Self-Esteem (13 page)

Step… Step…
Stage one, complete!

His mind was everywhere, but it kept returning to the wicked images of the videotape, to what he hoped were just delirious thoughts.

How could I imagine that? I’m not that creative.

Maybe it was like that turkey incident years ago
, he thought. During one drunken Thanksgiving, Jim was in charge of cooking the turkey because Dorothy was busy with her mother that morning. He had to get up early, around six, to make sure the damn thing was in the oven. He had been in bed only a couple of hours, having stayed up until four drinking with an old friend. Still drunk, he pulled the bird from the sink where it had been defrosting. The moment he grabbed it, the slippery creature, all twenty-four pounds of it, came alive. It started flapping its wings, gyrating wildly, struggling to get away from him. Crawford screamed. He fell backwards, and landed on the floor with the turkey on top of him. Then he dragged the turkey safely outside and into a garbage can.

He never told Dorothy. He simply bought a cooked turkey at the grocery store and swore he’d never drink again, or at least never to get so
insanely
drunk. This, after all, was back in the
post-
good old days.

Crawford decided there was just one sensible explanation for this Happy Pappy tape: alcohol delirium. That’s what it had to be.
No more comments on the subject until further notice.

As he drank his coffee at the kitchen table, Crawford saw Dorothy in the hall looking at herself in the mirror. She looked wonderful.

“I’m going to make some changes, Dorothy,” he mumbled to himself.

“What? Did you say something?” she asked.

“I’m going to make some changes,” he spoke louder. “Some real changes.”

Dorothy clearly wasn’t in the mood. “I see.”

“I know you’ve heard it before.”

“Yeah, and I know that you know that I know. So why bother? Just don’t say anything, Jim. Nothing.”

Dorothy walked past the kitchen without looking at him.

“Honey, I’ve been having these dreams or something. And I’m going to talk to…”

“Don’t say anything, Jim. Nothing,” she said going upstairs.

Crawford got dressed. Maybe I’ll go talk to Phil, he thought. And when I come back home things will look different.
Just get out of here for a while
.

Crawford stormed into the garage, got into the car and revved the engine to convince himself he was determined to make a change.
Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

“Take small steps.”

God, shut up.

He was backing out of his driveway when suddenly a flowery basket appeared just inside his right field of vision — then some blonde hair. He slammed on the brakes. Little Isabella from down the street passed behind the car on her bicycle. Shaken, Crawford put his hands on the wheel and calmed himself before looking back again. She didn’t stop. She just looked at him with an odd, lingering look.

Little kids know, he thought. They always know.

“All you can do is move forward, toward the future.”

After he got the car on the street, he felt better. He took a deep breath and picked up his mobile phone. He dialed the one number he knew by memory that was not on his speed dial, and for good reason.

It rang four times. “Hello, this is Jenny. I’m not here right now.” She laughs. “Well, I might be here. Just leave a message.”

“This is Jim. I was calling to make sure you know it’s over. It has to be. I’m sorry. It has to be over, Jen. I want to apologize.” He held his breath. “Okay, goodbye.” He hung up, throwing the phone in the passenger’s seat. Then he gripped the steering wheel hard.

Goddam it. I shouldn’t have left that message. Jesus, get it together.

The phone rang and Crawford froze. He knew it was Jenny calling to give a rebuttal, but without thinking he answered it.

“Look…”

“Stage two.”

“What?”

“Stage two. Do you know what stage two is, Doctor?”

This wasn’t just his imagination.

“Who is this?”

The caller paused a moment, then his voice was even quieter.

“Stage two.”

“How did you get this number?”

“Don’t you know what stage two is? It’s
your
stage.”

“My stage? What the hell do you want?”

“Stage two. Eliminate the harmful things that are destroying your life. That’s what stage two is.”

“What do you want?”

“Stage two comes after stage one. And, as you know, stage one is complete.”

“Berry?”

The caller hung up.

The voice was familiar, Crawford thought, even at a whisper.

