Following his trip to town, Crawford reveled in the nonexistent obligation to the world, to his inactive duties

Following his trip to town, Crawford reveled in the nonexistent obligation to the world, to his inactive duties.  The majority of the morning and afternoon was spent in the luxury of his room, surrounded by silence and the warmth of his quaint and under-exaggerated cottage.  The comfort of the bedroom was not abandoned or exchanged for anything long into the hours of the day.  Crawford sacrificed feeling used for feeling sluggish, and found the taste to be delightful.  Never did the pains of hunger strike, nor any outside presence bother to entice him from the boughs of opulence. 

One reason Crawford speculated laziness was made tolerable this singular day was knowledge of his impending task.  Though he felt no obligation to stress Clarice's marital status or place in so-called society, he allowed himself to wonder what sort of man he was blessing in an implicated affair with his cousin.  After all, what did he know of Fell?  A person allegedly responsible for the murder of a man, Black Market scandals, ties to abusive substance distribution, foreign links to the Prime Minister, and most recently, cannibalism.  Of course, those rumors were rather difficult to place faith in, and he had Fell's assurance of their falsity. 

But such a man seeking a favor of this nature would say anything for guaranteed cooperation. 

It came down to one fundamental factor.  Who held more of Crawford's admiration, which truly deserved Clarice, from what he saw?

Dr. Fell.  No question.  Even if he was a swindler, he had the decency to keep private affairs out of the limelight.

It was midday before Crawford felt the need to stir from bed.  This did not provoke a hurried waking.  The afternoon and twilight was spent enjoying warm coffee, carefully reading every word of the paper, an activity he had never before participated in, but likewise found very enjoyable, and a slightly embarrassing viewing of Ally McBeal, a show to which he denied his closet addiction.  After a while, he scrounged for food but found his stomach wasn't growling and discarded the idea. 

Perhaps at seven, Crawford moved his activities to the balcony.  Though still light, darkness was slowly gripping the scene, and he reveled in the knowledge of a fully wasted day.  At his age, it was deserved. 

He could see the green light at the end of Clarice's dock flickering.  On.  Off.  On.  Off.  On. 

And then that wasn't the only light.  At first, the patch of trees disguised the radiance of his neighbor's lawn, but Crawford became increasingly aware of illumination from the right.  This struck him as odd, for as he knew another party was scheduled for the end of this week or next, it hardly seemed proper to hold festivities on Sunday, even if Fell were not a pious man.  It was tasteless for such a suggestively religious evening.

But there wasn't a peep.  Surely if it were a sequel party, the sounds of music and drunken laughter would have betrayed the doctor's position by now. 

At his own pace, Crawford decided to investigate this.  He drank the rest of his coffee and poured a second cup before making his way to the front door and the lonesome journey across lawns.

When he saw Fell standing outside his house, watching the light that persisted incessantly in the darker direction of East Egg, Crawford reflected no surprise.  The man did not look to him as he approached, though he suspected his presence had not gone unaccounted for.  There was an air of preset knowledge about Fell, and Crawford knew it would take real time and talent to successfully surprise him. 

"Your place looks like the World's Fair," he commented in greeting.  Now he saw what the ruckus was.  Every light in every room was radiating its warmth, and for a dwelling the size of Fell's, it could be the spark for which God commanded, "Let there be light." 

"Does it?" replied the doctor coolly as he turned to gaze at his abode, grinning slightly.  "I've been glancing into some of the rooms.  Care for a ride into town, old sport?"

"It's too late now."  Crawford let out a breath and waited a full minute.  "I've talked with Ms. Mapp.  I'm going to call Clarice when I go back and invite her here tomorrow."

The air of disinterest that Fell portrayed carried an air of extreme authenticity.  "Oh, that's all right," he replied as though the matter were trivial and unimportant to him.  "I don't want to put you to any trouble."

Momentarily perplexed, Crawford frowned, wondering if the offer should be retracted.  However, it didn't take long for him to read into the nonchalant exterior of his new friend, and arguably, business associate.  Instead, he pressed forward.  "What day would suit you, if tomorrow's too soon?"

