Book Excerpt
Chapter
1
Derek Crawford IX
September 2005
The Anger Management counselor was starting to tick me off.
I had a dog to feed and a dozen other things to do, and a two-hour anger
management assessment session was not my idea of a healthy alternative to paying
a damn speeding ticket, especially since the old man’s voice kept rattling in my
head.
Keep it off your Permanent Record.
Two hours smiling and nodding thoughtfully at a twit two degrees behind me
psychology-wise told me I could look back at the roots of an angry reaction, and
once I confront the root I will be able to conquer and change the reaction. Or
some such.
Show her your root and then see her reaction.
I wonder what her reaction would be if I asked her how to exorcize the old man’s
dead voice…
I went into “pleasantly interested” mode and as she yammered I filled out the
forms and tests and gobbledygook and let my mind wander into the files of the
past, pinpointing the nugget of irritation to the moment of its conception in
order to analyze, mask, and compensate accordingly.
If I’d have done that when the stupid keystoner cop pulled me over for speeding
instead of going off on his sorry ass I wouldn’t be in need of an anger
management assessment in the first place, and I was damned if I was going to
risk getting red-flagged at airports over calling
officer-just-doing-my-job-McCormack a fat-assed pig humper. The thought of his
beet-red face as he furiously scribbled tickets while leaning on the trunk of my
car made me smile and I could hear the old man laughing in my head.
I wonder how red his face would’ve gotten if a bitch in the trunk had dripped
blood on his shiny black shoes?
The counselor must have noticed my smile and approved, as she cleared me after
the first half of the session and the government’s brief intervention into my
life was over.
The old man would have had a camera outside the door to record the faces of the
ticked-off folks coming out. The ones that had to come back to have more of
their anger managed.
I drove home at the limit and without incident, fed the dog, gave up on the rest
of it and crashed on the couch, still shaking my head over the premise of
managing my anger.
How long now, a dozen years since I first saw the shrink?
*****
I’ve been pretty cynical about counselors, social workers, therapists, and other
so-called Do Gooders since I was 15 years old. That was a year or two after my
sister Barbs died, and then my sorry-assed excuse of a mitochondrial DNA donor
Cindy Lu died, and I aced the stupid IQ tests again, and they sent me to the
sorry-assed yappy bitch school counselor.
Mrs. Eva Snelling, counselor-at-law of Centerville high, had turned 36 the first
week of May, married the town chief of police George Snelling 12 years ago when
he was just a constable and she was fresh out of college, owned one cat and two
cars, had an in-ground pool but no kids to play in it, and was a size 12
although she hoped to lose a few pounds this summer.
I was subconsciously filing these facts and the rest of the crap she was spewing
into a giant inhaling nose-shaped filing cabinet in my head. I knew it was her
“warm-up-the-new-kid routine” during the infamous first session, and I was
wondering why it took her six years to finish college and trying not to look
bored when she zinged me with an innocuous question that avalanched into a
shitstorm before I had a chance to see it coming.
Quick like a bunny.
She was yammering about her clothes and had descended into dry cleaning vs.
machine washing when she asked me if I knew how to iron shirts. I was
dumbfounded by the question and answered without thinking.
Women’s work anyways.
“Why in the hell would I iron shirts?” I clamped my mouth shut and looked down
at my shirt before the rest came out; exactly how did my shirt ironing abilities
or lack thereof relate to the facts that my granny and sister and sorry excuse
of a mother Cindy Lu were all dead, my old man was a brutal drunk, and my IQ
score was so far off the charts that some clerk just maybe finally figured out
that I might just be a tad bit bored in good old Centerville High and needed to
go see a counselor and check out?
I was already finishing tenth grade, having moved up a year the first day of
first grade when they discovered I was reading a book a day. Now I wanted to
test out of high school, or at least start some college courses to get a few
semesters lead.
To be honest, the woman flat out stupefied me; I had passed into the realm of
boredom ten minutes into the room which caused me to blurt that we didn’t have
an iron. This rapidly descended into a discussion about my mother: did I
remember her ironing? Did she stop? If not, why didn’t I iron my shirts?