Crawford’s image of Happy Pappy on the videotape was becoming clearer. No, it couldn’t be. Perhaps it was guilt or…

Perhaps you’re blocking…

No!
Crawford tried to stop the self-psychoanalyzing self-talk self-esteem self…

“And what’s with this
stage
bullshit,” Crawford said, trying to distract himself.
It has to be Berry. Berry’s fucking with me, trying to drive me crazy
.

We must lose our sense of self-consciousness.

He felt a pang of thirst.
No. God, no. Don’t do that. Don’t go down that road. Not yet. Not now. One day at a time.

It was good he was going to see Peters.

The sight of the campus was comforting to Crawford’s bloodshot eyes. Those old buildings, with their traditional architecture and grand aspirations, gave him a boost of optimism.

He parked his car in the visitor lot then crept through the front door of the psychology building hoping not to be noticed. The halls were relatively empty except for two young women walking toward him. The shorter one, a nerdy girl Crawford recognized from somewhere (perhaps a lecture), caught his eye.

Oh no.

“Dr. Crawford?” she said, as if to an old friend. “Oh my God!”

I don’t have to talk to her.

“Is that you?” she said, her eyes widening with excitement.

“No, sorry,” he said, walking quickly past. Crawford marched down the main hall and was almost breathless when he reached the open door to Dr. Peters’ office, so he stopped and listened to the baroque music coming from inside. Peters frequently listened to Bach or Handel in his office, which Crawford found appropriate for other professors but not for Peters. He just didn’t seem like the type that liked music. A young man, probably a student, was just leaving, and the music made the exchange seem like a scene from British television.

“Not at all,” Phil said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?” the young man said.

“Of course I’m sure. Loss of innocence is an admirable subject, even in psychology.”

“Thanks so much,” the student said, shaking his hand.

Peters looked past the young man and noticed Crawford standing there. “See you next week,” he said to the young man, patting him on the back as he left.

Trying to ignore his own unease, Jim walked into Peters’ office and closed the door as if it were his own domicile. He sat down and Peters turned off the music.

“Oh, no,” Crawford said. “You don’t have to do that.”

Peters ignored the remark. “So this is a surprise.”

Crawford thought that Peters could see right through him. He could see he was on a bender, that he had gotten drunk after the banquet, that he was having another crisis and needed to talk. Crawford tried not to show his shame.

“How are you?” Peters asked.

“Good enough, I guess.”

“Have a seat.”

Crawford sat down among the volumes of books lining the walls and looked over at the empty boxes piled in one corner. Peters was obviously getting ready to move to his new office upstairs. He always kept the room dark, with the blinds closed and just a few low-watt desk lamps. It didn’t seem practical, but it looked more academic, like a library. Crawford was glad it was dark, though; the less Peters could see of him the better.

“Getting ready to move, huh?”

“Yeah. Getting ready.”

Crawford took a deep breath. “I miss this place. You did the right thing, Phil.”

“Is that why you came here? To tell me I did the right thing?”

“Is this a bad time?” Crawford asked.

“No, not at all. There are no bad times,” Peters said as he calmly leaned back in his chair to an unsettling creak. “I’m putting off this move anyhow. I like this office better.”

Crawford felt more like a student than a friend. “You did the right thing, Phil.”

“What does that mean?” Peters asked.

“You’re a professor. You’ve got respect.” Crawford was at a loss.

Peters didn’t look like he was in the mood for a sappy discussion. “Is something wrong, Jim?”

Crawford realized he didn’t have much to say. Then he thought of something the good professor might help him with. “My son won’t talk to me, Phil.”

“Why is that?”

“Well,” he began awkwardly, “I made the deal for that show and…”

“Happy Pappy?” he said, expressionless.

“Yes,” Crawford said, his eyes veering to the empty boxes in the corner. “People are on TV calling me a charlatan.”

“What does that have to do with your son?”

“He’s right to despise me.”

