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!”
He wants my son.
“Yesssssiiiiirrrrreeeee.”
Crawford only saw Jan smiling, her torso rotating to the audience. “Doesn’t that sound simple, folks? Yes. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
The audience was no longer human. Crawford only saw pieces — a pink mouth, black hair, green eyes. He was desperately looking for a face to focus on, someone to anchor him back to the real world. But it was just Jan, rippling on an ocean of human flesh.
“And if you haven’t checked it out yet, Dr. Crawford’s principles have been made into a fantastic children’s show called The Happy Pappy Show.”
Now Crawford could swear he was hearing an applause track.
“And it’s a real treat,” Jan continued, the smile on her face getting wider and wider. “We’ve got to go to a commercial right now. But first, let’s show our home viewers what we passed out to our studio audience today. We’ve got a surprise for you, Doctor!”
A teenage page came up to Jan and handed her something. It looked like a piece of flesh.
“These are going to be available in stores soon.” Jan was distracted. “What? Oh. They’re already available in stores? Right now? You can go buy these in stores today?” She looked back into the camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” turning to the audience as if to say get ready. “It’s the new Happy Pappy mask!”
Jan and each one of the audience members, and even the crew, lifted a piece of fleshy rubber material from their laps to cover their faces.
Jan smiled tenderly. “Ladies and Gentleman, doesn’t that make you feel better?”
The new Happy Pappy mask. Lee, you sick fuck. Oh God!
Crawford was smothering. He couldn’t look away; there was nowhere to look. People started laughing — all of them. The faces started to bounce, each of them the killer in the bathroom, the killer who had taunted him for the last two and a half days. The sea of pink, dotted with some black masks and some brown, was distorted flesh coming to a boil.
Then the tune started to play, hitting Crawford like a belt in the face. He felt like he had just swallowed a basketball as he put his right palm to his throbbing stomach.
Then everyone started to sing.
“Be kind to yourself. Be fond of yourself. If you’re not a chum you’re a bum to yourself.”
“Come on!” Jan shouted, her microphoned hand flailing with gusto.
“Be a friend to yourself. Without end to yourself. Remember it’s the best you can do for your health.”
“Please,” Crawford said.
“I think he said something.”
“Please,” he said again, or thought he said, just before he vomited.
CHAPTER 15
Cal woke up and wondered if he was dead or alive. Only his sense of touch made him realize he was still bound, still lying in the dark. The blood covering Cal’s lip was dry, as he could feel the crusty surface with the bottom of his tongue. The room was now pitch black — if it was a room — and not even a light from under the door gave shape to the void. Something smelled like sulfur or boiled eggs or furniture polish or God knows what. Cal coughed and spat to get the taste out of his mouth.
“Hello?” a helpless voice said. “Cal, is that you?”
“Darrin? Can you hear me? Darrin?”
“I can hear you. I can hear you.” There was an echo following Darrin’s voice that made him sound far away but close at the same time. He could be in the next room or he could be sitting in a metal cage just a few feet away. He sounded meek and afraid — a complete reversal of his persona. “Are you okay,” he said, sounding on the verge of tears.
“I’m okay, I think. But I can’t move. I’m tied up,” Cal said.
“So am I.”
“Can you see anything? I can’t see a goddam thing.”
“I can’t see anything either.”
“How long have you been there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe an hour. That man moved me here.” There was silence for several seconds. “You know, the man. You know who I’m talking about?” D
arrin asked strangely, like a child.
“What did you get me into?” Cal said.
Darrin didn’t make a sound.
“Answer me!” Cal shouted as he rocked from side to side, struggling with what felt like a straightjacket wrapped in duct tape. “Who told you to come here?”
There was only silence.
“Say something!”
“Some guy. Some doctor or something.”
Cal couldn’t believe how nonchalant Darrin was. Why did I trust this pool hall loser? Cal looked deep into the nothingness in front of him and tried to imagine Darrin’s face. He wanted to kill him right then. “A doctor? What doctor?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t.” Darrin’s tone of voice was now bordering on blase.
“You don’t know? Who was he? Where’d you meet him?”
There was another long pause. And just before Cal could speak, Darrin said he couldn’t tell him.
Cal’s anger turned to fury. “You can’t tell me? You’ve gotten me tied up in a warehouse by some nutcase and you can’t tell me what’s going on?”
“I know,” he said with a peculiar joviality. “This guy’s nuttier than a fruitcake.”
“Who is he, Darrin?!”
Cal heard Darrin let out a deep breath, the echo making it sound like gas escaping from a pipe.
“I met this guy through…”
“What guy?
“The guy… your father introduced me to him.”
“My father? What kind of bullshit is that? You’ve never met my father.”
“Yes, I have.”
“What about the coke? I thought we were scoring some coke.”
“The coke… there never was any coke.”
“What?” Cal was still now.
“The man that tied you up, he works with your dad,” Darrin insisted.
Cal started moving his clenched fists. “Don’t bullshit me, you freak! My father doesn’t work with anyone. He’s a writer.”
Darrin’s voice was now even calmer. “He works with a lot of people. Think about it.”
“Like who?”
Self-Esteem Page 23