The Crawford Affair: a literary novel in three parts (Book 1)

by M. R. Adams

  She had only had some peas and that was two days ago, and her night was longer than had been expected, the night she conquered her Everest, Rich “The Cuke” Cleeson, the nickname she thought was due to the rugby team’s monochromatic green–dark on bottom, light on top–uniforms, but that also would’ve meant “The Cuke” would’ve been a team nickname–silly her. Anyway, he was last week's lacrosse buddies all rolled in one.

  She went to the fridge and chugged milk. Lucky for her, she didn’t care that people thought her a slut–yes, she knew claiming (even to oneself) that they did not care what others thought was cliché, a statement ruined by the pathetic, insecure, needy, and neurotic who declared their individuality only to complain incessantly while their tears fell into a near empty gallon of ice crea–She stopped chugging, tilted the bottle down, and looked at the ten clean plates, clean because she had used her tongue to lick up every crumb. But her situation was different. She was binging because she had an eating disorder. Peas two days ago? Of course she was going to freak when she saw so much cake.

  And so she tilted the milk back up, and let it run down down down. As she was saying, she didn’t care what people thought of her, because she had accepted years ago when she gave her first blow job that she was a slut. The next day, the boy–John? Jim? Jumbajango? It started with a J–gave her carnations and candy rings, necklaces, and bracelets, which was more attention than any male in her family, and there were four, had given her. And being a slut wasn’t that bad, because she ranked third in her class and her intelligence offset much of the negative stigma surrounding promiscuity. Also, she was a slut, but she didn’t act like one. She usually wore sexy dark jeans and a silky, but covering top. Clothes and make-up were where girls went wrong. Skanky looking girls got treated like hoes even if they weren't ones, wondering why boys always just wanted in their pants–her problem was the opposite, they always wanted her to date (bet their mommies and daddies would’ve loved that…bringin’ the darky home). And she was a slut, but not a bitch. That was important. She didn’t ruin her karma by screwing over nice guys because she was in denial about her nymph ways and thought a good boy would change her, or she got off on it, or because she couldn’t stand seeing a good girl succeed by getting a good boy. To the contrary, she was happy for all those who found love and that was why she stuck to athletes–the cute, egotistical ones that needed taming–because doing just anyone would be crossing over into a no-self-esteem whore. Sure they moaned about wanting a relationship but that was just because they had the subconscious need to exert authority, because on some level, they knew she was using them and not vice versa. Not even men liked being used once they realized that was the case. Everyone wanted to be loved, even if they had no intention of loving in return. In the end, she believed in saving the good boys, even if that meant making some good girl happy. Ruining them to the point where they became all mopey and boring you with Why-do-good-guys-always-finish-last bullshit was not something she could handle, and maybe, one day, when she had finally chosen to work her shit out, she could get a good boy of her own. God, how middle school. But thankfully so as it meant she wasn’t bitter. And bitter made you look haggard.

  She put the empty bottle of milk back in the fridge and returned to her stool at the counter where she dug into an almond cake sample. Ten left. After this one, she’d purge to make room–

  Thump! The intercom’s green light shined.

  Jessica glanced at the ceiling. Something must have fallen upstairs.

  Thud.

  She dropped her fork and rose from the stool, but then it occurred to her. It occurred to her who it may be, what it may be, and with whom it may be. She turned off the intercom and sighed. How is it that after ten pieces of cake, each slice was only looking better and better?

  Indeed, Jessica was partially right. The thump was not due to her father, Richard Liggins-Crawford, thrusting himself into Sally Keeter, who was pinned against the window in his office. No, the thump was due to the pale blue tome with gold vines that had fallen from the top of the mahogany bookshelf as a result of Richard Crawford thrusting himself into Sally. The thud was the falling of one of the two crystal low-ballers, drained of whiskey, that had also fallen.

  Sally laughed.

  “You payin’ for that,” said Richard, panting.

  “Yeah, make me pay.”

  Richard thrusted harder. Sally laughed.

  “This funny to you?”

