Self-Esteem (8 page)

And Crawford, being aware of Martha’s temperament and skill, couldn’t shake the contradictions their relationship presented.
She
was the normal one.
She
was the happy one.
She
was the one who should be telling people how to improve their lives, Crawford knew. But Martha Ginsberg was uninterested in any of that. She was merely a book editor. Her problems were too few to give a damn about the rest of the fucked up world.

“You’re so much better than I am,” Crawford once told her after she called him to question the context of a phrase, finding him completely inebriated.

“Better off, perhaps,” she said, and changed the subject.

That response would stick with Crawford for a long time. Strangely, he only remembered it when he was alone and drunk. Or out in public wishing he was alone and drunk.

Even with intermittent TV appearances over the previous ten years, Crawford could still get nervous when it came to speaking in public, especially at social gatherings, and especially with academics. He kept telling himself that the little ceremony they were having in honor of Peters becoming dean and receiving a fellowship wasn’t exactly a
social
gathering, and it was barely
academic
.

And what difference did it make?

Crawford kept looking over at Peters, trying to distract himself from the audience in front of him that was now a mass of ghostly silhouettes. Crawford hoped the sight of Peters would help his jitters, but it didn’t.

Peters sat quietly on the opposite side of the podium from Dorothy, smiling as Crawford delivered his introduction. W
hat a perfect example of a legitimate scientist in the field of Behavioral Psychology,
Crawford thought.
If there is such a person.
With his neatly trimmed beard and spectacles, Peters almost looked like Freud — without the dog, the cocaine addiction and the ridiculous ambition of explaining the human mind.

“I can’t think of anyone who deserves the honor of being dean of the graduate school more than Dr. Phillip Peters.”

Mediocre remark.

As the audience applauded, Crawford realized he’d just said what he’d overheard Berry say half an hour before, almost verbatim. But strangely he started to relax a bit.

Nothing’s original. Keep going.

“Phil and I have known each other for over seventeen years now, and I know of no one more dedicated to the field of psychology than he is.” Crawford hoped that was sufficient. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the new dean of graduate studies in psychology here at our marvelous university, and this year’s recipient of the Helmut Vogel Fellowship. Dr. Phillip Peters.”

The audience broke into applause, but after a few seconds Crawford didn’t hear it. His thoughts about Peters drowned out the noise. His thoughts were a cruel mother pointing to an example of the person he should be. He stood to the side and shook his old friend’s hand then saw the audience stand and applaud. He walked over to his assigned seat and waited for the audience to sit down so he could do the same.

Peters awkwardly pushed his mouth toward the microphone and said thank you. Crawford thought of how humble he was in the face of such admiration. No ego, no attempt to impress.

That’s why he’s the best.

“Thank you so much,” Peters said nodding. “The University. The members of our department. Thank you all. It’s certainly a pleasure to see an old doctoral comrade of mine who’s gone on to bigger and better things,” he said smiling at Crawford.

The audience clapped again, but not so loud.

“I guess he had the self-esteem and I didn’t.”

The room filled with vociferous laughter. Crawford didn’t appreciate the remark, even though he knew Peters didn’t mean to be cruel. Nevertheless, he now felt more uncomfortable.

And this damn crotch is killing me
.

During his brief speech, Peters never mentioned Crawford again. He thanked his colleagues in the department. He thanked the members of the administration for their appointment. He thanked the board at the Vogel Fellowship for believing in his research. He seemed to thank everyone but Crawford.

By the end of the event, Dorothy, seeing that her husband’s insecurities had been aggravated by the experience, was especially attentive. “Are you okay, dear? Did something bother you tonight?”

“Can we just go now? I’ll feel much better when we’re on our way home. Let’s just go. Right now.”

They both walked to the lobby, with Crawford two steps ahead as Dorothy continued to smile and say hello to others.

“That means tonight, sweetheart,” he said under his breath, periodically nodding to the other guests.