That’s what a wife is for.
Washing, Ironing, Folding, Entertaining…
W-I-F-E
Well, the damn iron died a few months ago, and I was pleased to report to Mrs.
Smelling that dead Cindy Lu’s housekeeping or lack thereof had nothing to do
with the state of my education.
The iron had died of natural causes from an overload of iron sediment from our
well water; I didn’t bother with the detail that it had been leaking a bit since
the old man used it alongside Barb’s head when she got too sassy a few years
ago. I had my poker face back on and was congratulating myself on the recoup
when she blindsided me.
Holy wah.
Where’d the water come from, how did the pump work, how old was the pump, had
the well been tested…the questions came like projectile diarrhea of the vocal
chords.
I lost her when she asked the age of the pump. I mean, I was 15 years old. Just
because I have an IQ of 186 doesn’t mean I know everything, or care to. How am I
supposed to know how old an ancient outside water pump is? Carbon date the
sucker? It was older than her sorry fat ass, that’s for sure.
It was too late. Before I knew it we were talking about the shithouse being
plugged half the time because the drains were messed up and I was stumbling out
answers as fast as I could think.
The bottom line was Mrs. Smelling decided she was required to report to the
social worker that my dad just might be an unfit parent and that we had no
running water or working plumbing in our house. She introduced me to the social
worker Mr. Hal Fegnorini “just call me Hal” to make an appointment to check the
house, and said she would see me on Monday for an update.
The shit really hit the fan that night when I had to tell the old man that Mr.
Hal Fegnorini “Just call me Hal” the social worker was coming to check the house
for proper sanitation facilities and perhaps his alcohol level, too, at two the
next afternoon, even though it was a Saturday and he usually had the weekends
off.
Even though the old man was already pointing to the basement door I was able to
get in that we didn’t have a boat charter scheduled that weekend so he could
show the lodge as our sanitation access and thereby skirt the law. I caught him
before his temper really blew, and he quickly switched to formulating a plan to
schmooze his way through the house check.
After the welts on my ass stopped hurting from our insubordination trip to the
Darkroom, I spent most of the evening and night cleaning the kitchen and living
room of the piles of newspapers, car parts, empty bottles, and other crap that
the old man had started to hoard.
Aside from calling every hour or so for a fresh beer the old man sat in the
darkened living room of Crawford House, occasionally grumbling to himself as he
lit Pall Mall after Pall Mall with his Zippo lighter. The lighter had been his
dad’s, and the mechanism was worn to a soft snicking sound each time the lid
opened.
The snap of its closing was my subconscious gauge of his anger as I scrubbed out
the water bucket, cleaned the iron residue from the well water off the ladle,
and swept out the kitchen. A few hours later I was off to bed, tomorrow’s dread
like a lead weight in my stomach.
By the next day I was much calmer. I had checked and found there was no law
saying you had to have plumbing, and the old man was notorious for flying under
the radar. By the time two o’clock rolled around the house was clean and coffee
made, and I was on standby to play waiter if the need should arise.
The old man greeted just call me Hal at the door, shaking his hand and offering
him a coffee or a beer in his best Good-Old-Boy manner. One thing I’ve got to
say about the old man: once he’d got his “How’s your fishing arm” routine
shining on a tourist, cop, grocery clerk, or social worker, very few have a
chance, man or woman.
He’d zone in on the person and do a near-instant assessment; not just as a
predatory instinct but an almost Sherlockian talent. He’d notice shoes and lint
and loose buttons and all kinds of crap about people, always looking for a clue
to their weak spot.
After a cursory scan of the water bucket, just call me Hal kind of did a half
shrug towards the old man and raised his eyebrow at me with a “what can I say?”
kind of look.
“Since it’s been reported, I guess I’ll have to write this up. There might be a
fine and a follow-up involved, too, I suppose.”
The old man’s poker face served him well, but I’d seen the look he shot my way.
