Self-Esteem (22 page)

Biography
.

What an interesting group of people, those who read historical biography, she thought. Wouldn’t dare pick up a tabloid magazine but would want to know the dish on Attila the Hun. That’s so cool. I should read one, perhaps a woman from history. Susan B. Anthony maybe. They put her on that dollar and all. Maybe someone even further back. Joan of Arc. Was she a real person, Joan of Arc? And what was the “Arc” part?
Oh phooey.

Housekeeping.

Decorating.

I just love…

“Can I help you with something?” a young woman asked.

Dorothy immediately noticed that her nametag read ‘Dorothy
.
’ She said nervously, “I’m just looking. Thank you.”

“Not looking for anything in particular?” Dorothy asked Dorothy. “A graduation gift perhaps?”

Oh, yeah. Graduation
is
coming up.
“Not really, no.”

Dorothy could obviously sense the hesitation. “There must be something you had in mind?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?

Darn it, woman.
“Actually I’m here to buy a do-it-yourself divorce book to threaten my husband with. Got any of those?”

Dorothy the clerk’s demeanor didn’t change; she still grinned like a cat. “We certainly do, ma’am. It’s in the legal section, third row on the left. Right next to
Bankruptcy
.”

“Okay, Dorothy. I think I can find it.”

“Anything I can do to help, just holler. And be sure and visit our coffee shop.”

“Okay,” Dorothy said, forcing a smile.

“And what was your name?” the woman asked.

“Dorothy.”

“No kidding?” the woman said, grabbing her nametag. “That’s my name too.”

“No kidding,” Dorothy said, before doing an about face.

Everyone’s selling something.

She walked past books with pictures of Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King,
that Chinese guy that was really evil
, Hitler, some other men she didn’t know.
For Christ’s sake, who would read a book about Hitler? Does that make people think they are smart?

And why should I care what Dorothy thinks about me buying a book on divorce, Dorothy thought.
Put little may-I-help-you Dorothy in my shoes and see how she would hold up
.
I am going to browse the divorce section like I came here to do.
And she was determined not to feel bad about it.
It’s not like I’m buying a book on Hitler.

She crossed a long, wide aisle that separated the Literature, Biography, and Arts sections from the Legal, Financial, and Self-Help. The chasm created by the two seemed large — as if those who designed the layout insisted on a degree of segregation.

Also, the covers look so different on this side
. The tasteful photography and subtle colors found across the aisle were replaced by bright, gaudy designs and ugly standard fonts. The language was also inelegant by comparison. Words like “How to,” “Get the,” “Become a”
blah, blah, blah
. Self-improvement needed a facelift, she thought, before seeing him standing there near the checkout.

His big warm smile
.
Correct posture
, as she had reminded him many times.
And he didn’t want a cutout of himself in books stores. He’s so funny wunny.
She thought he looked very handsome standing there. There was a woman, an attractive one,
and she’s looking him up and down. I bet she’s not thinking about the book. I bet she’s thinking how she’d like to fling her big boobs in my husband’s face. And Jim hasn’t been
that
unfaithful. My God, he could have a different bimbo every night. And it’s a lot of pressure being a public figure like he is. Of course he’s going to want a drink occasionally. After all, one day there will be books about him on the other aisle. With Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and that evil Chinese guy.

Dorothy’s eyes stopped in front of a stop sign — simple, bright red, a tacky font — declaring “Stop Now.” Dorothy picked up the thin volume and read the title.
How to Halt Divorce in its Tracks. Fourth Edition.

Hmm,
she thought.
Should this be in the legal section?

She cautiously looked around before opening it to the Table of Contents. Chapter 1: How to Turn Bitter Hatred Back into Love.

Hmm.

Chapter 2: Nip It in the Bud.

Yes, she
would
nip it in the bud. This divorce had to stop and it had to stop now.

Walking past the cutout of her husband, she held her selection close to her breast. Buying the book would be her affirmation of love for that day. She paid in cash before walking past Dorothy, who reminded her to come again.

