In reality, Starling suspected that she had little to fear with the appearance of the second specter. She had already faced Paul Krendler, and even if the subsequent ghosts consisted of Jame Gumb, Mason Verger, or whoever God, in all His perverted humor, decided to send her, no one could possibly outdo him on her 'I-wish-he-were-alive-so-that-I-could-kill-him-again-and-freakin'-enjoy-it-this-time' list. Thus, she felt no trepidation in sitting forward to wait for whatever apparition it was to present itself.
Two o'clock and nothing...
Tick tock tick tock tick tock...
Letting out a grateful sigh, as she was rather sleepy, Starling smiled tightly to herself. "Nothing...nothing. Excellent. Bedtime!"
Predictably, as she snuggled once more in the comfort of her bed, a sudden foray of noise burst in from the lower floor. Starling screamed, eyes wide and alert, and she leaped to her feet, racing out the door and down the stairs as quickly as her legs would carry her. She halfway expected the noise to shy from her presence and flee. Instead, it increased in pulsation, and she knew she would have to shut it up before some angry bitch across the street called the cops on her for disturbing the peace.
When she entered her living room, Starling experienced a rush of shock, followed by joy. Dancing to some bad disco on the coffee table was Jack Crawford, wearing a cheap party hat and a hula skirt. The sheer relief she felt in seeing him again immediately excused the general weirdness of his attire, and she felt herself brighten, unable to contain her screech of glee.
"Mr. Crawford!"
Abruptly, in time with the random scratch of a record, the music ceased and he stopped to stare at her. "Oh. Hello Starling. Sorry...I was just...ummm..."
It was as if her eyes were opened. She blinked and stared at him, looking him up and down. "Mr. Crawford...?"
"Yeah...I was just...enjoying the...umm...afterlife."
"I see." She paused. "Wait...why are you the second ghost? You died before Paul Krendler, and were really in more of my past to begin with, and-"
"Would you rather have Paul Krendler here?" he asked skeptically.
"No!" She screamed, panicked that her late mentor might fade away to leave her again with Krendler, simply because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut. "No, of course not! I was just-"
"Well, according to the book..." Crawford broke off, looking to his hula skirt and presenting her with a copy of 'A Christmas Carol.' "...the second ghost is supposed to be the one that you learn the most from. We didn't think that you'd listen to Paul Krendler." After a minute, he added, "He wasn't supposed to come, anyway. He just whined and complained and offered the conductor of this shindig-extravaganza some Cuban cigars and a Willie Nelson CD. Besides, everyone else was booked."
"Booked?"
"Yeah. Really booked, for this year. Besides, this isn't supposed to make sense, is it?"
The serious look on Crawford's face was singularly counterpoint to the absurdity of his garments, and Starling, arching a brow, shrugged and nodded. "I guess not." She looked up again, eying the book in his grasp. "Are you guys going by everything in that story?"
Crawford shrugged. "Well, none of us have been dead for very long, so we're not really sure what we're supposed to do. Right now, this book is our Bible." Then, drawing in a deep breath, he started to sing randomly, "Oh, the B-I-B-L-E! Yes THAT'S the book for me! I-"
"Mr. Crawford!" Starling screamed, her hands protectively covering each ear.
"Sorry. One thing you learn when you're dead; horrible impulses are much harder to resist."
"WHY?"
"Because we don't care anymore," Crawford replied simply, shrugging again. "Who's going to hear you? Other ghosts. Do they care? No...cause they're doing it themselves. I'm going to have to get into mortal-mode around you, I guess."
It was odd, seeing the prim and stern-face Mr. Crawford acting so carefree. When he was alive, he was always the epitome of properness and never tolerated nonsense, even if they weren't working. Occasionally, they went to movies together on the weekends, and even then, he hardly allowed himself to drop the stone façade. Never in her wildest would Starling have ever consented the probability, in life or death, that Crawford would wear a hula skirt and burst into random song whenever he felt like it.
Suddenly, the afterlife was sounding superior to this earthly life.
"The freedom must be nice," she observed.
"It is," he agreed. "Blissfully so. But don't go getting any funny ideas."
"Don't worry."
"Good," Crawford replied with a conclusive nod.
"So you go by the book?" she asked again, not knowing why the subject fascinated her so, but wanting to know, nonetheless.