Peters laughed nervously then gained his composure. “Come on, Jim. Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’ve started drinking again.” Crawford looked at the floor, fumbling his words. “I mean, I haven’t stopped. I’ve… I’ve stopped then I started again. And I…”

Peters sat quietly then looked at his watch. Crawford wondered if that meant he was trying to say he didn’t have time for this.

“I’ve been boozing it up, Phil.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The tone of his voice definitely suggested he didn’t want to hear it.

“I don’t know what to say, Phil.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I’m just wasting your time.”

“What’s your rationale?”

“What?” Crawford asked.

“What’s your rationale? For drinking, I mean. Is it your son? Because of your son’s behavior? His disapproval? What?” Peters looked like he wanted to get to the bottom of this.

“Lots of things, Phil. Dorothy and I haven’t been getting along. I got this goddam tape last night. And some asshole has been calling me.”

“Someone’s been calling you?”

“You know, some prank caller.”

“Is that all?” Peters said.

“Last night I had this weird dream about… I think it was a dream. You see, I got this videotape. And last night I thought I saw…”

Peters took a deep breath. “What are you talking about, Jim?” He took off his glasses and set them on his desk.

Crawford felt naked. “I don’t know.”

“Hey. Jim. Buddy. What are you so up in knots over? Huh? You’re rich, successful. You can do anything you want. Don’t worry about these things. I mean, who doesn’t get down in the dumps on occasion? We live in a society that tells us we’re supposed to be happy all the time. That’s the problem. We used to talk about this in college, remember? Desire making the lot of Western civilization miserable. You used to say you were going to become a Buddhist, remember?”

Crawford smiled. “I remember.”

“You don’t think I have problems?”

“No.”

Peters let his scholarly hair down and laughed out loud with an air of surrender. “Why are you here, Jim? For advice?”

Crawford felt a little more relaxed. “I guess. You always gave the best advice, Phil.”

“That’s what I do for a living. We give it different names: therapy, counseling, research.” He paused a moment, looking closer at Crawford’s disheveled appearance. “But advice is also what you do for a living. Isn’t it?”

Crawford saw that Peters was getting irritated, something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“And you make more money at it than I do,” Peters said directly.

“And? What does that mean?” Crawford said, as if the remark were unwarranted.

As Peters sat on the edge of his desk and put a comforting hand on Crawford’s shoulder, Crawford noticed that Peters had his sleeves rolled up.
His sleeves rolled up? Peters?
Crawford couldn’t remember seeing that before. The sleeves made Peters look completely different, like a leisurely posing model in a bourbon or a cigarette ad. Crawford had known him for more than twenty years and this was the most conspicuous difference he’d seen in him in all that time.

Or am I going crazy?

Are you? he thought.

Am I?

“Just use your own best advice, Jim. You know that,” Peters said laughing, his teeth looking very white.

“That’s what everyone should do, but they don’t. I know that.”

“Lucky for us. And climb back on that wagon, okay? That’s what people do. That’s what smart people do.”

Perhaps he’s mocking me, Crawford thought, while feeling more and more like an idiot. These “needs” he had were embarrassing.
Why talk about your stupid little problems?
A little bit of the resolve he had felt earlier that morning surged again with a breath and a nod, and Crawford stood up to leave.

“I think I know what it is, Phil. This Happy Pappy bullshit — I’m going to have to end it. It has to stop. I’m going to tell my publisher to reverse the licensing deal we signed.”

“Can you do that? I mean, contractually?”

Peters was starting to look like himself again, rolled up sleeves or not. Crawford was surprised Peters would say such a thing. He wasn’t the type to raise the finer points of contract law. But by doing so he only made Crawford’s resolve stronger. “I don’t know. But it’s going to stop.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Crawford wondered what he expected from Peters. “Who am I to tell people how to live, Phil?” he said, with his eyes still at the floor.

Peters looked baffled. “I want you do to me a favor,” he said, like he was trying to change the subject.

“Sure, anything.”

“I’m looking for seven psychologists to review my research for the fellowship. I’d feel honored to have you on board.”