Self-Esteem (29 page)

“What do you want?” Crawford said softly, feeling like he might faint.

Then something moved in front of the crack — pale skin, round features, one eyeball too large to be human. Crawford could see enough to know that it was Happy Pappy.

Crawford raised his voice. “What the fuck do you want?”

“What do
I
want? How nice of you to ask.” He paused a moment to giggle, then said, “I want self-esteem. I want self-confidence. I want what everyone else wants.”

Crawford wished he could smash the door open and knock this bastard out but the door opened the other way, and he couldn’t…

A knife flashed in front of the crevice, thrusting a sharp light in Crawford’s eye. The nausea vanished, but now Crawford couldn’t breathe.

“The last stage, Dr. Crawford,” he said, twisting the knife vertically. “The last stage of your program and I’ll be finished.”

Crawford belched slightly and suddenly could speak. “So you killed Jenny, didn’t you? You really killed her.”

The voice became breathy, trying to control its laughter. “Bad things must end. That’s what you taught me. ‘Eliminate the harmful things that are destroying your life.’
That’s what you wrote on page one fifty-seven.” He giggled again. “I’m sorry, on page one fifty-eight.”

“And what about this Dr. Watkins?”

“He was a detractor. An enemy. Silence those that unfairly criticize you. That’s good advice, Doctor. And it works.”

“So who the fuck are you?” Crawford bellowed.

The knife flashed again and Crawford’s heart pounded.

“I’m
you
, Doctor. I’m your creation. I’m a part of you.” He giggled again. “And you’re a part of me.”

“What do you want?”

“Stage three, Doctor. You can have what any other person has.”

Crawford now was feeling strong enough to speak, as though his anger were curing him. “I just want to help people, to improve their lives.”

“I just want everything you have!” he shouted. “Understand? If I can have what any other person has, I want what you have!”

Crawford leaned back slightly, shaking with fear.

“What I have? And what’s that?” he said, pounding his fist on the door with each syllable. “What do I have?” he shouted.

Crawford heard the door slam. Without inspecting himself in the mirror, he rushed out of the bathroom and into the crowded hall. It was like a terminal station with people moving everywhere, hurrying to do something somewhere else. And with Crawford’s head still floating, he couldn’t train his eyes on anyone. Everything was a blur, like he was inside a carnival ride designed to make him sick.

Crawford leaned up against the wall and straightened his sport coat. The first thing he noticed was the small stain left by the scrap of puke that fell from his lip. It was small — about the size of a nickel — but it looked much bigger.

Self-Confidence, page 235. “When we don’t feel right on the inside, it makes us imagine an uncomplimentary outside.”

Oh, shut the hell up. You’ve got vomit on your pants, fool!

“Dr. Crawford?”

Crawford looked up to see Roger, a studio page who barely looked 18, more in a rush than the rest of the people.

“This way, Doctor. We’re almost on,” Roger said, nervously tapping the clipboard he held in his right hand.

“Did you see a man?”

“Excuse me,” he said, touching Crawford on the arm to direct him forward.

“Did you see a man come out of the bathroom just before I did?”

Roger looked confused. “No, sir. We really are pressed for time, though.”

“A man with a mask?”

“A mask, Doctor?”

Crawford said nothing. He looked over Roger’s shoulder, then to the other end of the hall. “I can’t do this,” Crawford mumbled.

“Sorry?”

Crawford took a deep breath. “I mean, I can’t…”

“Sorry?”

“Could I have a glass of water?”

“Of course. This way, Doctor.”

Backstage was even more hectic than the hallway outside. People were hauling around lighting and sound equipment. Large, sweaty men were trying to get things in place with little time to go, and most of them couldn’t care less who was in their way. Crawford ducked as a man carrying a small set piece barged right by him, almost knocking his head off.

“Damn it,” he said standing up.

“Sorry, sir,” Roger said. “These guys aren’t very careful sometimes. They’re union, you know.”

Could
that
have been the man in the bathroom? Could any of these grunts be that psychopath? The mask now hidden in a toolbox maybe?

