our being casualties of love, Gloria is the only one who’s happily married. Times have certainly changed. We’re all busy. We don’t hang out like we used to, don’t run our mouths on the phone half the night the way we used to, don’t gossip about each other the way we used to. We send e-mail or text. Who can be bothered reaching out all day long like teenagers? Forget about happy hour. (Do they still have them?) We haven’t been drunk since I999. Haven’t set foot in a nightclub since Rick James had his last hit. We dance at home. Apparently, we’re too damn old to have fun in public places.

  I don’t know why we stopped being social creatures, but it’s why Gloria came up with the idea of having Blockbuster Night. Once a month we kick up our heels at one of our houses. It’s something to do. Bernadine cooks, since she’s our black Julia Child. We make our husbands and children disappear. We don’t care where they go, as long as they’re gone for at least four hours.

  I finally get out of my pajamas and take a cool shower. I put on a pair of purple running pants and a pink sweatshirt and grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge. I go back to my laptop and start looking at some of the sites I’d bookmarked. I hit ENTER. The screen turns cobalt blue, then goes completely black. I lean back in the chair thinking the battery must be dead, but I always plug the laptop in when I’m at home, and when I look under the counter, it is. I power off and wait for it to reboot. I don’t hear that low blender sound. I don’t hear anything. I hit the power button again, this time praying I’m not a victim of one of those apocalyptic viruses. I’ve got tons of irreplaceable information inside the soul of this computer. Nothing I do resuscitates it. I’m glad I have a backup disc at work.

  I walk down the hall to Isaac’s office. The tiles are cold on my bare feet. It amazes me how neat he keeps it in here. There’s a picture on one wall of giant redwood trees in Muir Woods in northern California. On another, a b
ulletin board with photos of his recent projects. I sit at his desk, a beautiful maple-colored door turned tabletop. I click on the browser and type in the last site I visited and hit ENTER. My site isn’t what comes up. My heart is pounding as I see before my eyes a screen full of color photographs and video clips of women giving men blowjobs and three and four of them piled on top of one man and some pleasing each other. I know this is a porn site, but I didn’t make a mistake when I typed. I close it and retype the same address. I don’t believe it when I see these same nasty people again! I do this a few more times, get the same results.

  I call my godson, who also happens to be my pretend nephew, John Jr., who also happens to be Bernadine’s son who goes to MIT. He’s a computer geek. I explain to him what just happened to my laptop and now this. “Sounds like Uncle’s browser’s been hijacked. Porn sites are notorious for doing this.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s kinda the norm.”

  “But what could’ve caused it?”

  “Well, it could be a virus, although I doubt that. I think Uncle’s been very busy checking out these sites.”

  “How would I know that?”

  Over the next fifteen or twenty minutes he talks me through a process that gives me access to temporary files which make it quite clear my husband has been having cybersex with hundreds if not thousands of women and the son-of-a-bitch has two names. He’s Isaac Hathaway to me. But EbonyKing to all these nasty bitches he’s been jerking off with and having virtual sex with via the little webcam attachment I gave him last Christmas. I’ve watched porn with Isaac and before I met him, but what I’m looking at takes it to a whole new level.

  My teeth feel cold. My fists ball up on their own. I yank open a file drawer and start rummaging through his credit card statements only to discover he’s a fucking Gold Card member. Not just on one site, but on quite a few others. To the tune of a few grand a month. I sit here for the longest, more pissed off than hurt, more disgusted than anything, trying to figure out how long he’s been doing this shit. It’s cheating, any way you look at it, except this feels much worse. It’s sneaky as hell. I wonder how Isaac would feel if he saw me masturbating in front of a webcam for men, or hell, how about other women? So this is what he’s been doing in here while I was sitting up in bed engrossed in a good book.

  I print out the home pages of twenty or thirty of these sites and Scotch-tape them on the walls of this freakazoid den Isaac’s been fronting as his home office. Without thinking about what I’m doing, I crawl under the desk, yank the plug out of the socket, carry the computer like a corpse through the great room, outside, right across this beautiful redwood deck he built, down the four steps and over to the pool, where I drop it into the deep end. This does not make me feel better.

  I dry off where I got splashed and sit on the edge of the bed for almost an hour. When the phone rings, I answer it like someone who’s just come out of surgery.

  “Savannah?” I hear Sheila say. She’s my baby sister. My only sister. I have two brothers. “Hey,” I say to Sheila in a cracked voice.

  “Girl, what in the world is wrong with you? Did somebody die?”

  “No. I just found out Isaac’s been visiting a bunch of porn sites for the longest and I’m a little pissed off.”

  “I hope this isn’t all you’re tripping about?”

  “If you saw the shit he’s been doing and how much money he’s been spending, I think you’d be a little more than pissed, too.”

  “Girl, all men spend money on porn sites. I’m grateful for ’em, if you want to know the truth. Saves me a lot of unnecessary energy. As soon as Paul thinks I’m asleep, I hear him tiptoeing down to the basement. I could care less.”

  “I’m filing for divorce.”

  “Not over this bullshit, Savannah. Come on.”

  “No. This is the cherry.”

  “Where is Isaac? You didn’t throw him out, did you?”