I resigned myself to the bite of the belt and hoped it wouldn’t be in the
Darkroom again tonight, and hoped the old man could talk his way out of the fine
before he decided to hang me from the hook before unbuckling.
“Well now, seeing as today’s Saturday and not a day of work for someone on the
school board payroll, will that report and fine have to be on paper or can we do
a little business in a charter or something like that in trade?”
The old man was smooth, and his calmness rattled the social worker for a second,
long enough for the old man to know he’d won the hand. He flashed me a mean grin
as he pulled two beers from the fridge.
“To tell the truth Mr. Crawford, that’s the real reason I scheduled this visit
for a Saturday,” replied just call me Hal as he popped the tab on the can. “I
can tell by your son’s high grades and your family situation this is most likely
a case of an intelligent teenager feeling a bit of rebellion from missing his
momma, if you know what I mean. Gets bored and exaggerates to the school
counselor, who gets all excited and calls me in.”
It was obvious just call me Hal had never met the likes of Cindy Lu.
Hal took a swig of his beer and tipped the can at the old man for emphasis as he
continued. “I can take care of Mrs. Snelling so this doesn’t go on his permanent
record. I know just what that woman needs to keep the words from flowing.” He
winked at the old man.
“As long as you’re good for your word that there won’t be any more complaints to
the counselor from you, young man?” asked Hal as he turned to me.
“No Sir,” I stated firmly. “Mrs. Snelling will certainly agree this is a
complete misunderstanding. Our home is fully plumbed just a few steps down the
path, in the lodge where my dad runs his business.” I was in my best Beaver
Cleaver mode, eyebrows knitted earnestly.
I waved my hand towards the fridge. “Take a look, our fridge is full. So is the
one downstairs, and the one in the lodge, too.” I pointed towards the lake. “My
dad’s a great provider, and he pays me to work the charters with him, too.”
I nodded towards the old man, looking him straight in the eye. “As long as I
keep my grades up, that is!” I grinned my brightest for the two of them, and
could see the results as I put my arm around the old man’s shoulder in my best
adult manner.
He clapped me on the back the way he liked to do if he wanted to award or punish
me, and just call me Hal was looking a bit misty-eyed as the old man turned from
me and offered his hand to Hal. They did some male-bonding thing that I didn’t
understand yet, and the next thing I knew just call me Hal the social worker and
the old man were joking and discussing baseball, the proper discipline of
teenagers, the pros and cons of grounding vs. spanking as punishment, and
personal alcohol preferences.
The old man invited Hal to join him for the ballgame down in the basement rec
room, which really ticked me off. The bastard had made me clean the filthy
kitchen and living room for the visit and then takes the guy downstairs. I
shrugged as I made sure there was an extra twelve pack in the fridge and ran
upstairs to grab a couple of books, optimistic about my odds of escaping the
belt tonight as the old man and Hal settled in downstairs in the ratty
recliners, laughing and chatting in anticipation of the Detroit Tigers opening
pitch.
*****
As you walked down the basement stairs you find yourself in the laundry area,
where two freezers and a spare fridge share space with several toolboxes and the
now defunct washer and dryer. Not that they didn’t work, the thing was the old
man didn’t want to spring the cash to have the water and sewer lines dug up and
replaced so the damn things could function. He won’t even let me dig up the back
yard and connect to the lodge, which has a separate run to the road and works
just fine. The second line runs water and sewer to the old carriage
house-garage, the boat house, and the lodge, so those buildings drain
independently from the house. When you need them to.
The rec room door was 20 foot or so straight ahead from the basement stairs.
Once the scene of childhood blocks and toys, the room now consisted of a 19-inch
portable TV and VCR, the recliners, a dusty old sofa, and a full-sized pool
table whose mildewed felt was covered by a drop cloth and a dingy sheet. A
matching sheet was tacked over the door to the Darkroom, next to the rack of
pool sticks. The old man’s movie projector setup where he screened his own as
well as the special mail order films was called the Darkroom: secured by an
ancient wooden door, the chucking of its deadbolt was dreaded by every member of
the family.