"Tomorrow is fine," Fell observed, his breath, perhaps, too quick.  It was the first lapse of true anxiety Crawford had ever seen, and possibly the last he would be allowed to see.  "Or whatever day best suits *you*.  I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"You said that already.  Tomorrow's fine.  How about one o'clock?"

It was then the doctor turned to him, those maroon eyes alight with something new, something they lacked before.  Excitement, anticipation, hope?  Whatever it was, Crawford felt his doubts abandon him in that instant, and all the troubles this arrangement had caused, or would indefinitely caused, seemed a low price for unwedded bliss and neglected happiness.

This man really felt something for Clarice, and it went beyond the means of physical attraction.  That much was obvious and noted, and Crawford felt more than sure about his decision, his promise. 

"Thank you, Mr. Crawford," Fell said suddenly, his eyes soft and kind, though still fiery.  The simplicity of his pose was disingenuous, and a vote of self-appreciation and gratitude swept over him.  "Thank you.  Your kindness and generosity, especially to a man you rarely know, will not go unnoticed.  If ever you need a favor, look no further."

"Thank you, Dr. Fell."

"No." 

That gave Crawford time for pause before he realized his error.  "Oh…you're welcome."

"Much obliged."

"Ah," Crawford mused, his figure simultaneously engulfed by an onslaught of lights and the darkness that loomed across the bay.  The summer sun set quickly these evenings.  "All right, that's all I wanted to say.  To inform you of my updated plans in regards to your request.  I'll call you if she can't make it."

With a simple nod, Fell turned his eyes back to the bay, portraying the cut of a man to which this matter had little consequence.  It was an admirable state, though aggravatingly so.  Crawford found himself envious at the disposition, and wished he could claim such control over awe-inspiring emotions for himself.  "Okay," the doctor conceded after a minute, as though his former vote of thanks was lost.  Epilogue to the last or preamble to unexplored terrain, Crawford didn't know.

Then Fell smiled at him, and a familiar disarming ripple that rendered all observers helpless charged. 

The farewell was informal and brief, and as Crawford made the dreary journey across the lawns, the lights from Dr. Fell's manor dimmed.  He didn't bother to turn and glance back for the etch in his mind was near flawless, and he required no visual confirmation for accuracy.  A man standing a lone, looking in jaded hope across the bay to a persistent light that, like his enthusiasm, refused to wither to the winds of time.

*            *            *

It wasn't until nine that evening that Crawford pieced the artistry of suggestion together and developed an idea of how to word his question.  The general anxiety surrounding his looming action confused him, for in all honesty, he had no feasible reason to ask something out of the blue.  Every day trials of life were always made difficult by the implication of challenge, for the knowledge that she might say no.

He had to call before the hour became intrusive.

When she picked up, she was bright and enthusiastic, her tone suffering a drastic change from the initial greeting to the announcement of who was calling.

"Paul said you were furious with me," Crawford noted conversationally, his nerves not betrayed through his tone.  For that, he was glad.  Unless, however, she could hear his hammering heart from her humble East Egg abode.

"Furious?" Clarice chuckled, her voice making him smile for its cheerful authenticity.  "Hardly!  I am very happy to hear from you.  To what to I owe the pleasure?"

"I was wondering if you would like to come over for lunch tomorrow.  Say, around one?"

In his mind, Crawford saw Clarice's slow, excited smile, and fought to train his lips from following.  "Oh, Jack!" she cried.  "You have no idea how much I need a day out of the house.  Thanks!  I'll be there at 12:59, make it 12:50!"

He chuckled.  "Fantastic.  See you tomorrow."

"All right!"

"Oh, and Clarice?"

There was a fumble for the phone as she wrestled with gravity not to drop it on the receiver.  "Yes?"

"Don't bring Paul."

A short lapse of confusion.  "What?"

"Don't bring Paul."

There was a rich chuckle, and Crawford felt a streak of unbridled relief sweep through him.  "Paul?" she kidded innocently.  "Paul who?"

Twenty minutes later, he called Fell to confirm everything was in preparation. 

