Self-Esteem (21 page)

Darrin walked slowly but with certainty, reviewing the place as if he were a safety inspector hoping to shut it down.

“You know what’s weird, Cal?” he said slowly. “This used to be a garment factory where a bunch of Chinese immigrants worked. It was a sweatshop. And the guy that ran the place padlocked all the workers inside so they couldn’t take breaks in the alley. One day the place caught fire and burned all the people inside. Thing is, they say you can hear all these people crying at night. Like all their ghosts still live here and they’re trying to get out.”

“Who says that?” Cal looked down at the floor. A small area looked recently swept; it didn’t have the debris that covered the rest of the floor. Then he saw a giant stain — a giant bloodstain. “Darrin, where’d you meet this guy?”

“On the Internet, why?”

Cal followed the narrow stain to a dark area on his right. Cal squinted to see what was there, dark skinny figures huddling in the corner.

A camera? On a tripod? Stage lights?

Then it was dark.

Dorothy got dressed wondering what would be the best way to tell Jim she wanted a divorce. Or did she want a divorce? Should I threaten him first? she thought. Or would a mere verbal threat not be taken seriously? Should she retain a lawyer, even while just considering it, or would that be too much of a declaration?
And have things gotten so bad that I should do that?

Dorothy knew she had to do something. She knew that when Jim disappeared in the afternoons he wasn’t just going to the beach to meditate, as he once told her. Sometimes her anger would rise and fall with no perceptible motivation at all. One minute she would be cussing him out, the next saying she was sorry — all without him actually being there. This had driven her crazy for years. But the pattern had shown an unusual one-sidedness recently: she was starting to condemn more than forgive. And what made it serious — for her marriage in particular — was that it felt good.

“He would be lying in the gutter right now without me,” she said turning on the coffee grinder. “Maybe he needs to try the gutter lifestyle for a while. Then he wouldn’t take me for granted.”

And that’s how Dorothy felt — taken for granted.
Think about it.
Who had put so much love into Jim’s career? She had. Who had put so much love into staying fit and attractive so her spouse could be proud at social gatherings? She had. Who had put so much love into the beautification of their home? She had. And for what? Money? She didn’t care about money — only about nice things. And gosh darn it, Jim wasn’t a nice thing these days.

“Yes, perhaps I need to look into obtaining counsel,” she said to her reflection in her die cast stainless steel digital control coffeemaker. “And I need to get some better coffee. This coffee isn’t even organically grown.”

The Beverly Hills Yellow Pages was filled with the Bergs and Steins of divorce law, and she knew any of them would be pleased as punch to represent her — even without knowing that the words “prenuptial agreement” had never been spoken between her and her husband.

“You need someone who will play hardball,” one advertisement read. “A true scrapper who knows California law and who is willing to…”

Jeez Louise. Such aggression. Such hostility. I want to be diplomatic.

“We negotiate child support, alimony, and other matters as professionally as possible.”

Too straightforward. Too dull. I need someone down to earth.

“High-profile divorce is our specialty. We can handle the press like no other law firm, leaving you free…”

Sounds like they’re star struck. I don’t want star struck. This should be very low-profile.

“We know when and how to throw mud.”

My God. Nasty. I don’t want mud involved.

“We understand that you are devastated, and we can help.”

Bullshit sympathy. Heads tilted sideways as they’re seeing dollar signs. I don’t want that.

“We provide references to psychotherapy professionals who specialize in divorce-related depression and psychosis.”

This sounds interesting. Divorce therapists. I didn’t know. But that might antagonize Jim even more, getting therapy through my divorce attorney. I just don’t know.

“Our founding partner is the author of
The Sexy Prenup: the hot way to…
”

Prenup. I don’t have a prenup.