That was ridiculous, Crawford thought. He might as well suspect the guy who plays the part on TV.

Crawford caught a glimpse of Jan waiting in the wings on the other side. For just an instant he thought about how good she looked. She always looked good.
Bitch.
She reminded him of the cheerleaders in high school he hated but still wanted to bonk.

The music started and the audience began to applaud.

Maybe it
is
the guy who plays the part.

“Jan Hershey!” he vaguely heard the announcer say.

“You’ll see a green light at the top of the stage left entry. See it?” Roger asked.

“I see it,” Crawford said.

Crawford felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to find Lee, his head tilted back and his eyes squinting vaguely. He looked downright sinister.

“Lee, I saw…”

Lee pulled Crawford close and whispered in his ear, “You fuck this up and I’ll kill you.” He was frozen solid then he smiled and winked.

You think you know someone for over a decade…

Something brushed against Crawford’s hand, something strange, like rubber. He looked down and could see what Lee was holding — a Happy Pappy mask.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Just be yourself, Jim,” Lee said with a smile and a slap on the back.

The rumbling behind the studio walls got louder and louder.

“Mr. Crawford,” the stage assistant said. “I mean, Dr. Crawford.”

Crawford turned to see the stage left light turn yellow. Then, with a voice that oozed enthusiasm…

“Ladies and Gentleman, Dr. James Crawford!”

Crawford walked through the stage left door and imagined he was an accomplished novelist, speaking at a university to a group of literature students. There were young girls leaning back in their seats seductively, twirling pencils in their mouths as they looked at him with a sense of awe and admiration. There were bearded old men and frumpy old women eager to talk to
the
master
about his art.

But the horrifically bright studio lights hit Crawford hard. He thought he might vomit, covering his mouth to let out a painful burp.

Fat people are staring at me, unattractive people, save Jan, who looks composed, but there’s some sense of worry in her eyes, she knows something isn’t right and I don’t know how she knows it, but she knows it, so I better smile because they’re all looking at me like I’m their savior or something and fuck that, I don’t want to be anyone’s savior, I’m just trying to save myself, don’t they fucking know that? Glass of water, there’s a glass of water on that table there, I need it, I need that water, I better smile, oh, I am smiling, I think.

The moment Crawford sat down the applause breached his stream of thinking. Jan elegantly stepped toward center aisle, but it was almost aggressive, like a baseball pitcher eyeing a batter.

Jan loudly said, “Well!” and the audience became silent at once. “Welcome back, Dr. Crawford.”

Crawford nodded then cleared his throat, tasting bitter bile on the back of his tongue. He silently mouthed the words “Thank you.”

“Good to see you,” Jan said.

“Good to see you,” he said softly.

It was all Crawford could do to emphasize the last word. From the corner of his eye he could see the water glistening next to him, waiting to help wrestle away some of his pain. But he couldn’t reach for it. Not yet.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about today, don’t we?”

“I sure hope not.”

There was just a second of uneasiness before the audience laughed and Jan joined them reluctantly.

“Oh now, come on, Doctor. We’ll appreciate as much as we can get.”

It was like being harassed in high school by one of those bitchy cheerleaders, but this time there was no desire.

“Okay. Sure.”

For an instant Crawford leaned forward in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, locking his fingers,
like a real writer, like a real…

Then he leaned back again, nestling his shoulder blades into the chair. Nothing helped. His nerves were shot. His tongue started to feel dry and sticky, and his throat felt rough. All he could think about was the water next to him.

Jan walked down a few more steps, reminding Crawford of a lion carefully approaching its prey, or like a savvy anchorwoman about to ask a politician some hard questions.

“Tell us about the latest edition to your
Self
Series
, that’s so very popular.”

Crawford said nothing; his mind was a blank. Then taking a deep breath he said, “That would be
Self-Esteem
?”