"Not exactly." Flipping open a page, he held it up to eyesight, but didn't offer it to her. "You see...it's a guideline. Otherwise, I'd be saying, 'Come in! And know me better, man!' That can be taken so many ways nowadays."
Starling rolled her eyes. "Thanks to the likes of people like Paul Krendler."
"All right, are you ready then?"
She shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be. This is Christmas Present, correct?"
Crawford started to answer, paused, considered, and replied hesitantly: "Weeeeellll, sort of."
"Sort of?" She frowned, puzzled. "Wait a tick, if this shit doesn't have anything to do with Christmas, then why the hell are you guys bothering?"
"Let me finish," he said insistently. "It doesn't have anything to do with you not having the Christmas spirit. That's a bunch of bull crap. No one up there really gives a damn. It's just a holiday. I mean, what about Jews? Do they have to have the Christmas spirit? And Muslims? And Shintoists? And Buddhists? And then there's ATHIESTS. If they were going to get anyone in the Christmas spirit, I'd imagine they'd start with the ATHIESTS, don't you? The list goes on and on. No one cares. Do you get the picture?"
Starling didn't want to vocally separate herself from any deity, especially tonight, as it was a holy night in many facets. There was something about stating such an acclamation aloud that unnerved her, thus she merely nodded her understanding. "Okay then," she continued after a minute. "Then what does this have to do with me?"
"Well, you're unhappy, right?"
She hesitated. The answer, of course, was yes, but she wasn't too keen on admitting why. Firstly to herself, and especially to this man.
As she paused and debated, Crawford's eyes narrowed. "Starling, I can't judge you. You'll find, amongst other things, that death really liberates you." In considering his attire, she accepted this as the truth. "And you can't hide yourself. You are unhappy, and everyone knows why."
"*Everyone*?"
"Well..." Crawford's eyes drifted to the ceiling, and he nodded upward. "They do up there, anyway."
"And they don't care?"
"They understand," he corrected. "You can't help it if you're unhappy. At least without knowing the symptom, so's you can start working on the cure."
"But...don't...I got the impression from Krendler that they think it's..." she leaned in for effect, though knowing somewhere that she was being overdramatic. "*Him.*"
At that, Crawford smiled kindly. "There are some things even He doesn't know," he said, again indicating to the ceiling with his eyes. "Whether or not your sadness involves Lecter doesn't really matter, Starling. As long as you know what it is."
"But if it does...and that's a big IF," she ventured, "what can I do about it? Surely you're not supposed to encourage me to..."
Crawford held up a hand. "I'm not supposed to do anything but show you how you might be able to get happier for Christmas. The day itself doesn't matter, like I said. It's the *impression* of what you're supposed to feel during the season. There's a *reason* you're upset, and we're just trying to help you figure that out, so maybe next year, or even tomorrow, as the case may be, you'll have found your root of happiness and won't be pressured to feel something you're not during the holidays. Does that make sense?"
Uncertainly, she replied, "I...guess..."
With a chuckle, he shrugged again. "It's hard to understand what isn't understood, but someday, you'll understand it. Understood?"
"...what?"
"Yeah...let's go."
"Okay..." Starling fumbled for words, trying to recall something Scrooge-ish to say, even if their cases were not similar, as Crawford had indicated. "Spirit, conduct me where you will," she said, unsure of her words, even if they sounded good. "I went last time and started to learn a lesson. Now, if you're gonna teach me, let me profit by it."
"Not bad," Crawford said approvingly, flipping through his complimentary copy of the novel. "That was almost verbatim. You always were an over achiever, Starling. Now, grab hold of my hula skirt."
The sentence in itself was so comically bizarre that she had a difficult time containing her mirth as she grasped a handful of straw. If Crawford noticed, he didn't mention it.
Starling prepared for another uncomfortable trip, recalling the speed and abrupt stops she encountered with Krendler. However, when she opened her eyes to find herself standing outside, she blinked, having not felt a thing.
A minute later, this was not so mysterious. Of course! They had no traveling to do, anyway. It was simply a few hours ahead, the next morning.
Even though the temperature was slightly nippy - (she knew this the way those who *were* on the streets were bundled up) - Starling noted that her sweatshirt and jeans were keeping her perfectly insulated, and furthermore, that Crawford wasn't complaining about the weather. Though he was dead and most likely couldn't experience a good-to-honest chill, the hula skirt didn't look too protective of the leg area.
