Self-Esteem (17 page)

“It’s a hoax. It’s just a hoax,” Crawford said.

It didn’t look like a hoax
.

Crawford picked up the phone.

I’ll call the police. Just call the police.

I’ll tell them about the tape
.
Tapes? Do I tell them about the tape last night?
He was about to punch 911, then he paused.
Or I’ll tell them I’m being harassed
.
But then you have to tell them about the tape
.
Both tapes. Or I’ll tell them to check on Jenny Harper
.
I’ll just start with Jenny. I’ll see if it’s a prank first
. Then he looked at the empty box on his desk. He grabbed it and looked inside. Nothing — just empty.
The other package. The package addressed to Dorothy.
He tore off the anonymous wrapping. It was a picture frame. A cheap frame. He turned it over.
A black and white photograph.
One of Crawford and Jenny outside her apartment. Crawford’s face became a furious grimace. Jenny’s mouth was open, apparently firing back. Her eyes were filled with despondency and fear.
When was this?
There was a note tucked inside the frame and Crawford opened it. It was typewritten, like on an old typewriter.

Dear Mrs. Crawford,

A little something for your self-esteem.

“God damn it!” Crawford yelled out loud.

The amount of work a prank like this would take was beyond the level of Berry and Scott. But who was it and what did they want? If it was a hoax then Jenny would have to be in on it, which would be very unlikely.

Or would it? Do I know her? Do I really know her? She was angry, very angry. And what do I do now?

Crawford looked at the phone again. He looked at the numbers 9-1-1.

“They’ll think you did it,” he said to himself. “They’ll think you’re cracked.”
You’ll have to tell them you’ve been having an affair with the woman in the video. There’ll be some big guy who blows smoke in your face and wants to know where you’ve been the last several days. And you’ve been drunk the last several days! You saw her when? You can’t remember. You had a fight. About what? I was ending the affair. I think I was ending the affair. I need to get sober. My wife is going to leave me.

And you’re the guy who wrote them books that tell people how to live? this hulking brute of a cop asks before he goes out into the hall grinning like a panting dog and calling his drinking buddy who writes for a small-time tabloid.

And what do I do?

Crawford couldn’t even trust himself to make a decision, especially not without a drink.
Impulse
. Crawford grabbed the tape and photograph and went upstairs. He couldn’t risk waking Dorothy, so he retrieved some clothes that were in the guestroom next to his bedroom — a pair of dark, pleated slacks and a white Oxford shirt that had been retired because of the sweat stains under the arms. He got dressed quietly then grabbed his briefcase from the downstairs hall closet and put the tape and photograph inside.

What am I doing? I need a drink. Without one…

When the previous night’s alcohol started to ebb in his system, Crawford would feel like his soul was being taken away from him and he would have none of that now.

“There’s comfort in accomplishment,” Crawford had written in
Self-Respect
. “It’s soothing to be doing. You have won when you are done.”

During the last week of his last year in the master’s program in clinical psychology, Crawford was tired, having stayed up for five days straight writing and rewriting his thesis. He’d stayed pretty drunk the whole time — sipping from a flask of bourbon as he typed — but was still able to write a pretty decent paper. Back in those days, he had an old manual typewriter that he’d inherited from his Uncle Jerry — a little appliance Crawford favored over a fancy-shmancy electric job. As he put it, “I have a lot in common with this thing. We can both take a shot of whiskey in the gut and still dry out and keep working.”

Crawford often said his thesis had taken two years to research and write, but the truth was he had researched many topics on and off for two years — writing countless notes and endlessly reading journals — without having written a single sentence of submittable text. The reasons for his procrastination were many: time spent studying for the comprehensive exam (that was the excuse he gave to others, though he rarely studied), frequent changes in his argument, general laziness, drunkenness, and more drunkenness and laziness. The biggest problem, he knew, was fear.

His final argument was very simple, but it was also a great deal more unusual than those being presented by students (like himself) specializing in therapy and not assessment.