“Damn. I can’t believe I ran into you, man,” The young Rakim said, his arm now wrapped around Crawford’s shoulder. Crawford was now trying to sip his beer at a slower pace. He knew he’d need to leave soon. Rakim looked smaller and less dangerous with his confident strut tamed by a barstool.

“Dr. James motherfuckin’ Crawford,” Rakim said proudly. “In my little watering hole.” Rakim was smiling with exhilaration and surprise. He looked like he had never smiled so wide in his life. “I can’t tell you how you’ve changed my life.” Rakim turned to the bartender. “Another drink for my man here. Anything he wants. And hurry the fuck up!”

He slapped Crawford on the back, his expression changing back to warm hospitality. Crawford tried to smile but was mostly trying to remain upright.

Rakim continued with a flood of compliments. “Hell, I wouldn’t have shit if it weren’t for you, man. I wouldn’t have fuckin’
shit
,” he said again. “I wouldn’t be a world-class recording artist. Hell, I definitely wouldn’t own this bar.”

“You own this bar?” Crawford muttered.

He leaned in toward Crawford, who languidly looked down at his beer. “You know what I’m sayin’, Doc? Listen to me. I owe this bitch all to
you
, motherfucker,” he said.

The bartender put another draft in front of Crawford and poured him another shot.

Rakim kept talking. “Bro, I read
Self-Confidence
fuckin’ years ago, when I was just a little kid. That started it all, man. I’m readin’ that new one a’yours
Self-Esteem
right now. Self-esteem pretty important, huh?” he said taking a swig of his Manhattan.

Crawford said, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Mister, Rakim?” Crawford said before downing the shot.

Rakim let out a great laugh. “That’s right bro, all thanks to you. Let’s celebrate.” He raised his glass in a toast and Crawford halfheartedly did the same. Rakim turned to his two buddies next to him. “Raise ‘em up, Niggas. Come on.” And they promptly did. “Anything you want to say, Maestro?” Rakim said. “We’re all motherfuckin’ ears.”

Crawford coughed. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Rakim laughed out loud. “Naw, man, shit,” he said before downing his drink.

Dorothy tried to pretend she had some important things to do that day, but the truth was she only had the common chores of every other day, made just slightly unusual by the fact that her husband was AWOL.

She was already angry with herself for telling her mother that she was leaving Jim. She didn’t know if she was leaving him or not, she just said so perhaps to gain some “clarity” or to muster up a bit of nerve to do something else.

Besides the small deli next to it, the drycleaner was the only other business at the bottom of the hill that served their neighborhood exclusively. It was one of those area businesses where people are more sociable simply because they know they’re talking to other people from the same income bracket, or the way many of them saw it, from the same side of the tracks.

Dorothy could barely muster up the concentration needed to pay the patiently waiting Chinese man the money she owed him. She was gnashing her teeth at the thought of Jim getting wasted in some bar. “Keep the change,” she said after finally pulling a fifty out of her wallet.

Dorothy hated running into other people from the neighborhood, especially the hodgepodge of housewives who wanted to believe that Dorothy was part of their demographic and so had lots in common, lots to talk about and lots of time to do so. Usually she could avoid such chitchat; other times it was impossible.

“Thank you very much, Miss Crawford,” he said, bowing graciously.

“Dorothy Crawford?” said a woman’s brassy voice slow and deliberate, from the front of the drycleaner. “Mrs. Dorothy James ‘Self-Esteem’ Crawford,” she rattled off. “Is that you?”

Dorothy knew who it was before she reluctantly turned around. It was Cynthia Norton, also known as Ding. Cynthia considered herself such a natural born hostess that she took her nickname from the sound of a doorbell.

Ding was the wife of a wealthy commodities broker who lived just down the street from the Crawfords. She invited Dorothy and Jim to almost every party she threw because, as she put it, “We have to socialize with our
famous
neighbors too.” Dorothy always came up with an excuse not to go, but that never deterred Ding. For her, it was try and try again. Accordingly, she was a big fan of Jim’s books, even though, as she once told him with a wink, “I don’t really need the advice.”

