Getting to Happy

by Terry McMillan

  “Okay, so I took half a Xanax.”

  “And we’re supposed to believe that? Come on, Bernie,” Savannah says.

  “You can’t still be taking those things,” Robin says.

  “Not all the time.”

  “What made you take it? What are you nervous about?” Robin asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Aren’t those things addicting?” Robin asks.

  “Why’re you taking them? What are you so stressed about?” Savannah asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why’d you take it?”

  “To relax. Sometimes I feel anxious.”

  “Don’t we all? What are you anxious about that you need to take a pill to relax?”

  They hear Gloria snoring.

  “Gloria! Wake your butt up!” Robin yells. “We didn’t even know you were back on the phone.”

  “I have to get up early,” she utters.

  “And do what? We know not to do anybody’s hair.”

  “I’m having a mammogram.” Gloria is not telling the truth. Her mammogram is a week from now. She just needed a good excuse to go back to sleep.

  “When was the last time you had one?” Robin asks Gloria.

  “Last year around this time.”

  “Has anybody had a colonoscopy or bone density test yet?” Savannah asks.

  “I haven’t,” Bernadine says, grateful the focus has shifted away from her. Again.

  “I know I should, and I will, but I haven’t,” Gloria admits.

  “Well, they say by the time we turn fifty, we make more trips to the doctor than anywhere else. I had a colonoscopy last year, and drinking that nasty stuff was the worst. You have to go like there’s no tomorrow, but you don’t remember a thing about the procedure. And it can save your life.”

  “A lot of things can,” Bernadine says.

  “Well, I don’t have to have another one for ten years, hallelujah. It’s almost time for my annual everything, which I usually do around my birthday so I don’t forget—which you guys all know is October fourteenth. As a little reminder I’ll accept any and all gifts, small and large, preferably large.”

  “That means we should look at fourteens, then, huh?”

  “Divorce fat sneaks up on you, Bernie, but I’ll lose it. Not to worry.”

  “We don’t have to look at your naked behind,” Robin says.

  “Apparently nobody does,” Savannah says. “And Lord knows when someone ever will.”

  “So what do you guys think about Onika being a lesbian?” Gloria asks.

  “A what?” Robin asks. “You can’t be serious.”

  “A lesbian?” asks Savannah. “How is it you know this and we don’t?”

  “I had to tell somebody.”

  “And you picked Gloria?”

  “I’m not the one with the big mouth, Savannah! It’s you who has to express her opinion about everything, Ms. Walkie-Talkie.”

  “Oh, really? But who just spilled the beans, Gloria?”

  “I thought you told all of us.”

  “I told you in confidence. So thank you very much, Gloria.”

  “You should’ve said that. But you’re welcome.”

  “It probably happened because she went to that all-girls college,” Robin says, like this was a math problem she just figured out.

  “You don’t catch it, Robin,” Savannah says. “I always had a feeling she might be.”

  “Sparrow told me she was but I didn’t believe her. That’s too bad, Bernie. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Thank you,” Savannah says. “Robin, you should know better. You’ve got a teenager who’s a little way out. Does that bother you?”

  “I’m used to her. And it’s who she is.”

  “And Onika is who she is. So shut up,” Savannah says.

  “Thank you,” Bernie says. “It doesn’t bother me in the least. Hiding it is probably worse than anything.”

  “So, does she have a girlfriend and everything?” Robin asks.

  “She does. I met her and she’s nice. And cute. Tall. Her name is Shy.”

  “I bet John isn’t happy about this, is he?” Robin asks.

  “She hasn’t told him yet,” Gloria says. “She will when she comes home for the summer. How’s that for accuracy, Bernie?”

  “Go back to sleep!” she says, laughing.

  “What about that little Taylor? How’s she doing?” Robin asks.

  “I don’t know, to be honest. I haven’t seen her much since her mother split.”

  “I almost wanna say this is a white thing, but I’m aware of a few black women who’ve pulled a disappearing act too,” Savannah says.