By the second inning the old man was telling fishing stories and they were
talking walleye size. I was reading the college English prerequisites, trying to
figure out what I could test out of if they let me. When I took a round of beers
down the old man was pouring tequila shots and I knew he had made a deal with
just call me Hal. When a pitching change came up the old man started showing off
his movie camera setup and I knew he and Hal had hit it off and I would probably
be clear of the Darkroom punishment tonight.
I hovered upstairs in the kitchen, knowing as the old man settled in he’d want
me running drinks as the game played on. I settled in at the kitchen table with
my psych book and kept one ear trained to the open basement door, figuring I
could do a couple of chapters an inning with no sweat. I might even be able to
finish the work and test out of that crap, too. Might have two semesters of
college done before I graduate high school.
If I can sweet talk that bitch Mrs. Smelling, who started all this crap.
When I took down the third round of drinks Hal suggested that I join them for an
inning or two, which made the old man scowl. I referred to my studies to placate
him, and I could hear their conversation drift up the stairs as they continued
talking about teens and beer and discipline and such, with the old man taking
the view that he’d rather have a kid party at home than not know where they are
or what they’re doing with whom. Just call me Hal felt that if a kid was
disciplined right in the first place they’d know not to break the law; and so
their banter continued as I read.
By the fourth round they started insisting I join the party for the rest of the
game.
“Whet your whistle with the men for the first time, boy?” suggested the old man,
half waving the tequila bottle my way.
“No thanks, Sir. I’m going to try and finish my book before the game is over, if
that’s okay with you, Sir.” I gave him a smile and my best suck-up wave as I
turned back towards the stairs.
I forgot how fast he was. Quick like a bunny.
“Don’t tell me no, boy. When a man offers you a drink, you offer him your hand.
Then you take the drink, and you take it like a man.” The ceiling flashed by as
the old man yanked me back by the hair. The bottle was rammed halfway down my
throat before I could shut my mouth.
I could hear them laughing while I threw up into a wastebasket. By the time I
rinsed my mouth out with water and my eyes had stopped watering and I turned
back to the room the old man had handcuffs attached to two corners of the pool
table and the camera ready. He walked up the stairs and shut the basement door,
unbuckling his belt and staring at me as he came back down the steps.
That’s when the real party got started.
He had me cornered and handcuffed and bent over the table in no time, my face
mashed into the grimy dustcover and the voice of good old just call me Hall the
social worker egging him on in the background as he leaned in and talked to me.
“You’re 15 years old, boy. If you can’t shake your daddy’s hand when he offers
you a drink, then your mamma missed the mark when she taught you your manners.
“Well I’m telling you right now boy, Cindy Lu is dead and gone and it’s time for
you to step up to the plate, so to speak.
“Tonight I guess you’re going to learn I’m going to teach you the rules once and
for all.
“You’re going to learn not to talk about family and business to outsiders, and
you’re going to learn how to take it like a man, that I been easy with this belt
because you’re my boy.
“You’re going to learn once and for all I call the shots on Crawford Hill,
whelp. I’m going to let Hal here give you a taste of this belt, and when he’s
done you’re going to shake his hand and thank him like a man, boy.”
He pulled my head up once more and offered the bottle; almost gently this time.
When he let go of my hair I could hear him call out as he walked to the camera.
“Take ten with the belt like a man, boy, or maybe I’ll let him give something
else to you like one.
Make a sissy-boy out of you in no time if you start giving me any sass, whelp.
You remember that when you see that fancy fat-assed pig-humper counselor lady on
Monday.”
By the end of that Saturday night I was begging to have that bottle back, and
when the old man was done I shook Hal’s hand like a man and thanked him.
I vowed I would never puke tequila again.
Monday morning Mrs. Eva Diarrhea Mouth found what was left of her cat sucked up
in the in-ground pool filter. The bottom corner of the patio door screen was
torn a bit and there was a scattering of squirrel acorns, grim evidence to the
path the miscreant pussy had taken in falling into the pool.
