Self-Esteem (38 page)

Maybe “disperse” meant something else. It appeared to be the only box not taped shut, so Crawford figured he might as well take a look inside. There was a book sitting on top of the first flap that looked old, but not ancient — obviously one of Peters’ psychology books that he had forgotten to pack until the last minute. Crawford opened it to the first page.

Psychology in a Culture of Vanity
by Dr. Alexander Ugelowski

Ugelowski? Who is that? I’ve heard that name.
Crawford stuck his thumb halfway through the book and began to read.

The modern man of the twentieth century cannot surrender himself to principles of love and self-sacrifice, even for the future good of his family or community, for he lives in a “psychological” age where principles of “altruism” — outside its therapeutic significance as an emotional resource — are oppressive and even offensive to the more sophisticated scientific mind.

God, what the fuck is this?

Beset with depression, apprehension, insignificance, and a confusing despondency, the modern man, having long evolved beyond religious conviction, still hopes to find a contemporary counterpart to faith’s redemptive peace of mind. As a result, the last enduring holy man has to be a “scientist” by classification — a role in modern times only the “therapist” has license to assume.

When Crawford read the word “therapist” it looked like “the rapist.” He batted his eyes to thwart the hallucination then thumbed ahead. He inserted his finger at random and began reading again.

Modern psychological therapy teaches the patient, sometimes by association, that he is eternally disconnected from the great stream of mankind and that this isolation has forever existed; it is only now he has evolved into an awareness of it. Trained to disconnect with the great mystery of his own being, the patient’s view becomes solipsistic, trampling the notion of an existence outside an individualism of here and now. The modern therapist then rationalizes that the patient’s psychological liberation can only come from aggressively defeating what were once considered natural inhibitions and by immediately gratifying every impulse, regardless of the long-term consequences. The therapist then teaches the patient that the key to all his problems is a lack of mental aplomb and emotional self-assurance. In short, it’s all just a matter of
self-esteem
.

“Self-esteem” was underlined. The only word on the page underlined, the only mark in the book he had seen. Crawford thumbed ahead to see if he could find other marks in the book but found nothing. He kept turning pages. Turning, turning, turning. Nothing. Then…

As psychological therapy concentrates its efforts on the vague concept of “
self-esteem
”

Again, “self-esteem” was underlined, and again, Crawford thumbed ahead.

self-esteem

Underlined in two places. He thumbed ahead.

as “
self-esteem
” rather than “self-respect” becomes the gauge by which the therapist communicates a sense of

Underlined once. He thumbed back.

self-esteem

Again, neatly underlined. Crawford ran his fingers along the fore-edge of the book. Again and again, it looked like Peters had underlined them all.

Perhaps it was someone else.

Crawford turned again to the title page and found the book was published the same year his first book was published.

What a coincidence.

Crawford looked at the door, wondering if he should question the secretary about the book. But the words he had read were now drawing his attention.

Ugelowski
,
where have I heard that name?

Then it came to him. The strange imbalance between an alcoholic’s neurotransmitters and synapses — which can sometimes produce the memory of an insignificant incident years ago while blocking the memory of one’s own name — now produced a small bio of Alexander Ugelowski.

Dr. Alexander Ugelowski: a Polish scientist who advocated that popular psychology, if unstopped, would trigger the end of modern civilization and consequently the world.

Hmmm.

That’s right. He thought it would drive us all crazy. Then he lost his mind and killed himself. I think.

Or was that just Uncle Jerry?

The brief tranquility he had found in Peters’ office now turned to dread. Crawford slowly opened the remaining two flaps on the box, and what he found calmed him like a shot of booze.

Garbage.

Garbage!
It was just a box of garbage.

Crawford snickered for show, even though no one else was there to see it. That’s why Peters’ had the book in here; it’s just garbage — empty boxes and empty wrappers. And shitty little books. It’s just garbage.

Crawford took out his trusty bottle. “I’ve been overreacting my whole life,” he said, taking a small sip. “Maybe I don’t have a drinking problem,” he said.

Didn’t someone abduct your wife and son?

Are you overreacting to that? he thought.

He put the bottle down and looked into the box again. He slowly stuck his hand in and picked up one of the empty wrappers.

“Duct tape,” he said, fingering the wrapper.
Hmmm.

He threw it back in the box and picked up more debris.

“Kitchen Knives. Set of Three.”

Hmmm.

He fumbled through the box again, this time a little faster.

“Videotape,” he muttered to himself, his hand involuntarily reaching for the bottle. “Unopened, blank.”

Videotape?

Crawford took a fierce swig then slammed the bottle on the desk.

No.

Shit, what are you thinking, Crawford?

“No way.”

Crawford stood back from the box and saw something round. Something
red
. It looked like a red moon eclipsed by white plastic. There was something very familiar about that one inch of curved red. Crawford’s heart was now racing, fed by a stream of adrenaline pouring down the back of his spine, through his guts, into his groin.

Knock, knock! Who’s there?

Before Crawford could register the pounding on the door, he instinctively turned to face the light, finding Peters’ secretary clutching her copy of
Atlas Shrugged
with an odd expression on her face, like she was also frightened by his frenzied thought.

“Dr. Crawfords,” she said nervously.

“What?”

“Have you ever read any Ayn Rand?”

“Huh?” he said.

“I said…”

Crawford looked back into the box and, seizing upon a fleeting moment of courage, grabbed the red object and hid it in his hand in one swift movement.

It was a red
rubber nose
that looked like it had been torn from a mask — torn frantically, as in an act of violence.

My God.

“Ever read any Ayn Rand?” she said.

“Never heard of him,” Crawford mumbled, shaking his head with bewilderment. He slowly turned to the girl. “Bitch,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I mean…”

“Well, fine!” she bellowed.