  “Okay, so back to us, ladies. We have yet to figure out where we’re going and when we’re going. Is that about right?” Robin asks.

  “I’m free on Tuesday,” Gloria says. “Hold it. Where is it we’re supposed to be going?”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie says.

  “Robin?” Savannah asks.

  “Well, you guys said Sedona was boring and everybody agreed the Grand Canyon is out.”

  “Savannah said Sedona is boring, not me. And I—”

  “Why don’t we just go to In-and-Out Burger, get a double-double with cheese and a basket of greasy fries—and I’d kill for one of those creamy vanilla shakes—and let’s call it a fucking day? I can do Thursday,” Savannah says.

  “I don’t eat red meat anymore,” Robin says. “Plus, I have an all-day meeting in L.A. on Thursday.”

  “When and why did you stop eating red meat? Never mind. Just eat the stupid cheese,” Bernadine says.

  “Can anybody do Friday?” Savannah asks.

  “It’s my mom’s seventy-eighth birthday so we’re going down to Tucson and I’m letting Sparrow drive part of the way, so pray for me.”

  “Onika and Shy are driving from Oakland, and I want to be home when they get here. I’m making gumbo.”

  “Please make enough for us, Bernie, please!” Savannah begs. “I’ll pay for my own crab if necessary.”

  “I’ll pay for everything,” Robin says.

  “I think you owe me twenty dollars, don’t you, Bernie?”

  “No! But no charge for you, big mouth.”

  “I think a little of your gumbo might help resuscitate me,” Gloria says. “I haven’t turned on the stove since that day. I’ve been eating nothing but takeout and frozen dinners.”

  “Well, that’s kinda obvious,” Robin says. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Yes you did, but it’s okay. I know I’m starting to look like a Thanks-giving turkey, but I’m just trying to get through this the best way I can.”

  “I hear you,” Savannah says. “Don’t pay any attention to Jane Fonda. She doesn’t understand a thing about grieving.”

  “Well, what’s your excuse, Savannah? You used to jog, you used to eat like you had some damn sense, and over the past year you’ve been slumming. What’s that about?”

  “Like I said, Robin, you don’t get it. I hope you meet somebody and get married and then they fucking disappoint you and you have to go through a divorce, and then maybe you’ll get it.”

  “That was cold, Savannah,” Bernie says.

  “You know I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Robin. Really.”

  “All is forgiven.”

  “Anyway, how is your mom doing, by the way?”

  “She’s fine. In good health. Sound mind. Her spirits are high. She walks every single day and even golfs.”

  “I’ve been wanting to learn how to golf like forever,” Savannah says. “We live where they have some of the most beautiful golf courses in the world.”

  “Then take lessons,” Gloria says.

  “Doesn’t it take a really long time to learn?” Bernie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Savannah says. “I’m not trying to win the fucking U.S. Open. I just want to learn how to hit that little ball in the hole and see what all the
hoopla’s about.”

  “Everybody who plays seems to get addicted,” Robin says. “My mom and dad golfed when I was a little girl.”

  “When do you plan on starting, Savannah?” Gloria asks.

  “After I lose ten pounds.”

  “There are a lot of overdeveloped people who golf.”

  “You go straight to hell, Robin. In a matter of months there will be less of me. And that’s a promise.”

  “Okay,” Gloria says. “I’ve just been listening to you guys yack like a bunch of old hens and I have not heard anybody figure out when we can get together, although I think we’ve pretty much covered everything else.”

  “You’re right, Gloria,” Robin says.

  “Well, it sure was good to visit and just run our mouths,” Savannah says. “So when will your DVD guys be coming back, Glo?”

  “I won’t know until they show up.”

  “Blockbuster Night’s at your crib this time, in case you forgot,” Bernadine says.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Savannah says.

  “You think you’ll be up for company?” Robin asks.

  “Look, as my mama has always said, ‘One monkey don’t stop no show.’ ”

  “That’s true,” Bernadine says, “but they damn sure know how to mess things up if they get out of the cage.”

