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was Crawford’s agent, his publisher, his attorney, his accountant and his career, guidance and marriage counselor. He was a self-help author’s one-stop shop, but more significantly he was a conglomerate that held a monopoly on the business of James Crawford’s life. Accordingly, Crawford felt he was in a marriage that could never be dissolved, with a spouse that was increasingly difficult to oppose.
    With no time to give himself a pep talk, he simply practiced what he was going to say.
    And Lee I just think it’s time that we …
    Dorothy passed through the hall just outside the kitchen then stopped. She looked surprised he was still there.
    “I’m going out,” she said.
    “Okay,” he said, still trying to look like he was reading the newspaper.
    Dorothy hated having exchanges with her husband like that. As usual she tried to break the ice as soon as possible.
    “You’ll be home in time for Phil’s banquet, won’t you?” she asked, feigning civility.
    His eyes didn’t leave the paper. “That’s what I said.”
    She approached him slowly with a mother’s resignation. “Why are you so grouchy?” she said, running her hand across his broad shoulder. “I think you need to eat more fiber.”
    He let his guard down a bit. “I’m nervous about doing this damn Hershey show, I guess.”
    Crawford was now hearing the TV. It was a news program with some kind of discussion.
    “You sorry for being mean?”
    “Yes, Dorothy, I’m sorry,” he said, distracted by the TV.
    “No, you’re not. You’re never sorry.”
    “Okay. So I’m never sorry,” he said, lifting the paper.
    Crawford didn’t see her look before she walked out. He wouldn’t have cared anyway.
    He heard his name on the TV.
    “In your book where you discuss Dr. Crawford… ”
    It was like being called on Judgment Day.
    “Your book doesn’t have too many kind words for the popular psychologist Dr. James Crawford, does it?”
    “No, not many,” the voice said.
    There were two talking heads, both men. The younger and better-looking man was the anchor of the program; the other, a gray-haired man in his fifties, was the guest. Below the guest’s name was written, “Dr. Thomas Watkins, Psychologist.” It was a program on new books, and this Dr. Watkins was commenting on Crawford’s.
    Oh, shit, Crawford thought.
    “And you’re steadfast about that?” the anchor said.
    Oh, here it comes .
    The man leaned forward with a smile that was almost a sneer. “Of course. I just happen to think that a well-known psychologist like James Crawford, who should be thankful that he’s got any credibility from the mental health community at all, should not stoop to this, the lowest possible commercialism in our field.” Almost sarcastically, he emphasized specific words, making remarks even more wounding. “His techniques have not been proven to be enormously successful, as some other methods have. And by franchising a children’s TV show … ”
    The anchor interrupted. “But his books and CDs are, however, enormously popular.”
    “Of course,” Watkins said smiling. “That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” He paused a moment. “I just don’t think children need to be psychoanalyzing themselves at this age in this manner, with the help of some live, animated character. I mean, Dr. Crawford has a new book out. He’s got some other productson the market. Isn’t that enough?”
    “Well, some people would argue that he wants to help a broad range of people.”
    “Yes,” the man laughed. “Or tap a broader market.”
    Yeah, you got your market. I got mine, Crawford thought as he reached for the TV remote.
    “Thank you for joining us, Doctor,” the anchor said.
    “You’re welcome,” the man said with a nod.
    Think you’re saving the world, do you?

    The anchor gazed at the camera with the warmth of someone talking to a lover. “This debate may rage on for some time to come. Dr. Crawford has yet to comment on the criticism he has