Getting to Happy (3 page)

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 bulletin 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?”

I love my sister to death but she always puts me on the spot like this. If I said no, she’d be pissed or disappointed. I’m not in any position to be thinking about having my nephew whom I don’t even know, who also happens to be a pothead, coming for a summer stint. I don’t know how to talk to kids, let alone teenagers. “Let me deal with my marriage issue first, Sheila, and then let me think about if and when it might be a good time for GoGo to come out.”

“That’s cool. Have you ever thought about counseling?”

“We tried it. Counseling only works if both people want to save their marriage. I don’t.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid when he gets home. Cut the man a little slack, Savannah. Could you try to do that?”

“I’ll try,” I say. “And could you please try to keep
your
big mouth shut?”

“I’m the Ziploc queen. Love you, Sis.”

Before I can put the phone in the cradle, it rings in my hand. It’s Isaac. “You made it.”

“I did and I’m beat. Traffic was bumper to bumper for almost two hours. That’s why I’m just getting around to calling. Is everything going all right?”

“My laptop crashed.”

“For real? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Would you mind if I used yours?”

“I think I might have a virus. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t. Why would you think that?”

“Every time I try to visit any website, it keeps taking me to these porn sites.”

“Why would you think it’s a virus that’s causing it?”

“What else would make it do this?” he asks. “I wouldn’t chance it.”

“Then I won’t bother.”

“You do have a backup disc at work, don’t you?”

“Thank God. What about you, Isaac. Do you have one?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You should,” I say. “You just never know when you might need it.”

Making the Cat Walk Backwards

“Mom, you should sign up for one of those online dating sites, because at the rate you’re going, you’re never gonna get laid ever again in life, and you’re not even like completely over the hill or anything,” Sparrow says to me out of nowhere.

Most mothers would be shocked to hear this coming out of their daughter’s mouth, but sometimes Sparrow acts like she’s my mother. We’re best friends, and talk about most everything. This topic, however, is off-limits. I ignore my daughter’s comment and just keep my eyes on the non-traffic as I back out of the driveway. We’re on our way to the DMV so she can take the test for her learner’s permit. She turned fifteen and a half this morning. She will take the driving test on Thursday, June I6, 2005: six eternal months from today. The only time these kids wait longer than twenty-four hours is if their birthday falls on a weekend.

“Mom, did you catch what I just said?”

“I’m not deaf, Sparrow. My love life and my sex life are none of your business. Put your seat belt on.”

“I’m very aware of that, Mom,” she says, and clicks it in place. “But it’s not normal to live the way you do.” She crosses her arms.

It’s true, times have changed. Twenty years ago, I couldn’t go more than two weeks without having some kind of orgasm, and feeling desperate wasn’t even a concern. I’d just pick one out of a lineup and call it a night. Back then we also didn’t have to worry about AIDS or vaginal dryness. What my daughter doesn’t know is I’ve been so preoccupied raising her and working long hours so she could take ballet and karate and now violin (which she happens to be getting quite good at), and trying to make sure my mom stays comfortable in that facility down in Tucson, that I forgot all about romance. I can’t even remember the last time I was in love. I also can’t believe I’ve never been married, when just about everybody I know has been divorced at least once. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s too late. If it is, it seems unfair that all the good stuff only happens to you when you’re young.

I find myself gripping the steering wheel a little harder than necessary. “So tell me what’s normal in the teenage world, these days?” Not that I’m blind. I just want to hear how she sees it. I already know she’s done it. It’s hard to stop them. Plus, after showing me a handful of colored condoms a couple of months ago, Sparrow came right out and told me: “Mom, I know you don’t want me to do this yet, and I’ve tried not to, but it was difficult, almost impossible to say no, so I’m trying to be smart about it. Please don’t worry, okay?” I wanted to slap her back to twelve, but I couldn’t/didn’t. I simply asked her who she’d been intimate with, praying it was
just
the one boy, Gustav, she’d been so crazy about for six consecutive weeks.