"So what are we doing here, anyway?" Starling asked. "What am I supposed to learn from the present? Something about a crippled kid?"
Crawford gave her a dubious look. "Do you know any crippled kids?"
"No."
"There's your answer. No, we're going to visit your former roommate."
"Ardelia?" Starling frowned. "Why?"
"You'll see. Come on, now."
They were, indeed, not too far from the place Mapp now resided with her husband. Mapp. Starling shook her head. She would never get used to her friend's new last name. Years of writing her name out on paper as Mapp rendered her with the disability to add that one singular change to the list of everything else that now differed in her life.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Crawford asked. "Let's go in."
"In?"
"Sure."
Starling paused. "How?"
"Since these are shadows, we can walk right through them," he explained, outlining the exterior wall with his hands. "Watch. Come on." Stepping demonstratively to the front door, he hopped through the material and out again, showing open palms and grinning ridiculously. "Ta da!"
"That's all well and good for you," Starling snickered. "You're a ghost. You're used to that shit."
"Come on!" Crawford said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "It's easy. Watch!" Again, he resorted to hopping through the barrier, apparently enjoying himself. After a few tries, he gained speed, forgot about her, and focused on further amusing himself.
Starling covered her face and glued her eyes on the ground. "Watch it!" she warned. "You're showing me a little more than I care to see there, buddy."
The incessant hopping ceased as he went red in the cheeks, looking down and smoothing out his skirt with an embarrassed shrug and high-pitched chuckle. "Sorry, there," he excused. "Let's-erm-go in."
Not entirely convinced, but tired enough of standing outside, Starling decided to trust him and approached. After all, what was the worst that could happen? She could be knocked out, or knocked *in* to her senses. Maybe she would wake up from whatever horrific nightmare this was to trade for a more peaceful sleep.
She was almost disappointed when she stepped successfully through the door, noting it felt little different than being blasted with a foray of air.
Christmas-breakfast smells were in the air, and she drew them in appreciatively. Crawford, at her side, pointed to the dining room, and she followed his direction. Starling hadn't seen her friend's new house since she moved in three months before, and took a minute to admire the assorted holiday decorations; some she recognized, others she classified as belonging to Mapp's - Ardelia's - husband.
The scene was picturesque, and it made her heart flutter. A visibly pregnant Ardelia serving her daughter and husband some homemade breakfasty-goodness. All adoring eyes were alight and they were smiling, laughing, loving each other. It looked like a Hallmark commercial.
Though Starling wasn't the type for gushiness, this made her ache. She bit her lip and turned to address Crawford, but he was across the room, admiring his droll appearance in one of the mirrors, and even attempting at what appeared to be his version of dancing.
Rolling her eyes, unsure if her former approval of the new and improved Jack Crawford was still one hundred percent intact, Starling turned back to Ardelia's family and sighed.
What was here that she wanted? What was here that made her hurt so much?
A flash. Thirty minutes ago, she was standing in the late Paul Krendler's summer home kitchen - in the presence of the one and thankfully only late Paul Krendler himself - watching her shadow say horrible things, cold things. Things that made her want to hit herself. Why? And what relevance could it possibly hold here?
Then she remembered waking up, or returning to find herself in bed, crying uncontrollably for a reason she could not explain. Could not...or would not?
And then it hit her, standing there, watching the loving exchanges between husband and wife.
Companionship.
With whom? Anyone in general?
No...not that simple.
Lost in a swirl of confusing thoughts, Starling was brought back by sudden, abrupt singing from behind her. Evidently absorbed in his dance, Crawford belted, "Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day! That's island greeting that they send to you in the land where palm trees swaaaayyyy! Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright-"
"Mr. Crawford!"
Hastily, he stopped, arms falling flatly to his sides. "Oh. You done?"
"Done with *what*? Is there something I'm supposed to do here?"
"Reminiscing, thinking, all that BS. We can go now, if you want."
"Go where?"
"One more stop, Starling...to try and help you figure things out." Crawford nodded for the door.
Travel this time was different than before. Instead of feeling like the waves of a remote control stuck infernally on fast-forward or rewind, Starling found herself drifting quite pleasantly. When they stopped, she found herself outside a residence she had never before seen, in a place she might as well not know existed. Blinking, she turned to Crawford, who was visibly rather aware of where they were and asked, "Did we take a wrong turn?"