“Okay, okay,” Dorothy said before grabbing her husband’s arm. “Let me just say hello to Joanne Brady over there,” she said, tiptoeing away with her just-one-minute finger in the air.

I’ll never get her out of here, he thought.

Crawford stood in the foyer with people nodding as they passed. It reminded him just how much he needed his wife. She was the backbone of the family. She’d always been the backbone of the family, keeping them together during the worst trouble, most of it from Crawford’s behavior. Then he pulled a rabbit out of a hat. He wrote
Self-Confidence
. But his pot of gold worsened his drinking, his womanizing, and everything else that gave Dorothy grief. After achieving some success, he told himself he had been acquitted of all charges. But he knew he would not have been able to pull it off without her. She suggested writing the book in the first place as a way of helping him through his recovery, and he lashed out at her. He was working on a novel. He was an artist. He couldn’t do something so unimaginative if he wanted to. He was wrong.

Crawford watched his wife and thought about how beautiful she was. She looked more beautiful now, actually. Brief moments of their 18-year marriage were flashing before him. What a bastard he’d been, and how impossibly unreasonable. And how wonderfully she’d dealt with it, with caring and diligence. And how had he paid her back for her years of loyalty and sacrifice? By grabbing a bottle at the first moment of fear or guilt, and by having childish affairs to placate his ego-driven longings. Crawford felt stings of guilt all over his body. Then his inner dialogue was interrupted.

“I think people need to be more aware of their own behavior, now more than ever,” she said with a slight southern drawl.

“Excuse me?” Crawford asked.

The woman — overweight and middle-aged with an ashen complexion — wore a lime-green dress that looked like it could glow in the dark, too ambitious for a woman her size.

She continued to speak as if Crawford had said nothing. “I think you’ve helped people do that more than anyone in a long time.”

“What’s that?” Crawford asked uncomfortably.

She was speaking too loud already. “I
said
,” she nodded, “people need to be more aware of their own behavior now more than ever. And I think you’ve helped people do that.”

“Well, thanks very much,” he said, trying to turn away.

The praise of an idiot is more insulting than opprobrium from a genius.

“I was amazed in your first book how much you thought about your own behavior. That’s commendable. Not many people can look at how they’re destroying themselves and the lives of others and be completely honest about it. That’s something you can pat yourself on the back for,” she said with a wink.

Thanks, bitch
, Crawford thought.

“But your subsequent books don’t mention any of these personal problems at all. You’ve changed.”

What are you my mother? Go away, idiot.

“And I have a problem I’d like to discuss with you, James.”

She used his first name. Crawford wanted to tell this lard ass to go buy a mirror and get to know herself a little better, but he resisted. Boy he could use a drink. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping past her.

“But, James. I want you to take a look at my
Self
Series
workbook.

Fuck your workbook
, he thought walking away.

“But my workbook, James” she said with the whimper of a neglected child.

“That’s Dr. Crawford to you, not James,” Crawford said bluntly. “Where’s my wife?”

Dorothy looked like she was enjoying the conversation with her old friend, and Crawford wasn’t going to rush her. He motioned her to the side. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said in her ear.

“I’m ready when you are,” she said.

“No. Take your time. I want you to,” Crawford said. “It’s turning into a counseling session here. I’ll wait for you at the side entrance. Take your time, dear.” He kissed her on the cheek. Crawford sneaked out the side door wishing he was drunk enough not to feel self-conscious about it.

Peters was sitting alone, smoking his pipe and appearing to stare into the ceiling of the light pollution that blocked the night sky. Crawford had so much respect for his old friend that his inclination was to leave him undisturbed, but he desperately wanted to talk.

“I thought you gave up smoking, Phil.”

“I did. About a million times,” he said smiling. “I know. That’s an old joke.”

Crawford sat next to Peters on a bench that was nothing more than a concrete slab. Even outside the staff entry, surrounded by crushed soda cans and cigarette butts, Peters still looked the venerable academic.

