Getting to Happy (30 page)

“Okay. Is this juicy? If so, I’m loving it!”

“Not even close. What are Thora’s boys’ names?”

“Oh, fuck. Those little monsters? I’m thinking. I know it starts with a ‘J’ but she should’ve named them Jason I and Jason II. Hold on a sec, Savannah, and let me ask Richard.”

In the rearview mirror, mixed in with my dry cleaning, I spot Isaac’s yellow shirt, black linen slacks and the mint green linen sports jacket I always loved him in. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked about them after all this time. I suppose I could call him and just tell him I’ll leave them with the receptionist or something.

“The little devils are Jake and Joshua. See you soon. Oh! Could you stop at Starbucks and pick me up a cappuccino? I’ll reimburse.”

“No problem, Sally.”

“Breve.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but it means they use half and half instead of milk.”

“You’re skinny. You can afford it.”

“Thanks.”

She didn’t bother to comment about me being thin, of course. As soon as I get over boredomitis—and now divorcitis—I intend to start taking much better care of myself.

I sneak into the studio and hand Sally her coffee and head back to my office. I actually broke down and bought one of those delicious apple fritter things because it was beckoning me. I also decided to try that breve drink. It was like an orgasm in a cup. (It’s been eight months.) I’m not getting into the habit of eating or drinking this stuff. Not even.

Oh-oh! Here they come. “Hi, Thora,” I say with feigned enthusiasm. She’s got them by their hands. They dash into my office, and just stand there and stare at me like they’ve never seen me or a black person before. Thora acts like she’s afraid of them. These kids think the world revolves around them, that they should get whatever they ask for when they ask for it. They don’t know or care what the word
no
means. Imagine what sort of men they’re going to turn into. The kind we end up marrying and divorcing.

“Say hello to Savannah, boys.”

“Hello, Savannah,” they say simultaneously. She should stop with the plaid shirts and those coverall shorts. And wash their sneakers or buy new ones, for crying out loud. Their pacifiers are hanging around their necks. I wish I could take the scissors I’m looking at and cut them off.

“Savannah, would you mind terribly if the boys stayed in here for a few minutes while I run to the ladies’ room?”

“No, I don’t mind.”

“Oh, before I forget. Jasper wants to know when we could set something up for you two to meet. Did you ever Google him?”

“I hate to admit it, but I haven’t gotten around to it. I did see the picture you sent. He’s a handsome man.”

“I’ll tell him we might be able to work something out soon. How’s that sound to you?”

“Foreign.” I haven’t figured out a polite way to tell her I’m not interested in meeting anybody yet. On the other hand, I also don’t know when you’re supposed to know.

“I think it’s exciting. Okay, boys, promise Mommy you’ll be on your best behavior until I get back?”

“We promise,” they say simultaneously. I find this to be spooky. They push those pacifiers into their mouths and start pressing the keys on my laptop.

“Please don’t touch those keys,” I say.

One lets his pacifier fall on his bib. “Why not? Mommy lets us!” “Because you could break it.”

“Then you get it fixed,” one says and shoves that pacifier back into his mouth.

“Why do such big boys like you still suck on pacifiers?”

“Because we like them.” They say this in sync.

“But I thought they were for babies.”

“We are babies,” they say together.

“I thought you were four years old.”

“We are. Four-year-old babies.” One speaks for both this time.

I didn’t dare ask about those pull-ups they still sleep in at night. When I started chuckling under my breath, they didn’t. I was thinking that if they’d had my mama for a mother, she’d have snatched those pacifiers out of their mouths as soon as they could say a whole word, thrown those things in the trash and dared them to cry.

Dilbert sets a stack of mail on my desk and salutes the twins. They lick their tongues out at him. He winks at me while shaking his head. He has a crush on me and about six other women who work here. Dilbert is old enough to be my grandfather. I wink back. The boys start flipping through my envelopes like they must do at home, and when I recognize the logo from my credit union, I pull it out, open it and read:

Dear Member:

Our records indicate one or more payments remain due for the loan shown above. Perhaps this matter was simply overlooked. As co-borrower, you are equally responsible for payments on this account. Please be advised that thirty day or more delinquencies become a part of your permanent credit file. As required by law, you are hereby notified that a negative report reflecting on your credit record may be submitted to a credit reporting agency if you fail to fulfill the terms of your credit obligation. This is an attempt to collect a debt. We thank you for giving this account the prompt attention it deserves. Please do not hesitate to call us at the number below.