“What on earth are you doing in the drycleaners so early, dear?” Ding asked Dorothy.

Dorothy immediately noticed Ding was wearing a necklace that looked a little flashy for a trip to the drycleaners. It looked a little flashy for a trip to see the Queen of England.

Dorothy forced a smile. “What on earth are
you
doing in the drycleaners, Ding? Don’t you have some houseboy that does this kind of thing?”

Ding leaned in, “You know, I had this Korean boy that did all my running around. Tommy Kim. Remember him? And wouldn’t you know it — he went and got an engineering degree during his time off, behind my back.” She laughed caustically. “Can you believe that? He’s building rockets now for the government or some such thing. Got to get another, I guess.”

Dorothy had returned to thinking of Jim. “Another what?”

Ding acted irritated by the question. “Another Korean boy. Or some other kind. What’s the matter, Dorothy? You’re acting kind of strange,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said, trying to give Ding her full attention. “I’m just really busy right now.”

“I know how it is dear. I’m entertaining eighty people in two weeks. I guess you got my invitation?

“Oh sure,” Dorothy said, pretending to remember it.

“And I guess you’re coming?” she said with an unapproachable grin.

Before Dorothy could answer, Ding noticed a blouse on top of the clothes Dorothy was holding. “This is beautiful. Where did you get this? Is this silk?”

“Mrs. Norton, I’ve really got to go.”

“Mrs. Norton?” she said with a huff.

A mobile phone started ringing, and both women looked to see if it was hers. It was Dorothy’s.

“I see,” Ding said.

Dorothy answered without checking the number on the phone.

“Hello?”

“How’s your self-esteem,” the voice hissed.

What the…?
“Sorry?”

“How’s your self-esteem?”

“Can I help you with something?”

“Maybe. Maybe we could help each other.”

“Who is this?”

Ding was giving the man her ticket, trying to act like she was ignoring Dorothy’s conversation. “I’m sorry. You’re Korean, right?” she said to the man.

“I’m putting on a show,” the strange voice said. “And I want you to be in it.”

Dorothy hung up the phone and put it in her purse. Ding turned to Dorothy again, eager to resume their conversation.

“Always be sure and call me ‘Ding’, sweetheart. That’s what my friends call me.”

The phone rang again. Dorothy didn’t want to answer it, but she didn’t want to talk to this idiot woman.

“Hello?”

“I thought we might talk in person. I’m out in the parking lot. Take a look out the window.”

Dorothy walked to the window to find only three cars in the parking lot. Her Volvo, Ding’s bright yellow BMW, and a slightly battered, white Dodge van. It was parked facing away from the businesses, with two back doors that had different colors, both of which were windowless.

“I’m in the van you’re looking at. I can see you in my rearview mirror.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to be on my show.
The Happy Pappy Show
.”

Dorothy rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Come on out.”

Ding interrupted. “So you’re coming to my party?”

Dorothy walked toward the door. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” adding “Ding,” as she walked out.

The van was parked two car lengths away from her car, and Dorothy’s first inclination was to go up and give this dummy one upside the head. It didn’t even cross Dorothy’s mind to call the police, as she never was one to overreact to a prank, which this obviously was. She was trying to think of who would have her mobile phone number and who might make such a call, but she couldn’t think of anyone. Actually there were lots of people who had her number, especially women she knew from various social gatherings. Few of them, however, were men. It must be the juvenile son of one of her female friends, she thought. And in that case it’s no big whoop.

She decided to approach the van and see. She slowly walked to the driver’s side of the van, the side opposite her car.

If something happens to me, the people in the bakery and drycleaner will see anyway, she thought.

She could see the driver’s side window. It had been tinted dark but cheaply so, as it was starting to peel off around the edges.

Dorothy stood in front of the window, her dry cleaning now hanging over her shoulder. She waited a moment, then knocked on the window. Nothing. Then the van started up. Dorothy took a step back, and then the window came down.

The first thing she saw was the hat. Then the eyes, exaggerated and comical, surfacing from under the brim of the hat. Then the pipe.