  “Oh, sugah, I always laugh when it’s good. Stop actin’ like you don’t know. You–”

  “Shut up.” Richard clasped his hand over her mouth, then stuck his hand between her constricting thighs and began massaging himself before he got any softer.

  “Ooooo, ooooo.” Sally’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. He hadn’t considered that.

  Rougher.

  Her body convulsed in tight spasms. Richard thrusted deeper and buried his head in her breasts to keep her from seeing the calm in his eyes. He pulled out and pushed himself away, Sally throwing her legs down, staggering downward.

  Richard pulled up his dockers, tucked in his buttoned shirt, and began re-knotting his tie.

  Sally watched, chest heaving.

  Richard sat, slipping a patent leather shoe back on.

  Sally watched, lip curled: Years of fucking a man she had already fucked in high school and she was The Other Woman. He got to get all dolled up with his patent leather shoes in late spring, zip his fly like he had just done somethin’ beneath him while she slithered back to her rock to cook up some sewage for that other bottom feeder, her husband. Look at him: all perfect, not a bead of sweat. He married that skank–everybody actin’ like whorin’ around “discriminated by class,” but it didn’t, just people–but he had married that skank and alla sudden Richard Liggins was “reborn, born” again as Richard Crawford: the first horse-dicked man to change his name. He was no better than nobody, “only worse.” She owned who she was (because she had to, but still, “ain’t like she killed” herself or nothin’. Nope, she lived the hand dealt.)

  She looked up to see Richard staring at her as he slid into his chunky cardigan.

  “What’s wrong, woman? You moping and rambling to yourself like either a crazy or a drunkard. Get dressed.”

  “Ohhh, I see.” She walked forward, one knee gave way and she headed for the floor but caught herself. Richard hadn’t moved. “Come here,” she bent down, “cook ya meals,” she grabbed her sweat stained panties, “slip for a quick fuck,” lifted them under her dress, “then move on.” She sucked in her belly and pulled the underwear up and over her. They were fifty-three, this shit was old as soon as it had begun–all the youngah lovahs she coulda had, like that boy baggin’ groceries (the slow ones always knew how to use their hands, and for every minute they were slow in school, they were quick to learn in bed). Sally gathered her senses before the words became so alive within her that she began mumbling them. She looked to Richard, who shrugged, and said:

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  Ha! Droopy eyed mothah fucka. Couldn’t even pull off an insult without lookin’ pathetic–she rested against the window–He actin’ like he had to pick himself up, because she had drug him down oh so low, but maybe, just maybe, he was draggin’ her down, keepin’ her from doin’ somethin’ good, leavin’ her all those years ago–he was gettin’ what he deserved. She wiped her mouth.

  “You ashamed, suge?” She laughed. “Ain’t like we cheatin’?” A snarl.

  “Shut it up, Sally.”

  “Don’t you be–”

  Richard took a step forward. She knew not to push this, ain’t like it was the first time he, or any man, had hit her. All she had done was ask how the boy was, the youngest, and next thing she knew, she was pickin’ herself up off the floor. Now, with everything going on, she’d walk her line like it was made of glass.

  “Let’s not fight, hon,” she said. “I know things gonna change a bit this summer, they do every summer, but I know this summer wit
h the mem–”

  The back of a hand flew through the air, and Sally felt the slam against the window before she even felt the burning sting on her cheek.

  “Don’t talk about it. Don’t you talk about it none.”

  “HA ha ha ha HA haHA!” Poor fool. She lowered her voice and stomped her feet: “‘Don’t you talk about it none.’”

  “You makin’ fun?”

  “‘You makin’ fun?’”

  Richard’s eyes widened. “Look, Sally, I am sorry. You know how you get–”

  “That’s okay, suge. Don’t talk about it...none. You can take the boy out da po’ but you can’t take the po’ out da–”

  Richard charged her. Sally pushed herself into the corner, leaving a cap full of space between them.

  “You’re making fun again.”

  “I said–”

  “It’s not what you said; it’s how you said it.”