The next day was the first that brought rain in the summer.  It was far from a mere drizzle.  When the heavens opened, downward poured an ambush of salt water, perhaps in warning of the afternoon ahead.  Crawford was careful to beat dawn this morning.  All through the day, Fell sent various staff members over with flowers or assorted pieces of fine china.  Around twelve, he had several chefs parade inward with wonderful-smelling trays of food that were not to be unveiled until every member was present.

At 12:30, precisely, Dr. Fell himself arrived.

They sat in Crawford's parlor in silence.  The clock over the mantle ticked incessantly, and for the first time since such a meeting was suggested, the doctor exhibited raw nervousness.  Though he was far from what anyone would describe as jittery, Crawford detected a change in attitude from the collective serene façade he managed to portray whenever the object of his desire was implicated, or any other matter. 

At 12:58, Fell stood suddenly.

"What is it?" Crawford asked.  "Did you hear her?"

"No," the man replied, turning to gaze out the window.  A negative scanning persuaded their eyes to meet again, before the announcement came sudden and unexpected.

"I'm going home."

Crawford blinked.  "Why's that?"

"She won't come," the doctor prophesized.  "It's too late."

"Don't be silly.  She has a few minutes to get here."

With a wanton expression, Fell nodded his agreement and took his seat.  They waited out one o'clock, 1:01, 1:02, and surprisingly, the doctor had the composure of a rock with no regard to his prior behavior.

At 11:05, the sound of a motor turning into driveway hummed into the parlor, and they simultaneously exploded to their feet. Their eyes met, standing there as though daring the car to back away.  Then Fell sat again as he won his battle to reclaim control.  With a graceful, dignified motion, he indicated to the door, and Crawford immediately stepped outside to greet her.

Clarice, as he suspected, looked ravishing.  There weren't any additions or subtractions, and she wasn't overly dressed.  For this, he was glad.  It signified the survival of the woman he knew at Quantico, that despite her marriage for all its complications and small miseries, she hadn't and would never change in the core of where it counted.

"Is this where you live?" she asked absently.  "It's charming."  Then, closer, she whispered as though it were a conspiracy, "Are you in love with me?  Or why did I have to come alone?"

The jest on her voice was duly noted, and Crawford declined the temptation to wink.  "That's the secret of Castle Rackrent," he returned with a nod.  "Please, come inside."

Clarice smiled warmly and stepped out of the rain, having forsaken the use of an umbrella.  At the door, she wiped her feet courteously but required no towel, the tolls of weather not claiming her long, and she remained relatively dry. 

"This is nice, Jack," she observed sincerely, eyes running over the interior.  "Very nice.  Very you, too.  Do you plan to stay here long?"

"As long as I can manage.  I'll have to see how the summer plays out…if I like it."

"I think you'll like it plenty before you leave.  This always was more your sort of place rather than mine."  When she felt it was safe to proceed, Clarice went about explorations of the remainder of the house.  As they approached the room that harbored Fell, Crawford drew in a breath and held it until he could see that the man was no longer there.

"What nice flowers, Jack," Clarice was saying, attentions drawn to the small stand under the mirror.  "They're simply…" and then she lost what she was going to say, her eyes drifting upward to the reflection, and he saw that Fell had reentered the room.

For half a minute there wasn't a sound.  Clarice didn't move, blink, breathe, from the looks of it.  Then finally, she turned to confirm the mirror wasn't lying, that Dr. Fell was indeed in the room, no more than ten feet away from her, and unbelievingly, she let out a trembling breath.

Clarice opened her mouth to speak but couldn't summon words.  When speech failed her, Crawford seized the initiative and stepped forward, determined to break the silence, to start some form of interaction, even if it was awkward.  "Clarice, this is my neighbor, Dr. Fell.  Dr. Fell—"

"We've met before," the doctor said quietly, his gaze not breaking from hers. 

And finally, she had her voice, more or less.  With a squeak, Clarice tried to reply, but she reeked of uncertainty, the impact of surprise not through with its reign.  "We haven't met for many years."

"Five years next November," Fell noted softly, glancing to Crawford as though expecting him to keep tally.  It should have seemed odd that he remembered, but there was no mention of it.