At the time, there were all kinds of new methodologies. Clinical psychology is all about method, and those who want to be pioneers try to forge ahead with a brand new method that will change the discipline, or they suggest revising an old one to make it more effective. If you had guts, you’d come up with a new therapy. Wimps went the interpretation route, or worse, emphasized procedure.

It was highly unusual for anyone to write a master’s thesis proclaiming a new therapy. This was something people did for their doctoral dissertations, and rarely ever then. Usually psychologists wrote about new therapies long after their PhDs were completed and then after years (and sometimes decades) of additional research. But for Crawford it was partly a joke and partly a fantasy to be the “father” of a new therapy. Besides booze, what gave Crawford the confidence to take such an intrepid jump was the inspiring attitude of his unorthodox, nonconformist advisor Dr. Tony Watkins. More of a die-hard evolutionist than a psychologist, Watkins hated unoriginality more than anything. The bearded old Southerner, looking a bit like Darwin himself, believed that as man progressed, so too must his approach to therapy. Crawford found it odd that Watkins never came up with his own therapy, just a few undistinguished papers on how to approach theory.

“When are you going to write your manifesto?” Crawford once asked him in class.

“Manifesto? That’s for you all to do,” he once said. “I’m just a teacher. I studied to be a teacher, so I’m going to teach. If I quit teaching, I’ll be an actor and do the great works of Shakespeare on the stage,” he joked. “The day I come up with my own therapy is the day I’ve lost my mind.” It was a humble edict for a man who held such high standards for his students.

Despite Watkins’ values he was surprisingly flexible. When Crawford requested to change his thesis topic, Watkins gave approval both times without a fuss. His first was called “Clinical Depression and the Benefits of Masturbation Therapy.” Crawford had once read an article claiming that frequent masturbation helps prevent prostrate cancer. The theory said the practice purged the gland of carcinogens and, perhaps, made the cells more resistant. Armed with only a gym sock and a Farrah Fawcett poster, Crawford did the clinical trials single-handedly and came to the conclusion that masturbation actually helps depression, which in turn helps the body fight disease. A problem popped up, however, when it came to suggesting the actual therapy. After brief consideration, he realized there was no way he could produce a 25,000-word document on jacking off. He also had trouble finding anyone willing to participate in the research. Watkins loved the idea, but didn’t complain when Crawford wanted to change direction.

His second proposal was called “Sanction Therapy,” a “pre-therapeutic therapy” that tackled the idea of whether or not a patient needs to give himself permission to heal before he goes through the healing process. Crawford never submitted a formal written proposal to Watkins, who later called his pitch “a pre-proposal.” But the idea was enough to keep Watkins hungry for more.

The third proposal turned out to be a charm. Watkins appeared to like the idea more than Crawford, but Crawford knew, at the very least, it was a more research-worthy topic than masturbation. In other words, it would be easier for him to bullshit his way through. The proposal was also vague enough to leave him breathing space on just about every aspect of the paper — structure, style, and (most importantly) content. Crawford was probably more surprised than anyone that he was able to write the 78-page document as fast as he did, especially since he made almost all of it up as he went along.

When he typed the last words on a Friday afternoon, it was time to celebrate. And celebrate he did, until his binge came to an abrupt end on Monday morning when he got an unexpected call from Jay Berry.

The morning air seeped through the crack Crawford had opened on the driver side window. The breeze and the passing scenery were just enough to wake his senses from his day-old hangover.

He grabbed the car phone and punched at the numbers.

The phone was finally picked up and rustled across some unknown surface. “Hello?”

“Lee?”

After a sigh, “Who the hell is this?” He was still half-asleep. “What the hell time is it?”

“I have to see you.”

“Jim?”

“I have to see you.”

“You want to see me
now
?”

“I have to see you.” Crawford raised his voice just a little. “Now.”

“Now?”

Crawford was winding through the dark curves of the Valley-side Hills, an exclusive neighborhood notoriously populated by pornographers, rap stars, and B-list actors. Crawford felt his fear momentarily overridden by anger, an emotion that popped up every time he was within five miles of Lee’s home. It wasn’t that Lee was wealthier than he was or that Lee lived in a bigger and nicer home. It wasn’t that Lee lacked worries and personal problems. What angered him was Lee’s control over Crawford, including his nagging conviction that Crawford needed to get his shit together so he could make Lee even more money. Of course, Lee always used the word “we.”