I was surprised how upset she was that afternoon at our appointment. Sad cat
story, apology for the plumbing misunderstanding, and she’d filed the paperwork
for me to skip 11th grade. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she seemed to have a
hard time finishing her sentences.
Whether she knew Hal Fegnorini’s proclivity for whipping 15-year-old boys or not
when she sent him out to talk to the old man, I figured the least I owed the
Nose was a good ass-whipping herself some day.
For now, the demise of the cat had a pretty awesome effect.
*****
When it came to closing off the tunnels, I did the old man or his daddy, or his
granddaddy one better as I prepared the old house and its secrets for the
possibility of new owners.
Two hundred years of Crawfords on this land whelp don’t you screw it up.
Each doorway was systematically bricked or stone-walled up, right through to
Cindy Lu’s now devoid-of-leather dominatrix chamber. The chamber itself, like
the rest of the underground network, was devoid of evidence and I left it and
the Darkroom doors as my last project for security’s sake.
Taught you a lot of lessons in that room.
The night before I bricked up the top half of the Darkroom door I drove the
Deuces two hours south down the Detroit River and went whore hunting in Toledo.
When I was finished with her I returned home to finish bricking up the past.
“Here’s one for the memories, old man.” I leaned over the Darkroom door and
dropped the prostitute’s warm heart onto the cement floor, smiling at the plop
of its wet landing.
That’s my boy.
It was midnight and it was my birthday and it was close to the end of the
current Five Year Plan.
I was twenty-nine now, three months away from flat-lining out the old man’s
family trust codicil, because there was no way in hell I was going to bring
another Crawford whelp into this house before I turned thirty.
Whelp of mine or not I’ll kill you if you don’t.
Purchase Links
About the Author
Born
and raised on the shores of Michigan’s Lake St. Clair, one of Robin Hewitt’s
earliest memories is of Mama warning her to beware of The Bogeyman, who lived in
the caves on the banks of the Clinton River. Although extensive teenage
explorations brought her to the conclusion that Mama had actually been worried
that she would fall in the river, she never forgot the warnings or the idea that
a monster could live beneath our feet, slinking out at night to strike terror in
the hearts of unsuspecting women and children.
Robin still lives a few miles away from Lake St. Clair. With extensive
experience writing non-fiction articles and books, Crawford Hill is Robin’s
first published venture into the world of fiction writing.
Author Links
About the Book
Derek
Crawford smiles pleasantly at the anger management counselor as the voices in
his head beckon him into spiraling madness.
A burned-out and now unemployed child psychologist, Derek lives alone in the
Victorian mansion on Crawford Hill. From his great-grandmother’s widow’s walk on
the fourth floor he can watch the lights of Centerville blinking on as the sun
sets over Lake St. Clair.
From the basement he can enter his great-grandfather’s network of caves, and
prowl beneath the homes of the unsuspecting town.
As he nears his 29th birthday, one voice is getting louder. More persistent.
It’s the gravelly voice of his old man, dead a dozen years but no less demanding
than when he whipped his belt across Derek’s back.
Only one year left whelp, don’t you screw it up.
Derek knows he’s closing in on the deadline: to inherit Crawford Hill, he must
be married and father a son before he turns thirty. A legacy he’s determined not
to fulfill, because he refuses to chance perpetuating the insanity and bloodlust
of the Crawford family tree.
He’s determined, that is, until unsuspecting Valerie Fleury knocks on the door
of Crawford House. Against his better judgment, he invites her in for coffee and
more, and a glimmer of hope pierces his soul. Until she mentions she’s working
with the cops. Until she starts asking about the caves, and his parents, and a
series of rapes and murders that are occurring around Centerville. Again.
That wench would look good barefoot and pregnant. Or dead and bloody.
With the stakes rising in proportion to the body count, Derek must confront the
memories he’s spent his adult life learning to bury, and risk unleashing his
encroaching madness to save the woman who might hold his redemption.
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