Sincerely,

Asset & Recovery Department

“Oh no the hell you didn’t, Isaac!”

“That’s a bad word!” one of them says.

“Hell yeah it is!” the other one says, and they both start laughing.

Thora appears in the doorway. “I’m going to make the rounds with the boys, and they said they want to go to the park so it looks like I have to take them. Let’s talk next week about the domestic violence piece. We’ll stop by and say goodbye on our way out. Right, fellas?”

They just look at me over their shoulders as they leave. I want to lick my tongue out at them, but of course I don’t. I dial the number at the bottom of this letter. Of course I get a computerized voice who asks me to punch in my account number. When I hear how delinquent
my
loan is—three fucking months—I feel myself going ice cold. I don’t believe this son-of-a-bitch! Not once did it ever occur to me that Isaac would default on this loan. He knew that if he ever missed a payment, I, as the co-signer, would be the one stuck paying it. I feel like I could detonate.

I call him on his cell and am shocked to hear, “I’m sorry but that number is no longer in service. Please check the number you are calling and—”

I try not to slam the phone down and place it as gently as possible in the cradle but then snatch it back up and dial his mama. She answers on the first ring. “Hello, Teretha. This is Savannah. How are you?”

“I’m doing just fine. And yourself?”

“I’m doing pretty good. Look, it seems like your son has gotten some urgent mail I think he might want to know about. But his number’s been changed. Do you have his new one?”

“I sure do. He’ll probably be glad to hear from you. He’s not doing so well.”

“Is he sick?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it’s not his health. Can you give me the number now, Teretha, because I have to be somewhere in ten minutes.”

She rattles it off and I tell her another lie about taking her to lunch or something. I dial the new number. It rings twice. “How you doing, Savannah?”

“Not so good. You probably know why I’m calling, don’t you?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Why haven’t you been making the fucking payments on the loan?”

“Do you have to swear?”

“Yes, I do. Answer the fucking question, Isaac.”

“Because I’ve been having some financial difficulties.”

“I just lent your sorry ass three thousand dollars. What did you do with it that fast?”

“I had a few other pressing issues.”

“More pressing than your bills?”

“I got hurt.”

“Well, so did I, but I still pay my bills.”

“My back went out.”

“Sorry to hear that. Isn’t it always the back, Isaac?”

“I might end up being on disability for a while.”

“Did your fingers get hurt, too? Out of common fucking courtesy, why couldn’t you have picked up the phone and just told me you couldn’t make the payments? Huh?”

“Because I was trying to make them.”

“My credit union doesn’t count ‘trying’ as a payment, Isaac. Should I just add this to the long list of parting gifts? I thought we were going to be civil about this.”

“I’m trying to be civil, Savannah. There’s a chance I might end up being forced to retire.”

“Well, yahoo. Did you have to go to the hospital?”

“No.”

“Have you had an MRI?”

“No.”

“So what makes you think you might need to retire? Are you seeing a spiritual guide or something?”

“I could recover, but right now I just don’t know.”

“Hypothetically, do you really think at forty-nine you could actually retire, Isaac?”

“I don’t know. There may be other options. I’ll have to wait and see. I’m just trying to figure a lot of things out.”

“Well, join the club. What about your bills? How do they fit into your plans for the near future, huh?”

“I might have to file Chapter Seven.”

“File WHAT?”

“Look, you don’t have to yell, Savannah.”

“Let me ask you something, Isaac.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you still a Republican?”

There is a long silence. And then, “To be honest with you, Savannah, I don’t know what I am anymore.”

“Good luck figuring it out. I hate to say it, but I’m glad I divorced your sorry ass. It’s men like you who give the good ones a bad name. Have a good life.” I hang up, open my laptop and log on to FICO to see if my credit rating has changed. The first thing it says on top is: “Score Watch: Your score has dropped 36 points.”