  “Goodnight, ladies,” Gloria says and hangs up.

  “Take an extra Zoloft tonight,” Savannah says to Bernadine. “And keep your eye on the road, Robin.” She clicks off.

  “No more Xanax. Promise,” Robin says.

  “I promise,” Bernadine says, hoping to sound convincing but knowing she is lying through her teeth.

  Soap Opera Digest

  “You mean to tell me Marlena is still on Days of Our Lives?” Bernadine asks the TV as she stirs the roux for the gumbo. She really can’t believe this soap is still on. Then again, real life is pretty much one long soap opera when she thinks about it. She hasn’t watched one of these things since she was breastfeeding Onika. If she remembers correctly Marlena was the local shrink in Salem. She was pretty, soft-spoken and sensitive. But Marlena had her ups and downs. Over the years the poor thing was possessed by the devil twice. Fortunately an exorcism saved her. She’d had her identity stolen by her twin sister, who was sent back to the sanitarium. She’d been stalked and raped and held captive. She married the guy who saved her but then he died and she married a few more guys, including one who drugged her and one who put her in a coma for five years. Everybody thought Marlena was dead. Bernadine could relate. The last thing she remembers, Marlena somehow resurfaced. But then after having a miscarriage by one of her new husbands, she kind of freaked out and started suffering bouts of hysterical amnesia. When her first husband strolled back into town, the one she loved better than all the others, the one she thought had been shot down over enemy territory on some kind of mission, he was disappointed to learn that not only was Marlena happily married, she had no memory of him at all. Bernadine wishes she could be so lucky. Since making gumbo is an all-day affair, the absurdity of what Marlena and company will go through during the next hour will keep her entertained.

  Onika and Shy should arrive early this evening, and at the crack of dawn Sunday morning head on down to Tucson for their first day as camp counselors.

  She continues to stir. The roux is creamy white.

  “Marlena, you sure look good, girl. You haven’t aged a lick considering all you’ve been through.” Bernadine laughs for talking to the screen.

  She has already cracked and cleaned eight Dungeness crabs. They weighed close to three pounds each when she carried them home in the red Igloo. Right now, they’re boiling in a huge pot with cut up lemons. In about five minutes she will store them—except for the tiny claws, which are the cook’s treat—in giant Ziploc bags. She takes three different kinds of shrimp from the cooler: the tiny ones used mostly for salads and medium raw and jumbo frozen shrimp, which she will start shelling and save for the stock. Bernadine doesn’t like using fish heads and carcasses like her mother always did, nor does she use filé, because you can’t reheat it and it gets too stringy. She prefers to offer it at the table.

  Spread out on the island is just about everything she’s going to need: an array of herbs and spices, bottled clam juice, chicken stock (with no MSG), canned clams (which will take her a few minutes to clean, just to make sure there’s no sand in them), Cajun sausage and Louisiana hot links (which she will slice into small chunks and cook in the microwave, making sure to remove all the fat before putting them into the pot), frozen okra (which she will sneak into the pot because most folks don’t even realize it’s in there), canned Italian tomatoes and, last but not least, the “trinity”: onions, bell pepper and celery.

  It will take her three to four hours to finish making this gumbo—not that she minds—and over the next half hour she will finish her infamous roux: equal parts oil and flour, which she will put in the cast-iron skillet her grandmother gave to her mother, who gave it to Bernadine before she moved back to Boston. She will sit on a stool and watch Marlena smile or look upset, using a wire whisk to blend this mixture on medium heat and in continuous figure eights until it’s the color of root beer.

  All of this stirring and chopping and dicing and peeling is rather hypnotic, not to mention therapeutic, for Bernadine. She forgets about time when she cooks, especially when she knows it’s for other people. The kitchen is the one place she feels safest. She’s in control of what happens in here. Bernadine knows she’s a phenomenal cook. It’s her very own form of artistry, the one thing she never takes a pill to do. “What good is it doing me, Marlena?”