“It’s probably not a good thing for a dean to have such a common addiction,” Crawford said. “You need a more unusual one.”

“I think you’re quoting something I said to you about 10 or 11 years ago, pal,” he said, taking another puff off his pipe.

“But alcoholism,” Crawford said looking at the ground, “it’s a little more exotic than nicotine addiction. Supposed to be, anyway.”

As a rule, Peters was skillfully standoffish when it came to emotional matters, particularly outside the formal environment of his office. But speaking to Crawford was different. He had to ask him how things were, not just as a friend but also as a therapist. That’s how their relationship had been for years.

“How are you, Jim? Everything all right?”

Crawford answered that he was okay. He was afraid to look at Peters, like he was a child about to confess a transgression to his father. “I’m doing that stupid show next week — you know, to plug my new book.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I hate that shit.”

“What? Jan Hershey Live? That’s one of the top shows on TV. You don’t want to do it?”

“I look at what you’ve accomplished over the last decade and I just feel embarrassed. Four great, serious volumes of research, tons of articles. Now you’re head of the department. Me, I went off to become a snake oil salesman.”

Crawford gave Peters a small grin as if to say he was kidding, if just a little.

“You didn’t mention my teen counseling center,” Peters said, pretending to be serious. Then he laughed.

“Oh, yeah. That too,” Crawford said, now looking at Peters directly.

“Your books are great, Jim. People love them, and therefore you’re really helping them. Most people would say you’re a greater success than I am.”

Crawford appreciated this compliment, but he could sense a slight indignation in Peters’ tone.
But surely not
, he thought.
He’s too evolved for such small-mindedness
. “I don’t know what people say. I’m getting out of this business, Phil,” Crawford said, now showing a modest confidence. “Soon, I’m getting out for good.”

Peters blew smoke from his pipe. “I’m not going to try and talk you out of it, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“No. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

“You could probably teach advanced psych here if you wanted,” Peters said, looking at his watch.

Crawford took this as being an offer of consolation, but didn’t want it regardless. “No. I’m going to finally finish my first novel. I never say to people that I’m going to quit and write fiction because that’s what I’ve been writing for years.” He smiled. “I’m going to write a novel — then I’ll write another. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I just never had the courage or something.”

Peters raised his eyebrows. “The self-esteem?”

Crawford couldn’t help but give Peters a dirty look. “That’s the second time tonight.”

Peters laughed. “Lighten up, would you? You’re wealthy. You have a beautiful family. You’re in good health.” Peters turned over his pipe, tapping out the ashes with his shoe. “Appreciate life a little. Quit grumbling about some talk show. We all have to do things we don’t want to. So what? You think I want to be here tonight?”

Crawford relaxed a bit. “Oh yeah? Appreciate life, huh?”

“Of course,” Peters said, standing. “It’s the only thing that makes people happy, to appreciate life. We’re just spoiled kids. We’ll complain about anything. You know that.” He paused a moment then grinned like an encouraging uncle. “Don’t you?”

Crawford didn’t know what to say. “I guess I forgot.”

Peters pointed to the sky and told Crawford to look at it. Crawford looked, but could only see the haze of light. “Many of the great philosophers have said that you look up at the stars and you realize what trivial little problems we humans are down here.”

“You mean
have
,” Crawford said.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Either Peters had lost his momentum or he was being rude. “The stars always tell us something, don’t they?”

“The problem is,” Crawford said, “you can’t see the stars here. See?” he said, pointing to the sky.

“Maybe that’s it.” Peters said, shelving the subject. “By the way, you might not want to teach, but how about being on a board of advisors I’m putting together for the fall semester? Might look good on your resume.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Almost nothing. Give your opinion.”

“Oh, I get paid big bucks for that, you know,” Crawford said as he looked up at the sky.

“Uh huh,” Peters grunted with an almost cynical grin that Crawford didn’t notice. “Think about it.”

They sat in silence just looking at the sky.