"Nope. Buenos Aires is lovely this time of the year, isn't it?" he said, apparently lost in thought. Once he returned to himself, he shook his head and pointed to the door. "But that's beside the point. Inside, Starling. Hustle, hustle!"
The fingers of dread grasped her heart and squeezed mercilessly as she realized whose abode this must be. Pursing her lips, she looked pitifully to Crawford, hoping she had heard wrong, and that they didn't have to see what he was doing, alone and injured on Christmas. At this point, she *really* didn't care to.
"Mr. Crawford..." she ventured cautiously. "I thought you hated Dr. Lecter. That's always been my consensus. Why show me someone you hate if it's apart of my problem?"
"Or solution?" he added helpfully, not a bitter note evident in his tone.
"Solution?"
"Starling, when you die, you come to some divine realizations. Like, in life I might have hated green olives, but now they taste heavenly, if you pardon the pun," Crawford explained. "I hated Dr. Lecter, yes. I sent you to him, though, and that's apart of my reckoning. The most important thing to me as far as you're concerned is your happiness and satisfaction. If Dr. Lecter is an equation in that problem, I don't care to stand in the pathway to the solution, you see?"
The last thing she needed was the one voice she valued above everyone, other than her father, pushing her toward Dr. Lecter if it was her resolve to fight him. "I think I liked you better alive," she decided. "It wasn't as confusing."
"Life is full of lies," Crawford commented narrowly. "In death, we have truth and realizations; you can't hide anything on this side. "Confusion hides the larger problem, what you see but don't want to grasp, or grasp but don't want to see."
"Stop!" Starling covered her ears, turning away from him, his words echoing like a perverse riddle she didn't want to know the answer to. "Let's go inside and get this cursed journey over with."
And inside they went. Starling stood immobile in the doorway for a minute, eyes shut as her pounding heart echoed with fervor in her ears. Her pulse raced and her breath hitched, though her other senses betrayed her. Immediately, she noted the warmth and the pleasant smells. The aura that was so...*him*. In defiance, she clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek, but to little avail. The thought came and remained stubbornly, refusing to grant her leave.
A hand was at her shoulder. "Come on...the sooner you see him, the sooner we can leave."
Starling drew in a deep breath and forced her eyes open. The interior was stunning, though she expected no less. Nothing short of grandiose, impressive without appearing egotistical, however much she knew that the doctor had plenty of esteem.
Soft piano music drifted through the halls. Crawford, leading the way, walked in its direction. Candles were aligned in the window ceils, and though they were allegedly not to be seen, the small fires flickered, almost touched, as they passed. It was the only festive decoration set in the house, and could have easily been dismissed for simple approval of their finishing touch.
Starling found herself thankful of that. Knowing Dr. Lecter was about as keen on Christmas as she was gave her a sense of satisfaction, though she didn't think to register why that was.
The entrance into the main parlor was not overdramatic: rather, quite contrary, short and immediate. Dr. Lecter was seated in an elegant robe at the piano, hands tickling the keys masterfully. In place of sheet music was instead a collage of newspaper clippings that held her face. Starling felt something run cold yet simultaneously warm within her. His left hand was scarred, not visibly, but enough to make her flinch.
He was as alone as she was today. That thought left her satisfied and similarly disconcerted. Alone...when they could be...
"Jack," she said painfully, closing her eyes, barely aware of the abnormal familiarity in which she addressed him. "Please...take me back."
"You sure?"
"Yes!"
The scene before her melted into a rummage of colors, swirled for a few minutes before again unfolding on her street. When she looked to Crawford, he was popping some pills into his mouth, as he had almost regularly in life. She smiled at the image it offered, even if his crown was adorned with a party hat. Inside, though, she was still trembling with the scene they just left, and what it meant for her.
"This is where I leave you, then," Crawford announced.
Starling heard warning bells sounding somewhere. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't host her through the future, though she knew, in referring to the text, that it had to be so. Coldness grasped her at the thought of who was to follow him, but she dare not ask. "I'll take what you gave me," she said. "Thanks, Mr. Crawford."
"No problem, Starling. Take care."
And, without any colossal goodbye, he, too, simply melted into the scenery, leaving her alone on the street in front of her house.
But Starling, wiser now, knew she could not go inside. For in checking her watch, she registered it was almost three, and the last of the spirits would be presenting itself shortly.
* * *
Two o'clock and nothing...
