Self-Esteem (27 page)

And besides, Crawford’s major consideration hadn’t been the book — not for the book’s sake. It was his newborn son, Calvin. Without saying a word, baby Cal demanded more, and things had to improve and improve soon.

Cal’s birth was the one event in Crawford’s life that made it more difficult to drink than to stay sober. Peering down at the little boy’s tiny hands and feet, being slapped in the face with the fragility of his infancy and the responsibility that it demanded, made it almost impossible for Crawford to sashay out the backdoor and into a bar. Dorothy’s resultant happiness, her deep love of her child along with her renewed love of her husband, gave her a gentle disposition that Crawford couldn’t allow his drinking to thwart. It was best, Crawford believed, to at least give the
appearance
of a father trying to improve things for his family. And that’s when he decided that he must produce a quality pop psychology book. Whether or not “quality pop” amounted to something of genuine value was of little consequence at the time. Even buying a new baby carriage was not an insignificant purchase for Jim and Dorothy’s combined income, and it was time for Jim to roll up his sleeves and earn some good hard cash.

Years later, Crawford remembered very little about writing
Self-Confidence.
Hearing baby Cal crying in his cradle in the next room and Dorothy taking care of him were the most inspiring sounds Crawford could ask for. Better than silence.

You’re going to have a good life, my son.

And Dorothy, you’re going to be proud of me, sweetheart.

And Crawford pulled it off, truth be known, with little fanfare and little struggle. It took a few years, but he did it.

But those days were long gone. Crawford tried to invoke those same feelings of inspiration while writing fiction, but he just couldn’t do it. Perhaps it was because Cal had obviously lost respect for him — or gained disrespect, however you want to look at it.

And did he really want to be a novelist? A real novelist, like the kind he often talked about? He wasn’t sure any more. It might just come from some need to assuage his failure as a psychologist —
and
as a father
and
as a husband.

Crawford looked at himself in the mirror then turned away.

“Well, I’ll mosey on downstairs and have that little drink after all.”

Hell, just a couple. Just beer. I’m too tired for anything else.

Crawford slowly crept out into the hall, which was dark except for a nightlight in a wall socket just outside the guestroom. The two bedrooms across the hall had no light coming from beneath their closed doors, and neither did the room next door, which had a small wooden plate that read “Emily.” Apparently the Burns Family — man, woman, and child — was fast asleep.

When Crawford got down the stairs to the living room, the ticking of the grandfather clock was almost deafening, amplifying his paranoia. He felt like a thief in a museum, ready for a security guard to stick a gun in his face the very moment he approached the masterpiece he intended to steal. There was an irony in the emotions Crawford felt about sneaking alcohol. It was dangerous fun, like the kind an adolescent feels with a picture of a naked girl under his mattress. But like that pubescent pleasure, it was rife with shame — the kind that comes from acting impulsively on base instincts. And for Crawford, it was a shame that could only be eradicated with alcohol.

When the bar came into view, it looked beautiful, horrifyingly so. He always admired Lee’s taste, but the bar —
the bar itself
— was his Hope Diamond. Lee purchased it from an old Scottish pub in Edinburgh then paid a fortune to have it shipped to the States to be installed and refurbished. A local legend claimed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, about the time he was getting his medical degree, had scribbled a story or two on the bar’s perimeter while guzzling a few warm ales. It didn’t matter if it was true. Like all legends, it was a good story. And aside from its West Hollywood Hills location, to Crawford it looked like home sweet home.

How ‘bout a beer that’s ice fuckin’ cold…

There was a guy Crawford knew in college that always used that expression, “ice fuckin’ cold.”
What was his name?

He heard something and froze.

Crawford felt cold again and his body started to shake. He was still just wearing his boxer shorts. He originally thought he would enjoy his couple of beers out on the back patio, but now he just wanted to create his own little bar under the warm covers upstairs.