Those words rang out like
there’s no place like home
. It was liberating how it echoed in her mind: no prenup… nup… nup… nup.
Maybe I can just represent myself in all of this. Yes. Maybe I can just get a book or something and fill out all the papers myself and show them to Jim and tell him I’m serious. That will be enough of a threat. No, not a threat, a stand, yes. A real stand. By myself. And there won’t be a big line in the sand that a lawyer would draw. “My client, blah, blah, blah.” I can do this myself, like the time I painted the lawn furniture. I really can. I always wanted to go to law school, sort of. But I don’t even need law school. There’s no prenup after all. I could get as much as I wanted all by myself. Yes. And I would feel even better.

She stopped herself a moment.
It was meant to be.
Dorothy looked through her purse and pulled out something Jim had given her as a token peace offering a few months ago: a gift card for fifty dollars at a bookstore. Maybe he gave me this card for a reason, she thought. Maybe he was crying for help. Maybe he wants me to buy a book on divorce. Maybe if I threaten to divorce him it will help him find himself, and if he’s already aware of this subconsciously…

Dorothy went upstairs to get dressed.

Not a bad idea.

“And I can pick up some organic coffee while I’m out.”

“Hey buddy.”

The amount of time Crawford had been drinking in Sharkey’s was unclear, but however long it was he was now about to pass out. He was leaning on the bar with his chin on his forearm, his eyelids slowly moving up and down like the sea at low tide, when the bartender tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey buddy.”

Crawford’s eyes snapped open; he looked almost offended he’d been touched.

“What?” he said slowly. “What d’ya want?”

“Hey, don’t you think you should head home?”

“Home?” Crawford mumbled. “What the hell is that?”

There was a soft thud — a peculiar thud — and the bartender looked past Crawford out the window. Then another thud. Then another.
Bump, bump, bump, bump
.

“Oh shit,” the bartender mumbled.

“Earthquake?” Crawford looked out the window and saw a lime green 1978 Cadillac sedan with heavy detailing — shiny spiked rims, florescent lights, the whole nine yards. It was garish as hell, but more menacing than anything.

“What is it?” Crawford asked.

Three young black men dressed in black hip-hop baggy pants, pullovers, and knit caps got out of the car.

“Fuckin hell, that’s what,” the barkeep said.

The door creaked open and the three men coolly walked in the bar like they owned the place. One guy wearing dark sunglasses walked ahead of the rest. He surveyed the room then looked at the bartender like they owned him too.

“Rakim. How are you?” the bartender asked with a nervous rub of his forehead.

The man sat down next to Crawford, his two henchmen taking seats to his left. “Just give us a fuckin’ round,” he said. “You know what we havin’.”

Crawford watched the bartender put three short glasses on the bar and fill them with ice like his life depended on it. Peeking over his dark sunglasses, Rakim looked over his right shoulder and examined Crawford closely. Crawford tried to ignore him.

“Hey, man,” the young man said.

Crawford kept looking straight ahead.

“Hey, man,” he said again.

“Yeah?” Crawford said without looking.

“Do I know you?”

“I hope not,” Crawford said.

While Dorothy sat on the bed getting dressed, she thought about her mother’s reaction to Jim after taking him home for Thanksgiving.

“This isn’t serious, is it?” her mother asked her during a phone conversation the following week.

“It’s pretty serious,” she said with obstinate enthusiasm. “Don’t you like him?”

Her mother responded gravely, surprisingly so. “I just think he’s not the right kind of guy for you, not for the Dorothy I know.”

The Dorothy her mother knew couldn’t believe her mother’s bluntness but nevertheless took it in stride. Her mother was very protective and had never liked any of her previous boyfriends.

Dorothy tried to sound confident, like an adult: “Well maybe now I’m a different person — different in a few ways.”

“Okay. Like how?” she asked.

“Mother! Why are you pressing this?”

“Because I love you, that’s why. I’m your mother. I’m supposed to give you advice on these things.”

“This is advice?” From her second story apartment, Dorothy had her eyes trained on the walkway in front of the building, eagerly keeping an eye out for her handsome new lover.

Her mother didn’t know what to think of her romantic excitement nor the stubborn rebellion in her voice. “You sound to me like you know what I’m saying is true,” she said.

Dorothy decided to give up — something she did often with her mom. “Mom. I have to go.”

“Then you’re mad?” her mother asked.