“If you could increase your output a bit,” he once said nonchalantly, “we could be doing much better. Think about it.”

Crawford felt his publisher’s pressure to exploit the self-help obsessed public was one of his greatest hurdles in improving his own life. Lee, unlike Dorothy, wasn’t concerned with Crawford’s problems. And as Crawford saw it, he should be. Who the hell was he not to be concerned? Weren’t those the things a friend cares about? Then Crawford got in touch with his most rational self. He might just be jealous of Lee. Maybe he just resented Lee’s ability to let go of his fears and insecurities and just worry about getting richer. Crawford thought that Lee’s outlook might be something to aspire to.
Maybe
.

Probably not, though
.

Lee lived in a giant mock art-deco home built in the 1960s that hid behind a tall, slender line of shrubs. The roof was the only part of the structure visible from the road, which lent the property a fashionable secrecy. It wasn’t anonymity that Lee loved. It was the prestige of anonymity. If you are trying to stay out of the public eye, chances are you do so for good reason, and to Lee that was very hip.

Crawford stopped his car in front of the large iron gate, which had a gaudy “LB” written in large, baroque lettering. Lee wasn’t trying to hide from anyone. Nearly every time Crawford waited for Lee to pick up the intercom, he felt patronized by the letters’ gaze.

The front gate opened with a sharp buzz and Crawford drove through. Lee was standing on the front steps in his bathrobe, arms akimbo, revealing, even from a distance, that he was displeased with this unexpected visit.

Crawford slowly pulled the car up to the front of the house and Lee angrily motioned for him to turn off his lights.

“Damn it, Jim,” he said approaching the car. “Don’t wake my kids up. It’s five o’clock in the morning, you know.”

Of course he’s pissed, Crawford thought.
He doesn’t know about the tape yet.

Crawford got out of the car holding his briefcase close.

Lee put a hand on his hip and thought how this better not be about Crawford’s contractual obligations, in particular the Hershey show. “What the hell is it, Jim? Is this about the Hershey show?”

“No, Lee,” Crawford said. “Can we go inside?”

Lee rolled his eyes then shook his head. “What is it now?” he mumbled. “I feel like I’m your fucking psychiatrist.”

The interior of Lee’s home grated with its exterior. The straight lines and lack of right angles on the outside suggested a minimalism to be found on the inside that wasn’t there. The strange hodgepodge of styles started with a foyer of uncouth white light and gold fixtures — a recurring irritant when Crawford was hung over. But this time he wasn’t paying much attention to Lee’s style crimes. There was a real crime to discuss.

“A tape? What are you talking about?”

“You have a VCR in your office, right?”

“No VCR. Why?”

“The den then?”

“What is it now, Jim?” Lee looked at a modern grandfather clock sitting in the front hall and sighed. “It’s five in the morning.”

“You have one somewhere? You have a VCR somewhere, right?” Crawford asked with the tape in hand.

Lee laughed to himself then led Crawford into his den. “A tape. A videotape? You got me up at five in the fucking a.m. to show me a videotape? Yeah, I’ve got one, but I don’t even know if it works. I switched to DVD a year ago. Haven’t you?”

“It’s serious, Lee.”

“Serious? What is it? A murder or something?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Lee froze. “Really?”

Crawford took a deep breath. “I think so.”

Lee laughed. “What? You killed someone and videotaped it. Is that it?”

“No, Lee.”

“Good. ‘Cause if you did, you could have waited until later to show me.”

“Just sit down.”

“The old thing is in the cabinet under the TV,” Lee said pointing.

The look on Crawford’s face was serious — resolute, almost confident. Lee was therefore a little more respectful. “Okay,” he said sitting in front of the TV. “Show me.”

Crawford turned on the TV and pushed in the tape. It needed rewinding. “Look. Someone’s been calling me at home and on my mobile phone. And then someone sent me a videotape yesterday.” Crawford took a deep breath. “It has some guy dressed like Happy Pappy.”