My mouth drops another ten.

I jump up from my desk and walk out into the studio until I spot Thora. I don’t see the twins but I spot them in Sally’s office, taking turns drinking out of her Starbucks cup. “Thora, I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Remember when you told me about your flat in Paris?”

“I do, indeed.”

“And you said if I ever wanted to go you’d be happy to rent it to me.”

“I didn’t say
rent.
You’re welcome to stay there anytime. We have caretakers and would just need to give them a few weeks’ notice to get everything in tip-top shape. How soon would you like to go?”

“I wish I could go today but all I know is I need a fucking vacation so bad I can almost taste it.”

“Don’t let him get to you. They’re like ghosts who haunt you, but pretty soon he’ll have no effect on you whatsoever.”

“I’m waiting for that moment. Right now I feel like I need to do something or I’m going to explode.”

“Don’t we all? I’ll be honest, I love these boys to death but some days I wish to hell I could drop them off at daycare for about a month.”

“How long could I stay?”

“How long do you need?”

“A couple of weeks would help.”

“That’s all? Are you sure?”

“Well, how long do you think I could get off?”

“Are you kidding me? You can work from Paris. They’ve got the Internet over there, too. Duh.”

“Maybe I need to give this a little more thought.”

“Don’t think. That’s part of our problem. When we get to be our age we’re too fucking practical. Just go, and think about it once you’re on the plane.”

“You could be right, Thora.”

“Of course I am. Start brushing up on your French and get back in that office and book your flight and make sure it’s a non-refundable one so you won’t be inclined to change your mind. Wait. Is there any way you could squeeze in a coffee with Jasper before you leave?”

I want to say no but since she’s being so nice, I say, “Sure.”

She gives me a hug and then the boys appear out of nowhere and start tugging at her skirt.

“Thanks a million, Thora. Goodbye, boys. Hope to see you again soon.” I smile and wave and I can’t believe it when those little fuckers give me the finger! Where do they learn this stuff?

I book a fully refundable flight a month from now. Not because I think I might change my mind. Not even. But as is becoming more and more obvious to me: shit happens. Right now, my heart is pounding like crazy because I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I lean back in my chair and slowly rock until the confirmation lands in my in-box. It’s at this moment I decide not to tell my girlfriends, at least not until I’m almost packed. They’d probably freak out I’m going alone. But I need to go by myself. I need to hear myself think. Or not think. Mostly I just want to see if I remember who I am. And what I’m going to do about it.

Returns

“Yes, I’d like to return this dress,” I say to the cashier after taking it out of their nice shiny shopping bag.

She looks at my receipt. “You can’t return items after ten days. Sorry,” she says and hands it back to me.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s store policy.”

“But I’ve shopped here for years and I’ve never had any problems returning anything.”

“Well, I’ve worked here for ten years and it’s always been store policy.”

What a little bitch. First of all, it looks like everything on her body has been purchased and she still looks bad. Be nice, Robin, be nice. “As you can see, I haven’t worn the dress.”

“I can see that, ma’am. However, in order for me to accept it I have to be able to restock it, and I can’t do that after ten days.”

“Why not?”

“As I previously stated: it’s store policy.”

“Look, I paid two hundred eight dollars for this dress. Now it’s on sale for one forty-eight. All I want to do is exchange it so I can get it at the cheaper price.”

She looks bored. I would really like to slap her ass into next week, but I take my raspberry knit dress I absolutely love and walk down the aisle to a different register. This clerk is young and carefree. Her hair is black and green. Her minidress is orange and yellow. She looks like a toucan. And she’s cute. She’s also chewing gum, which is a very good sign.

“Hello,” I say in my friendliest “return” voice.

“Hello to you back. How may I help you today?”

“I have a return.” I hand her the dress and the receipt. She starts punching numbers on the cash register, tosses the dress on top of a pile of other returns, and hands me the receipt. “You’ll see a credit on your next statement. Anything else I can do for you today?”