“No. I have to go.” Dorothy saw Jim coming up the walk with a bottle of wine under his arm. “Really, Mom…”

“Okay, okay,” she conceded.

“We can talk about this later,” Dorothy said.

Yes, we’ll talk about this later, her mother often thought as she listened to Dorothy’s tearful monologues of regrets and misgivings over the years.

Dorothy’s mother still lived in San Bernardino County, and Dorothy’s best gauge of how her marriage was to count the number of times “Upland, California” appeared on the phone bill. During her worst moments, Dorothy could pick up the phone and resume a conversation she had ended days ago.

“This is it,” she said to her mother with no introduction whatsoever.

Her mother knew exactly what she meant. “I see,” she said contentedly.

“I can’t take this any longer.”

“Take what? What has he done?”

“I can’t talk about it. I’ll just say he’s not here. I’m going to wait until Cal comes home, and then we’re both coming over. I don’t know how Cal’s going to react, but please handle it, whatever he does.”

“And Jim?”

“Out getting drunk, I guess. I don’t know where he is.”

“Dorothy, should I make dinner for tonight? For you and Cal?”

“No. Just wait. I’ll call you later, mother,” Dorothy said, looking at her suitcase on the bed. Perhaps there was still a Dorothy her mother didn’t know.

“I could make a nice pot roast,” her mother said.

The smell was strange, like something he’d smelled a long time ago, perhaps while on a camping trip when he was younger. It was that wet kind of smell, like after it rains, but in an old wooden building or something.

After Cal tried to move, he no longer thought about the smell. There was a sharp pain on his right shoulder, right at his neck. He was lying on his side, resting on his left arm, and when he moved he could tell the floor was wet.

His temple began to throb, then he reached up to touch his forehead. It also was wet.

Is it blood?

He felt like he’d been struck on the head, but he couldn’t remember. The room was dark, with just the outline of light coming from what looked like a large door.

He started to remember the day: skipping school, the neighborhood, the smell, the buildings, the warehouse. And he remembered Darrin. And something about some coke, picking it up, running it across town.

“Darrin,” he said as if he’d just awoken. Then louder, “Darrin. Darrin! Where are you?” he cried.

Cal tried to move again, this time realizing his feet were bound together. He swung his body from his hips and heard the sound of a chain rattling across the floor. He was chained to something.

“Darrin! Darrin, help! Fuckin’ help me, man!”

The door cracked open, throwing a shaft of light on Cal. It opened further and a silhouette appeared at the door.

“Darrin?”

“Cal?” It was a strange, low voice.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The figure was motionless. Then it said… “Be kind to yourself.”

That voice: the one he tuned out in the morning with loud music. Cal could now see the person had a large hat on.

Then he saw the large nose, the pipe.
Oh, God what is this?
Cal put his hands beneath him and tried to pull away. “Who the fuck are you! Where the hell is Darrin?”

“Be a friend to yourself, Cal,” he said, stepping into the light, his exaggerated features eclipsing the glare. Cal thought he must have been dreaming. “Be a friend to yourself,” he said again, turning away. “Little prick.”

Entree Vous Books was Dorothy’s favorite bookstore, a locally owned place that stuck out among the run of the mill corporate retail shops in the area. To Dorothy, the experience of being surrounded by millions and millions of words, along with a small but charming coffee shop, had a way of making her feel smarter. She had read
Pride and Prejudice
and
Wuthering Heights
, and had attempted
Anna Karenina
before giving up a respectable third of the way through, but she always found literature too nebulous and demanding, and preferred short non-fiction that was written to make the reader a happier and healthier person. No, she wasn’t well versed in the classics, but at Entree Vous it didn’t matter. She loved walking past the James Crawford collection, admiring the beautiful hardcover editions with the free bookmarks that had Jim’s face at the top. In fact, even though she never said this to her husband, the
Self
Series
books were some of her favorites.

Dorothy was embarrassed knowing she was there this time to browse the legal section — specifically the divorce section — and decided to browse the other sections until she happened upon her objective.