  She swirls the whisk. The roux is beige.

  Bernadine wishes she could cook entire meals for other people, not just desserts. One of her biggest fantasies is running a restaurant that has a changing tasting menu. She’s made up menus, cooked some of the dishes, taste-tested them and tossed the ones that didn’t make the cut out on the hill for the coyotes. The only reason she mentioned the progressive dinner party to her friends was to see if they would find it intriguing. One day soon she hopes to give some of these ideas her best shot.

  When the show is over, Bernadine reaches for the remote with her free hand and turns the TV off. Silence can be nice. The roux is now the color of nutmeg. She notices the cooler is leaking. “Damnit!” If she stops stirring, the roux will burn and she’ll have to start all over. Bernadine watches the water form a slow canal along the baseboard. She regrets putting in these stupid hardwood floors, although back in the eighties, it was the hip thing to do.

  If Bernadine stays in this house, one of the first things she intends to do is replace them with tile. The upstairs air conditioner is temperamental. The irrigation system has a leak that has been causing water to trickle down the curb for over a year, which explains why her bill has been so high. To remedy this problem is a mere twenty thousand dollars because they have to dig up and then replace most of the landscaping in the front yard, which isn’t even included in this price. And then there’s the issue of transportation. Her black Tahoe is seven years old, seems to be graying, and is one minute away from needing dialysis.

  She is surprised to hear the front door open, because Onika and Shy aren’t due in for at least a couple of hours. The door locks automatically and only a few people have a key. She keeps stirring. “Is that you, O?”

  Taylor appears in the doorway. “Nope, it’s me, MomMom.” She walks over and gives Bernadine a kiss on the cheek. “Gumbo! Yes! Talk about good timing!”

  “What brings you here, Taylor? And how’d you get up here?”

  “I drove.”

  “You did what?”

  “It’s fine. I didn’t kill myself or anybody and I didn’t wreck anything unless you count that hearse.” She has the nerve to giggle. Maybe when she gets those braces off a year from now she’ll come into her own. She must have about forty teeth, all struggling for attention. Taylor has that mixed-race hair: frizzy-curly,
dusty brown or dirty blonde, depending on how you look at it. She’s tall and lanky for fourteen and a half. She’s among the unfortunate mixed-race children who got too many genes from one parent and not enough from the other. She is sweet, though, which makes her cuter than she is.

  “Before you totally freak out, MomMom, I need a tampon so badly. Can I run upstairs and get one out of your bathroom?”

  “I haven’t used a tampon in two years and counting.”

  “Oh, in case you didn’t know it, the doorbell’s not working. . . . Why not?”

  “I’ve been finished with all that.”

  “You mean as in menopause?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you’re not that old.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m old as dirt, just cleaner. Anyway, check Onika’s bathroom.”

  Before she turns her attention back to the now perfectly brown roux, Taylor flies up the stairs, and seconds later she’s back. “Super,” she says. “Did you know there’s water on the floor?”

  “I’ve been watching it travel but I couldn’t stop what I was doing.”

  “I’ll clean it up.” She runs to the laundry room and brings back an armful of rags.

  “Where’s your father, Taylor?”

  “At work, where else? Please don’t call him yet. Please!”

  “Are you standing here telling me you drove all the way over here on your own?”

  She nods. “I can’t live with my dad, MomMom. I just can’t. Things are so screwed up in our house. He’s never there, and then let’s throw in my slutty mom who bails on her own kid just so she can get screwed by some British guy.”

  “Hold up, little girl,” Bernadine says, adding the trinity to the roux and making sure it’s thoroughly mixed in. “I’m not going to stand here in my kitchen and let you call your mother a name like that.”

  “Then what should I call her?” Taylor is on her hands and knees, swishing the wet rags into a pile.

  “What you’ve been calling her: Mom.” Bernadine pours the roux into the hot stock waiting for it in the pot. Not taking her eyes off the contents, she watches the brown liquid begin to thicken.

  “Would you mind putting those rags in the laundry room sink, please?”