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.
* * *