Crawford stopped for a good ten seconds, moving nothing but his eyes from side to side.
Nothing
. He thought of the possibility of paranoia. Of the willies. Of Hoppy Poppy,
or whatever that guy’s name is
.

I’m overreacting. Just like the caller, the tapes. Could just be some prankster. But would they do something so elaborate? Yes, Berry and Scott would.

Would they? Really? What about a stalker?

“No.”

You’re nuts, Crawford. You’re really nuts. Just like Mary Epstein used to say.

“But she was only kidding.”

Wasn’t she?

The Monday after the five-day writing binge that had produced his master’s thesis found Crawford soundly passed out on his battered sofa dreaming of the summer he would spend drunk and carefree, confidently knowing he had a new piece of paper that proved to the world he wasn’t a complete loser. He didn’t have to submit his thesis until Friday, all his finals were taken, and both his oral and written comprehensives were completed. There was nothing to do but sleep until the afternoon then pick up his thesis from Mary Epstein, a fellow classmate who had been proofreading and retyping it for him for the previous two days.

Mary was one of those people that was so nice, that gave so completely without expecting anything in return, that Crawford felt severe guilt just being in her company. Truth was she had a crush on Crawford, and he knew it. But physically she just didn’t do it for him. Sadly, she didn’t do it for any other men in the Psych department either. She was more than a little plump and wore large sweatshirts that reached to the knees, and skirts that almost covered her ankles. But she had a wonderful intellect and a charming sense of humor, and everyone liked Mary. She was interested in everything, was well-read, and consequently was very engaging.

Regardless of how Crawford felt around Mary, he certainly didn’t avoid her when it came to needing help on research projects. She was fast, meticulous, and refused to accept payment apart from a few slices of pizza and a couple of beers. He also trusted her with his work — the prime reason Berry’s call came as such a surprise.

“You sleeping? It’s almost noon. Are you asleep?”

“I was,” Crawford said with a dry cough. “Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Berry.”

“What do you want,
fairy
?”

“I just read your thesis.”

Crawford woke up a little more. “You what? I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

“Well I did, and I’ve got some bad news.”

Crawford sat up. “What are you talking about? How’d you read my thesis?”

“I was over at Mary’s last night and she let me read it.”

“Really? I told her…” Crawford stopped. “Okay, what’s the title?”

“
Critical Consequences of the
…”

“That bitch.”

“Watkins will know where you got this, Jim.”

“Where I got it? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Jim. I know this paper.”

“How can you know that paper? I just wrote it last week.”

“This paper was just in the
Comprehensive Psych Review
last month. Some Scandinavian guy. Maybe Eastern European, I can’t remember.”

“What?” Crawford said.

“Come on, man. You plagiarized this.”

Crawford laughed. “Don’t give me your bullshit, Berry.”

“I’m not bullshitting you. I’m doing you a favor, Jim. All your credit hours could be taken away for this. I talked to Watkins about this very article two months ago. I’m just trying to warn you that if he catches you trying to pass off someone else’s work as your own, he’s going to throw the book at you. You know how he is about unoriginality. But shit, this is
plagiarism
.”

“I didn’t plagiarize anything!”

“Oh, yeah? You were going to pick this up from Mary today, correct?”

“Yes.”

“After you drag your ass over there, meet me at the coffee shop across from the library. I’ll bring the journal and we’ll compare the two.”

“All right, Berry,” Crawford said with resilience. “I’ll let you waste my time one more time.”

“One more time, huh?” Berry said with a titter. “Across from the library, Jim. About four. I’m only trying to help.”

“Sure.”

Crawford had to go see what the big joke was all about.

I’ll probably get to the coffee shop and Scott will be there and they’ll finally have a laugh at my expense. Goddam children.
After all, there was no way Berry could fabricate a copy of
Comprehensive Psychology Review
.

Just after lunch, Crawford practically snatched his thesis from Mary’s hand as she handed it to him.

“Thanks. We’ll have that pizza later, okay?”