“No, not you!” he said, raising his hand to catch her before she walked out. “Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His urgency got her attention. “You need to talk to
me
?”

“Tell me something. What is all this stuff? The box here,” Crawford said.

“It’s Dr. Peters’ stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“You know, just his stuff.”

“What’s this box for? It says ‘disperse’ on it.”

She glanced at the box. “No, it says ‘dispense’, Dr. Crawfords.”

Crawford took another step toward her, and in tandem she backed away.

“What are these things?”

Crawford sensed the girl could tell he was drunk.

“I don’t know,” she said defensively. “Just leave me alone, okay.”

“Leave you alone?”

“Is everything okay, Dr. Crawfords?”

“By the way, it’s
Crawford
. With no
s
,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Where is Peters?”

The flimsy confidence the girl had shown behind her desk was now gone. “Where is he?” Crawford yelled.

“He hasn’t been here. He hasn’t been here in two days,” she said, almost starting to cry.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “He told me not to tell anyone. He just said he’d be gone. That’s all he said.”

“Have you noticed anything, I don’t know,
odd
about the doctor recently?”

“Odd? Like odd how?”

“Oh, fuck it. Never mind.” Crawford put the rubber nose in one of his pants pockets then placed the bottle of Scotch carefully back in the briefcase. The small yellow piece of paper with the scribbled S-shape sat in one corner as if frightened by its creator. Crawford grabbed it and unfolded it. He looked at it again, then held it up to…

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Winter.”

“Winter? Like the season?”

“No, with a
y
instead of an
i
. But pronounced the same.”

“Okay, Wynter. Have you ever seen this shape before?” Crawford held up the paper. “It’s a symbol or something, right?”

Wynter looked scared. “I don’t know what that is,” she said slowly, averting her eyes to the floor.

“You’re not looking at it. Look! Have you seen it?” he said, holding it closer.

“What is it?” she said warily, taking a step back.

“I don’t know. It’s an
S
with a smiley face at the bottom. Have you seen that before?”

“It kind of looks like the Sammy’s Cookie logo. But it’s not written neat enough.”

“Not neat enough?” Crawford said, looking at it. “What do you mean?”

“It’s sloppy. It kind of looks like the Sammy’s Cookie logo, but…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “What’s Sammy’s Cookies?”

She raised her hand revealing a half-eaten cookie. “This is a Sammy’s cookie.”

Crawford put the note and the copy of
Psychology in a Culture of Vanity
in his briefcase and closed it. “What do you know about these Sammy’s cookies?”

“They’re really good, especially with milk. Wanna try?” she said, again holding up the cookie.

“That box on your desk, are those Sammy’s cookies?”

“Yes.”

Crawford brushed past her into the reception area. He put his suitcase on her desk and flipped over the box top.

Sammy’s Cookies, We keep you smiling!
And sure enough, just above the bottom of the
S
were two small dots that formed a smile at the bottom.

“That’s it.”

“That’s what?” Wynter said, looking over Crawford’s shoulder.

Crawford turned around and grabbed Wynter by the shoulders. “Where are these cookies made?”

“I don’t know,” she said pulling back. “Take your hands off me.”

“Where are they made?”

“I don’t know! I just eat the cookies. I don’t work for the company or anything.”

Crawford turned around and turned the cookie box over, dumping the contents onto the floor next to the desk.

“Hey! I was supposed to share those with the other girls.”

“Shut up,” Crawford said. “This is a matter of life and death. This thing have Internet access?” he asked, pointing to the computer on the girl’s desk.

“Yes,” Wynter said.

“Sit,” he said, grabbing the chair and shoving it under her round bottom. “I want to know where these cookies are made, why they’re made. I don’t know, anything you can find out about them. And I need it in a hurry.”

Wynter looked at Crawford as if he were demented. She tried to remain calm. “I know where you can buy some if you really want…”

“Please hurry!”

The girl did as she was told, pulling up a list from a search engine. “‘Buy Sammy’s Cookies in Bulk,’ will that help?”

“No, I don’t want to buy any. Where are they made?”

“Let’s see,” she said, her fingers typing swiftly. “Corporate Headquarters in Louisville, Kentucky.”

“Where are they made?”

Wynter typed franticly. “Doesn’t say.”

“Well, keep trying.”

As the girl continued to type, Crawford backed against the wall behind him. What would he do now? He was in the office of the dean of psychology demanding cookie information. Surely, this was going to land him in jail or in the nut house or both. There was nothing left to do but go to the police and risk the consequences. If they weren’t going to suspect him of foul play before, they surely would now. And what would the psycho do if he found out Crawford had gone to the police? Would he slaughter Dorothy and Cal like pigs?
Don’t think such things.
Like he killed Jenny.
No!
Did he kill Jenny in the first place? Crawford looked at his trembling hand then at the briefcase on the desk.

I’ll go to the police. But I’ll get good and drunk first.

“The company was founded here. They used to be made right here in southern California.”

“Huh?” Crawford said, back in the moment. “What did you say?”

“Sammy’s Cookies started right here in southern California, in Gardena.”

“Gardena?”

Wynter read the information like a sixth-grader reading a class report, trying her best to impress the teacher. “Sammy’s Cookies was established in 1927 in Gardena, California, and prospered there for 22 years until the factory on West Rosecrans and Paxton Avenue was damaged by an electrical fire that…”

“Rosecrans and Paxton. Can you make me a map to that location?”

“I know where Rosecrans is. You just take the 405 south…”

“Make me a map please. Please hurry.”

Wynter clicked away and soon pages were coming out of the printer next to Wynter’s desk. It felt like a turning point; it felt like hope. And the first thing Crawford thought was that it called for a drink. He eyed his briefcase once more, thinking that Gardena could be a lengthy trip, depending on the traffic.