Tick tock tick tock tick tock...
Letting out a grateful sigh, as she was rather sleepy, Starling smiled tightly to herself. "Nothing...nothing. Excellent. Bedtime!"
Predictably, as she snuggled once more in the comfort of her bed, a sudden foray of noise burst in from the lower floor. Starling screamed, eyes wide and alert, and she leaped to her feet, racing out the door and down the stairs as quickly as her legs would carry her. She halfway expected the noise to shy from her presence and flee. Instead, it increased in pulsation, and she knew she would have to shut it up before some angry bitch across the street called the cops on her for disturbing the peace.
When she entered her living room, Starling experienced a rush of shock, followed by joy. Dancing to some bad disco on the coffee table was Jack Crawford, wearing a cheap party hat and a hula skirt. The sheer relief she felt in seeing him again immediately excused the general weirdness of his attire, and she felt herself brighten, unable to contain her screech of glee.
"Mr. Crawford!"
Abruptly, in time with the random scratch of a record, the music ceased and he stopped to stare at her. "Oh. Hello Starling. Sorry...I was just...ummm..."
It was as if her eyes were opened. She blinked and stared at him, looking him up and down. "Mr. Crawford...?"
"Yeah...I was just...enjoying the...umm...afterlife."
"I see." She paused. "Wait...why are you the second ghost? You died before Paul Krendler, and were really in more of my past to begin with, and-"
"Would you rather have Paul Krendler here?" he asked skeptically.
"No!" She screamed, panicked that her late mentor might fade away to leave her again with Krendler, simply because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut. "No, of course not! I was just-"
"Well, according to the book..." Crawford broke off, looking to his hula skirt and presenting her with a copy of 'A Christmas Carol.' "...the second ghost is supposed to be the one that you learn the most from. We didn't think that you'd listen to Paul Krendler." After a minute, he added, "He wasn't supposed to come, anyway. He just whined and complained and offered the conductor of this shindig-extravaganza some Cuban cigars and a Willie Nelson CD. Besides, everyone else was booked."
"Booked?"
"Yeah. Really booked, for this year. Besides, this isn't supposed to make sense, is it?"
The serious look on Crawford's face was singularly counterpoint to the absurdity of his garments, and Starling, arching a brow, shrugged and nodded. "I guess not." She looked up again, eying the book in his grasp. "Are you guys going by everything in that story?"
Crawford shrugged. "Well, none of us have been dead for very long, so we're not really sure what we're supposed to do. Right now, this book is our Bible." Then, drawing in a deep breath, he started to sing randomly, "Oh, the B-I-B-L-E! Yes THAT'S the book for me! I-"
"Mr. Crawford!" Starling screamed, her hands protectively covering each ear.
"Sorry. One thing you learn when you're dead; horrible impulses are much harder to resist."
"WHY?"
"Because we don't care anymore," Crawford replied simply, shrugging again. "Who's going to hear you? Other ghosts. Do they care? No...cause they're doing it themselves. I'm going to have to get into mortal-mode around you, I guess."
It was odd, seeing the prim and stern-face Mr. Crawford acting so carefree. When he was alive, he was always the epitome of properness and never tolerated nonsense, even if they weren't working. Occasionally, they went to movies together on the weekends, and even then, he hardly allowed himself to drop the stone façade. Never in her wildest would Starling have ever consented the probability, in life or death, that Crawford would wear a hula skirt and burst into random song whenever he felt like it.
Suddenly, the afterlife was sounding superior to this earthly life.
"The freedom must be nice," she observed.
"It is," he agreed. "Blissfully so. But don't go getting any funny ideas."
"Don't worry."
"Good," Crawford replied with a conclusive nod.
"So you go by the book?" she asked again, not knowing why the subject fascinated her so, but wanting to know, nonetheless.
"Not exactly." Flipping open a page, he held it up to eyesight, but didn't offer it to her. "You see...it's a guideline. Otherwise, I'd be saying, 'Come in! And know me better, man!' That can be taken so many ways nowadays."
Starling rolled her eyes. "Thanks to the likes of people like Paul Krendler."
"All right, are you ready then?"
She shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be. This is Christmas Present, correct?"
Crawford started to answer, paused, considered, and replied hesitantly: "Weeeeellll, sort of."
"Sort of?" She frowned, puzzled. "Wait a tick, if this shit doesn't have anything to do with Christmas, then why the hell are you guys bothering?"