  “He’s at a trade convention in Vegas.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Savannah.”

  “Like what?”

  “You didn’t bust up his computer, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Is it still intact?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This silly shit shouldn’t even qualify as grounds for divorce. The judge would probably laugh at you in court.”

  “I’m also miserable.”

  “Most married people are miserable but that’s still no reason to get a divorce.”

  “I beg to differ with you, Sheila. Just because you and Paul have been living in marriage hell for twenty-something years doesn’t mean everybody can tolerate it.”

  “I love Paul and he loves me. We’ve had our share of problems but everybody does.”

  “Well, I can’t live like this anymore.”

  “Like what?”

  “Isaac isn’t just a freak, he’s also boring as hell.”

  “Paul is, too. Being boring is also not grounds for divorce. And hanging out—no pun intended—on porn sites doesn’t make him a freak.”

  “I’m bored, Sheila.”

  “Have you ever wondered if maybe you’re the one who’s boring? Look at all the great stuff he builds. Paul can barely snap Lego pieces together for our grandkids.”

  “Do you think I’m boring?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t live with you and I don’t know what you’re like in bed—hee-hee . . .”

  “Fuck you, Sheila.”

  “This is an issue in your house, baby cakes, not mine. I thank God for Viagra twice a month. And stop being such a prima donna, Savannah. It took more than half your life to find a man to marry, and Isaac is a good one. I know a lot of women who would love to have a husband like him.”

  “Then one can have him.”

  “I would cool my jets if I were in your shoes. You ain’t exactly Beyoncé—no offense.”

  “I know how old I am.”

  “It’s hard out there, Savannah. If you go through with this without really thinking about how you can save your marriage, you’ll probably end up regretting it.”

  “Did I ever tell you he voted for George Bush?”

  “I know you have got to be lying.”

  “He’s a fucking registered Republican!”

  “Tell me this is a joke, right?”

  “No, I’m dead serious.”

  “Now, this is grounds for divorce! I could not fuck a Republican let alone be married to one. He needs help.”

  I hear a click on the phone. “Oh Lord. Sheila, it’s Mama calling me on the other line. Don’t hang up.”

  I click her on. “Hi, Mama. How you doing? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine, but I had to call to tell you I had the weirdest dream last night about you and Isaac.”

  “I’m talking to Sheila right now. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “I’m on my way to see that Michael Jackson movie. Finding Never-land. You heard of it?”

  “Yes, Mama, I have.” I didn’t feel like telling her it was a British movie with Johnny Depp and Kate Winslet and Michael isn’t in it.

  “Anyway, I’m going with Sheila and those little bad-ass grandkids, so tell her to make sure they go to the bathroom first and don’t be late picking me up.”

  “I will, Mama.”

  “How is Isaac?”

  “He’s fine. Why would you ask?”

  “Because in my dream, you all were getting a divorce over something stupid but the dream didn’t give me no hints. You two doing all right?”

  “We’re good, Mama. Let me get back to Sheila so she can get over there on time. Love you. Talk to you later.”

  “What did she want?” Sheila asks. “I’m supposed to be walking out the door in a few minutes. The kids think this movie is about Michael Jackson’s ranch, and I’m not telling them any different! Anyway, you were saying . . .”

  “I was saying I know how hard it is out here. It was hard fifteen years
ago. I’m not letting this stop me from living my life.”

  “Oh, please. You’re half-a-damn-century old, Savannah, okay? You’ve had all the time in the world to live your damn life. Well, guess what? This is your life, and it’s not a bad one. You’re just never satisfied. That’s always been your problem. Enough is never good enough for you. Go ahead and say it.”

  “What?”

  “Fuck you, Sheila.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that. Go to hell, Sheila.”

  “And I love you, too. Can we change the subject real quick and then talk about your marriage or divorce tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have anything else to say about it.”

  “You know I’ve been having problems with GoGo, don’t you?”

  “How would I know that? What kind of problems?”

  “First, let me say this: Mama’s got a big mouth and you know if you want to keep your business to yourself, don’t even think about telling her.”

  “As if I don’t know this.”

  “And please don’t tell her about this, okay?”

  “Tell her about what, Sheila? Get to the damn point would you? You know Mama’s sitting in front of her window staring at the curb.”

  “I’m on my cell phone. To make a long story short. Hold on a minute. I’M COMING! GO GET IN THE CAR! WAIT! AFRICA, TAKE THE LITTLE ONES TO GO MAKE PEE-PEE FIRST. Anyway, you know GoGo just turned eighteen even though he’s in the eleventh grade, but you remember when I had to hold him back in kindergarten because he lacked social skills, right?”

  “No, I don’t, Sheila.” The truth is I don’t know which one GoGo is. I thought he was a she. Sheila and Paul have five or six kids. I can’t remember. I dare not ask what GoGo’s real name is.

  “Anyway, he’s been hanging around with the wrong crowd here and he got suspended for smoking weed, and I think he might be selling it or his girlfriend might be selling it, but I was kind of hoping maybe if he could come out there and spend a couple or three weeks, or part of the summer, with you and Isaac—but since Isaac may or may not be in the picture, maybe just with you. GoGo could be a big help around the house and keep you company. What do you think?”