She looked hurt, and Crawford felt more guilt as he drove away. Berry might have tricked her into showing it to him, he thought. I should have talked to her.

Crawford looked at the pristine-looking document lying in the passenger’s seat and pulled over. He thumbed through it with admiration.
I’ll apologize to her later.
It was wonderful. It wasn’t just that Mary dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s, so to speak; every sentence, it appeared, had been edited to perfection. All the changes she made were listed on a separate document clipped onto the back.
I’ll apologize later.

So Berry and Scott had succeeded in making Crawford worry about something he needn’t worry about.

They won’t get a response out of me. They think they can bring me down?

Matter of fact, I should have a few before I go see them, Crawford thought. And he did.

Crawford only saw the shape of the bar against the dim light coming from the dining room window behind it. As the thought of a cold draft made Crawford salivate, the sight of the bar made him think of dungeons and torture.

I’m losing it. It has to do with neurotransmitters and enzymes and shit, but I’m losing it. Self-counseling doesn’t work
.
Nothing works
.

His fear could only be overridden by drink. He thought about the small refrigerator underneath the bar, and of headless babies.

He reached for a lamp that sat on the end of the bar next to an antique cash register and turned it on. He stepped behind the bar and opened the fridge. There was no light inside and Crawford couldn’t see what the stock was, but he knew it didn’t matter. He felt like he was putting his arms into a giant carnivorous plant, but he knew he had to do it. He overcame his fear and grabbed four bottles (
you said only two
) and put them on the bar.

Bottle opener, bottle opener
.

Crawford opened a small drawer and stuck his hand inside just before noticing the clear bottles of light colored brew were Miller High Life with twist off tops
.

Miller High Life?
This bastard has an eighty thousand dollar bar that Arthur Conan Doyle used to puke on and he drinks this crap?
Crawford again reached in the fridge and pulled out another pair of bottles. More Miller.
Not even a small selection?
Crawford wasn’t in the frame of mind to be finicky about his poison. He cupped the six bottles (
you said only four
) and swung the refrigerator door shut with his right foot. When he turned around to go upstairs, he saw what had produced the little noise.

It wasn’t a mouse. It was little Emily Burns, Lee’s seven-year-old daughter, standing motionless in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Now more like a husband than a museum thief, Crawford attempted to augment his surreptitious act with congeniality. “Emily. Why aren’t you asleep, sweetheart?”

“Uncle Jim? What are you doing?”

“I’m spending the night. You know, your daddy and I are…” He almost said they were having a slumber party, but stopped himself. “We’re working on something.”

Emily had a glass of pink water in her hand. “I’m not supposed to be getting this right now. This is lemonade, the pink kind. You won’t tell on me, will you? I’m really thirsty.”

Crawford was struck by how calm the child was after being caught by an adult red-handed pilfering lemonade. But he admired her cool disposition, which helped to alleviate his guilt. They were partners in crime. “Oh, I won’t tell on
you
if you won’t tell on
me
,” he said.

“You? What are you doing wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said nervously. Then laughing, “I should be in bed too. Your dad just wants me to get some rest. That’s all.”

Emily looked down at the bottles Crawford was holding in front of him, and she stepped forward to take a closer look. “What is that?” She put a finger on one of the bottles. “That looks like pee.”

There was a long silence. The child had him thrown. “It is pee,” he said with a nod.

“It is? It’s pee?” She looked surprised.

“It’s pee that comes from yeast.”

She turned her head sideways. “From what?”

“Yeast urine, that’s what it is.”

“What?” She looked almost scared now.

“Why don’t you drink your lemonade and we’ll go upstairs, okay?”

“You’re not going to drink that pee, are you?”

“No, dear. No, I’m not,” he lied. He couldn’t wait to drink the pee.

Crawford let Emily drink her lemonade then he put the glass in the sink. He returned three bottles of pee back to the refrigerator, taking three he could grasp in one hand so he could take Emily’s hand with the other. He took her to her room and tucked her in bed as if she were his own child.