"Let me finish," he said insistently. "It doesn't have anything to do with you not having the Christmas spirit. That's a bunch of bull crap. No one up there really gives a damn. It's just a holiday. I mean, what about Jews? Do they have to have the Christmas spirit? And Muslims? And Shintoists? And Buddhists? And then there's ATHIESTS. If they were going to get anyone in the Christmas spirit, I'd imagine they'd start with the ATHIESTS, don't you? The list goes on and on. No one cares. Do you get the picture?"
Starling didn't want to vocally separate herself from any deity, especially tonight, as it was a holy night in many facets. There was something about stating such an acclamation aloud that unnerved her, thus she merely nodded her understanding. "Okay then," she continued after a minute. "Then what does this have to do with me?"
"Well, you're unhappy, right?"
She hesitated. The answer, of course, was yes, but she wasn't too keen on admitting why. Firstly to herself, and especially to this man.
As she paused and debated, Crawford's eyes narrowed. "Starling, I can't judge you. You'll find, amongst other things, that death really liberates you." In considering his attire, she accepted this as the truth. "And you can't hide yourself. You are unhappy, and everyone knows why."
"*Everyone*?"
"Well..." Crawford's eyes drifted to the ceiling, and he nodded upward. "They do up there, anyway."
"And they don't care?"
"They understand," he corrected. "You can't help it if you're unhappy. At least without knowing the symptom, so's you can start working on the cure."
"But...don't...I got the impression from Krendler that they think it's..." she leaned in for effect, though knowing somewhere that she was being overdramatic. "*Him.*"
At that, Crawford smiled kindly. "There are some things even He doesn't know," he said, again indicating to the ceiling with his eyes. "Whether or not your sadness involves Lecter doesn't really matter, Starling. As long as you know what it is."
"But if it does...and that's a big IF," she ventured, "what can I do about it? Surely you're not supposed to encourage me to..."
Crawford held up a hand. "I'm not supposed to do anything but show you how you might be able to get happier for Christmas. The day itself doesn't matter, like I said. It's the *impression* of what you're supposed to feel during the season. There's a *reason* you're upset, and we're just trying to help you figure that out, so maybe next year, or even tomorrow, as the case may be, you'll have found your root of happiness and won't be pressured to feel something you're not during the holidays. Does that make sense?"
Uncertainly, she replied, "I...guess..."
With a chuckle, he shrugged again. "It's hard to understand what isn't understood, but someday, you'll understand it. Understood?"
"...what?"
"Yeah...let's go."
"Okay..." Starling fumbled for words, trying to recall something Scrooge-ish to say, even if their cases were not similar, as Crawford had indicated. "Spirit, conduct me where you will," she said, unsure of her words, even if they sounded good. "I went last time and started to learn a lesson. Now, if you're gonna teach me, let me profit by it."
"Not bad," Crawford said approvingly, flipping through his complimentary copy of the novel. "That was almost verbatim. You always were an over achiever, Starling. Now, grab hold of my hula skirt."
The sentence in itself was so comically bizarre that she had a difficult time containing her mirth as she grasped a handful of straw. If Crawford noticed, he didn't mention it.
Starling prepared for another uncomfortable trip, recalling the speed and abrupt stops she encountered with Krendler. However, when she opened her eyes to find herself standing outside, she blinked, having not felt a thing.
A minute later, this was not so mysterious. Of course! They had no traveling to do, anyway. It was simply a few hours ahead, the next morning.
Even though the temperature was slightly nippy - (she knew this the way those who *were* on the streets were bundled up) - Starling noted that her sweatshirt and jeans were keeping her perfectly insulated, and furthermore, that Crawford wasn't complaining about the weather. Though he was dead and most likely couldn't experience a good-to-honest chill, the hula skirt didn't look too protective of the leg area.
"So what are we doing here, anyway?" Starling asked. "What am I supposed to learn from the present? Something about a crippled kid?"
Crawford gave her a dubious look. "Do you know any crippled kids?"
"No."
"There's your answer. No, we're going to visit your former roommate."
"Ardelia?" Starling frowned. "Why?"
"You'll see. Come on, now."
They were, indeed, not too far from the place Mapp now resided with her husband. Mapp. Starling shook her head. She would never get used to her friend's new last name. Years of writing her name out on paper as Mapp rendered her with the disability to add that one singular change to the list of everything else that now differed in her life.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Crawford asked. "Let's go in."