The audience laughed again and Jan responded to her tongue-tied guest like a true professional. She turned around to the audience and said, “See what humility our wonderful guest has?” She contrived a giggle then looked deep into Crawford’s eyes as if to say,
all right, no more bullshit, quack. I got a show to do.
“Yes, Doctor, that would be
Self-Esteem
.”

“I see.” Crawford looked down at the floor then to the glass of water next to him, which looked like vodka or gin.
No, vodka.
Crawford wanted to be graceful about it but he couldn’t. He grabbed the water and threw his head back like he’d been shot in the forehead, drinking half of it down in two seconds. This created another awkward moment even Jan couldn’t turn into entertainment.

“Doctor?”

Crawford took a deep breath and almost felt like he could talk now, like he could breathe. “Well… it’s uh… It’s kind of the same old thing, really.”

Jan laughed nervously. The audience members, sensing Jan’s unease, had become too uneasy to laugh.

“You’re dealing with ideas that are age-old truths. Is that what you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

The audience stared with wonder. Jan could barely hide her contempt. “Oh come on, Doctor,” she retorted. “I think you know about age-old truths. You and I have been talking about these subjects for years. Now tell us the big secret. What are we learning in this book we haven’t learned in the others?”

“Well, I guess it can, uh…”

A man with headphones pointed to a camera which then dollied in close, making Crawford feel even more uneasy.

Crawford glanced to his right and could see Lee standing just offstage. By his expression, he wasn’t joking about killing him.

Jan blinked her eyes heavily, like she was ready to lose it. “Doctor?”

“I’m trying to help people improve their lives.”

She relaxed a little. “Well, yes. Of course.” She turned again to the audience. “And you’ve helped so many people. Right folks?”

The audience mumbled its distinctly American form of
hear, hear
—
yes, uh mm, that’s right
— but this time Crawford interrupted.

“I just don’t…” he started before they quieted down. “I just don’t feel too good today. That’s all.”

Jan completely ignored his remark. “Doctor, tell us about the three-stage program in this book.”

Crawford felt that surge of electricity working its way up his spine deep into his cerebellum and into his cerebral cortex. He realized he had to get through this. He had to be a salesman for the next forty-two minutes.

“The three stages?” he said almost energetically. “Well, it’s really pretty simple. The first thing you do is get over what people think of you.”

Jan looked at the notes in her hand. “You silence those that criticize you.”

“Yes,” Crawford said. “Of course, you do that too.”

Suddenly he thought of the grainy image of Happy Pappy, hovering over the psychologist — taunting him, laughing at him, cutting out his tongue.

Crawford felt perspiration forming on his forehead and on the back of his neck, the kind of tiny drops that shiver the spine.

Ms. Hershey was not waiting for him any longer. “And stage two, Doctor? Stage two?”

He began slowly…

Just a little while longer.

“Well, you get all the bad things out of your life. That seems like good advice!”

Jan looked at her notes again. “Eliminate the harmful things that are destroying your life.”

“Yes.”

It was Jenny’s hair that came to mind this time. She never allowed herself to look unkempt. But that hair, falling around her face like a bowl of soup dumped on her head. That duct tape around her elegant mouth, like a makeshift clamp remedying a piece of broken furniture. Then the stabbing. Then the blood.

“And the third stage, Doctor?”

Crawford was suffocating. What was he doing on a fucking talk show hawking some product when a killer was out there? What was he doing with a hangover when… “You have to realize,” he swallowed heavily, “you can have what any other man has.”

“Okay. You can have what any other
person
has,” Jan said, correcting him.

“Yes.”

Stage three…

I asked him what he wanted.

“Stage three, Doctor. You can have what any other person has.”

Crawford could see Dorothy the day he married her. He could see Cal the day he was born. Those were the two happiest days of his life. He had been sober both times. He had kept those memories while so many others were washed away with alcohol.

“
I want what you have
,” the mocking villain was saying.

He wants my… He wants my wife.

Crawford imagined Dorothy tied to a chair, Happy Pappy fiddling with a video camera. “Record! Record! I can’t find that damn record button, kids!”