  “I just talkin’ the way I always talk.”

  After a moment, Richard backed away.

  Sally, feeling the tension from her cramped body, shook herself out until her muscles had once again disappeared into flab. Where was all that fire when he was inside of her? Mm hmm…she knew. She knew that mothah fucka hadn’t came once in the years she came to work for them and they’d been fuckin’.

  “Alright,” she said, “I’ll let you be.”

  “I’m sorry, Sally, but–”

  “I know, Love.” Yellow bellied son of a farmer. She took up her white shoes stained with aged filth, and took her leave with a barefooted, hump shaking strut.

  Richard walked to the volume and the now fractured low baller that had fallen. He placed the baller on the bookshelf lining the wall and sat in the wicker chair under the window.

  He had said this was going to be the last time that whor–Sally (who was he to judge a whore for being who she was when he was the one not being who he should’ve been? What that was he wasn’t sure, but he could feel it, that awkward feeling, that feeling that got stuck in his throat every time he was around someone, even Sally.) He had said this was going to be the last time that she was allowed upstairs, not just for the summer but period–and to be honest, he should’ve fired her, but he couldn’t: he knew what it was like to need a job when he had to work on that fishing boat to support his mother when his father broke his leg and couldn’t work for a month, and he knew what it was to have that job then lose it and do it all over again–the searching, the asking–but it was different, worse, because for a while you knew what it was like to not have to search, not have to ask, but just have. He played his part in this mess and it didn’t make sense–it wasn’t fair–for her to suffer, having to try to find a way to put food on the table while he went about his business, pretending to be some lord of the house, eating his three meals and two refreshers, and dressing in clothes that had been bought off racks brought to the house–he picked a pill off the chunky cardigan (he’d call to have the stylist send a new one). Sally would work there, a fitting punishment. He’d have to feel her presence in the kitchen while she had to know she was making food she’d never eat for a family that would never be hers (although, he had made things easier by making sure she didn’t have to come out and serve).

  At first, he had considered that Horatio had hired her knowing exactly who she was, but that was absurd, and he was grateful for inheriting from the Crawford name one gift–self control, because he would’ve made a fool of himself yelling at Horatio that day she had plopped out carrying a sterling silver tray with Cornish hens, not even considering that Horatio would never do anything to bring shame to his name, his legacy.

  What was started was started and to end it before its time (when a woman wanted it ended) wasn’t an option. A fire-bellied woman was a handful on a good day. He had yelled at her, insulted her, hit her, tried to beat her, but he couldn’t get angry enough because the quiver in her eye always betrayed her as the pathetic soul she was; yet, she stayed–asking, begging for more.

  He’d have to get a motel room–something wretched and infested, befitting of what they deserved. He’d make up some business trips: acquiring some overseas land in England, Spain–not Spain, Christopher loved Spain, even though he never could get the boy on a plane.

  Richard laughed. And just for that, that one laugh after it had been months since he remembered laughing–and even that laugh had been at something Christopher did which he now couldn’t remember–but just knowing that something had happened made him laugh again, and just for that, those two laughs he had now, he’d have to do something above and beyond for Christopher’s birthday.

  Richard looked at the volume in his hand. He had pictured himself reading it under the sun’s streaming light, but now he had a new idea:

  He moved to his desk, placed the volume in a drawer, pushed a button on the desk’s side, then sat back as the flowing sounds of piano music filtered into the room from overhead speakers, the same music that had wafted into the dining room, that Eliza Dunn had so admired coming via the sound system strewn through the manor’s halls, and the main foyer, and from the ensemble room where Christopher Richard Crawford sat at his grand piano (his, as his initials, C.C., second C hooked to the first, were carved in gold in the cherry wood, a gift from Grandfather).