The automatic quality of his answer set them all back.  Then Fell and Clarice locked eyes again, and their stare intensified.  In that minute, Crawford knew they were lost, lost to the afternoon and each other.  Swarming in a sea of recollection and memories before words of any sort of meaning could be exchanged.  When he turned to make his leave, understanding a silent request for privacy, no one moved, or even registered his existence.

Crawford took a long walk outside, accompanied by his trusty umbrella.  Should the weather be permitting, he might have stopped under a tree or somewhere opportune to read the Wall Street Journal.  

It wasn't until he made his rounds about the neighborhood that the rain stopped.  However, by this time, a good half hour or so had passed, and he was ready to see what had transpired in his leave.

Dr. Fell and Clarice were sitting at either end of the sofa, looking at each other as though some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every indication of awkwardness had evaporated.  Her face was aligned in something relative to tears, and when Crawford entered, she jumped up to seize the doctor's proffered handkerchief and dismissed herself.

The change in Fell was notable.  He radiated a wreath of good karma, and it seemed to fill the room in the absence of a heater.

"Hello, Mr. Crawford," he greeted as though they hadn't seen each other for years.

"It's stopped raining."

"Has it?" Fell glanced to Clarice as she reentered the room, fully composed, and smiled like a meteorologist.  "It's stopped raining," he announced.  The context of the statement made Crawford aware of his metaphor, and he likewise knew it had no ties to the weather.

Clarice understood perfectly, and her smile, worried though happy, expressed this vividly.  "I'm glad…" Some hesitance that passed quickly, but not quickly enough for Crawford to miss.  "Arthur," she concluded.

There were some other ties he would have to dig up.

Much of the day was spent chatting casually about unimportant manners.  Fell referred to some of his business associates as he had that day in town, though his eyes never abandoned Clarice's; even through lunch, and Crawford understood the secret language that suggested the need to speak exclusively.  Whatever bewilderment either of them carried was gone, and once more, the doctor was the irrefutable example of self-preparation and good taste.

Perhaps around four, Crawford suggested Clarice might like to see Fell's place, and they quickly cleared the table, making the journey across the lawns. 

"This is your place?" she marveled with a gasp.  "It's breathtaking!"

"Do you like it, Clarice?" Fell carefully over annunciated each syllable, taking particular pleasure in her name that spread goosebumps over her skin. 

"I love it.  Absolutely."

The tour inside was brief, modesty claiming the doctor, and he neglected to show them the upstairs rooms.  His eyes remained intently on her, even if she looked away briefly to ask a question about a certain item of furniture, or whatever merited reason to break their intense gaze.

Fell offered them wine, and Crawford declined.

"I better be going," he announced.  "It's late."

"All right, Jack," Clarice agreed, making no formal attempt to cease his departure, or even disguise her sorrow to be losing his company.  "Thank you for a lovely afternoon."

Crawford smiled with a nod, moving to say goodbye to Fell.  When he was directly in his presence, he noticed the expression of genuine bafflement had seized him again, perhaps in reflection of the quality of his present gratification.  The reward for five years of patience, and God knows what else.  What had happened between these two, so obviously happy to be together, that would make her run into the arms of…Paul Krendler?  Shaking his head, Crawford decided he didn't want to know today.  Mention of her husband at home would do little more than upset them, and that was most certainly not his intention.

Once the farewells were out of the way, Crawford received the notion he was forgotten.  Clarice took Fell's hand and squeezed it into the warmth of her own, and they shared a smile.

It wasn't until Crawford had left them together, his figure disappearing down the marble steps, that either of them spoke.  Clarice drew in a breath, smiling still, and proclaimed in the quiet of the home, as though fearing her own voice, "There is much we need to discuss…"

Her words were not on the floor for deliberation. It was a statement, something they couldn't possibly avoid.  However, they likewise knew today there would be no discussion.  Such a conversation required scheduled time, and they had no use of that now.  Now, all they had use for was each other, and compensating that which they lost over the years.

Fell spent the day at the piano, playing various concertos for her enjoyment, some composed by himself.  The hours were lost to the music and her eyes and the sound of her voice.

She was really here, and God willing, she would never leave.

*            *            *