  Christopher turned the page of Lost in Spring and swept his hand back to the piano keys, playing with a naturally gifted legato at a tempo that suited his ear–a moderato, as opposed to the designated alegretto. He wasn’t sure how he had it so memorized. He could play without looking as long as the page he was on was in front of him, but if a string of air blew the pages off the stand it was–his fingers stumbled. Another odd thing about generating (creating?) music was that he couldn’t hear the music, the sounds, until he messed up, and if he did try to listen then he messed up. Enjoying the playing couldn’t occur simultaneously with the enjoyment of the listening nor could it be enjoyed simultaneously with the enjoyment of the entertaining. Only after it was over could the accomplishment of entertainment be enjoyed, because one thought of someone listening and–his hands stopped. He searched the page for his place. He found it on the next page. Hands in position. But momentum gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Downtown Riverdale

  Robert Crawford, grandson to Horatio Crawford, son to Richard and Anna Crawford, and older sibling to Christopher and Jessica Crawford, stood under the wrought iron arch that said, “Riverdale,” looking down the downtown’s Old Main Street with its faded and upturned brick sidewalks, chipped lamp posts, boarded, barred, and broken windows, and cobblestone street with rusted trolley tracks. It was here.

  He felt it a week ago as he sat in rows and piles of local history books and archived newspapers. He’d considered the electronic databases sitting under the plaque reading, “A Gift from the Crawfords,” but felt something–history?–insight?–as he sat amongst the books and newspapers–tangible knowledge. It was sitting in the center of this informational collage that pictures of downtown Riverdale flashed: flower dressed women, casually suited men, and Sunday best children going atop the stone steps to Michael’s Bakery or walking out with ice cream from Jake’s Main Street Sweets–and upon looking at these scenes, he felt (and on a good day knew) it was here: the subject, the point of exploration, for his thesis.

  Logic had told him the best place to start for ideas was the library, specifically among the fiction and non-fiction stacks as his degree was for literature, but the more frustrated he got trying to read into texts, the more desperate he became, until it occurred to him: reading was never his thing, at least not in that bookworm way. He had gotten through undergrad by looking at the world around, trying to find the faintest connections between a hummingbird, an abandoned warehouse, and two elderly lovers on a park bench and the texts he was mandated to read. He had forgotten this disposition of his for approaching the world. Perhaps he should’ve been an archeologist–an anthropologist. A philosopher. A philosophizing anthropologist. But instead, Grandfather,
with his intolerance for exploration and discriminatory approval of clear right action, made him choose English, finding the major versatile, and then hinting–which, when filtered through Grandfather’s character became mandating–that he take up law, but fortunately, with the timeless aides of procrastination and functional depression, he bombed the LSAT, which led to Grandfather asking, as if his personality were the invention of a Swiss clockmaker, “What will you do?” and he had wanted to scream, “Move to Timbuktu and dance with naked aborigines!” but he was too tired–drained–by these dialogues, questioning dialogues where things were too much thought about before their time which only deepened his uncertainty about everything–Life–that he said, like a pansy, “Why Grandfather, I rather love the lit I’ve been studying” white people were so fascinating “and I wish to continue. Perhaps, I will be a professor,” and Grandfather replied, “Excellent, a doctor in the family.” He was screwed. He hadn’t considered certain issues when he applied for early matriculation. He was so busy rushing through school like a good little overachiever that he never considered what he was rushing towards. His future? What future?

  Looking within texts was not his way. That was Grandfather and Christopher’s way–the readers, the literates: Grandfather the scholar with no institutional loyalties, just his interests and self-initiative, and Christopher, like their mother, the writer who wrote as if writing could just be a disposition, a biologically ingrained tendency. Asked why he wrote, Christopher would shrug, then sensing you were expecting an answer, he’d casually click off all the cliché reasons he knew one would accept for why one writes: self-expression, passion for reading, blah blah blah–but Christopher was too honest, in a blunt not-so-noble way, to convince anyone who knew him that he meant a word of it. He wrote because that was what he did: write. Christopher should’ve written his thesis, while he searched for his passion–his disposition–that “thing” he was meant for. But too late now. He was in it. One year to go, and it wasn’t like he had a better plan, which he’d need before talking with Grandfather.