"In?"
"Sure."
Starling paused. "How?"
"Since these are shadows, we can walk right through them," he explained, outlining the exterior wall with his hands. "Watch. Come on." Stepping demonstratively to the front door, he hopped through the material and out again, showing open palms and grinning ridiculously. "Ta da!"
"That's all well and good for you," Starling snickered. "You're a ghost. You're used to that shit."
"Come on!" Crawford said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "It's easy. Watch!" Again, he resorted to hopping through the barrier, apparently enjoying himself. After a few tries, he gained speed, forgot about her, and focused on further amusing himself.
Starling covered her face and glued her eyes on the ground. "Watch it!" she warned. "You're showing me a little more than I care to see there, buddy."
The incessant hopping ceased as he went red in the cheeks, looking down and smoothing out his skirt with an embarrassed shrug and high-pitched chuckle. "Sorry, there," he excused. "Let's-erm-go in."
Not entirely convinced, but tired enough of standing outside, Starling decided to trust him and approached. After all, what was the worst that could happen? She could be knocked out, or knocked *in* to her senses. Maybe she would wake up from whatever horrific nightmare this was to trade for a more peaceful sleep.
She was almost disappointed when she stepped successfully through the door, noting it felt little different than being blasted with a foray of air.
Christmas-breakfast smells were in the air, and she drew them in appreciatively. Crawford, at her side, pointed to the dining room, and she followed his direction. Starling hadn't seen her friend's new house since she moved in three months before, and took a minute to admire the assorted holiday decorations; some she recognized, others she classified as belonging to Mapp's - Ardelia's - husband.
The scene was picturesque, and it made her heart flutter. A visibly pregnant Ardelia serving her daughter and husband some homemade breakfasty-goodness. All adoring eyes were alight and they were smiling, laughing, loving each other. It looked like a Hallmark commercial.
Though Starling wasn't the type for gushiness, this made her ache. She bit her lip and turned to address Crawford, but he was across the room, admiring his droll appearance in one of the mirrors, and even attempting at what appeared to be his version of dancing.
Rolling her eyes, unsure if her former approval of the new and improved Jack Crawford was still one hundred percent intact, Starling turned back to Ardelia's family and sighed.
What was here that she wanted? What was here that made her hurt so much?
A flash. Thirty minutes ago, she was standing in the late Paul Krendler's summer home kitchen - in the presence of the one and thankfully only late Paul Krendler himself - watching her shadow say horrible things, cold things. Things that made her want to hit herself. Why? And what relevance could it possibly hold here?
Then she remembered waking up, or returning to find herself in bed, crying uncontrollably for a reason she could not explain. Could not...or would not?
And then it hit her, standing there, watching the loving exchanges between husband and wife.
Companionship.
With whom? Anyone in general?
No...not that simple.
Lost in a swirl of confusing thoughts, Starling was brought back by sudden, abrupt singing from behind her. Evidently absorbed in his dance, Crawford belted, "Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day! That's island greeting that they send to you in the land where palm trees swaaaayyyy! Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright-"
"Mr. Crawford!"
Hastily, he stopped, arms falling flatly to his sides. "Oh. You done?"
"Done with *what*? Is there something I'm supposed to do here?"
"Reminiscing, thinking, all that BS. We can go now, if you want."
"Go where?"
"One more stop, Starling...to try and help you figure things out." Crawford nodded for the door.
Travel this time was different than before. Instead of feeling like the waves of a remote control stuck infernally on fast-forward or rewind, Starling found herself drifting quite pleasantly. When they stopped, she found herself outside a residence she had never before seen, in a place she might as well not know existed. Blinking, she turned to Crawford, who was visibly rather aware of where they were and asked, "Did we take a wrong turn?"
"Nope. Buenos Aires is lovely this time of the year, isn't it?" he said, apparently lost in thought. Once he returned to himself, he shook his head and pointed to the door. "But that's beside the point. Inside, Starling. Hustle, hustle!"
The fingers of dread grasped her heart and squeezed mercilessly as she realized whose abode this must be. Pursing her lips, she looked pitifully to Crawford, hoping she had heard wrong, and that they didn't have to see what he was doing, alone and injured on Christmas. At this point, she *really* didn't care to.
"Mr. Crawford..." she ventured cautiously. "I thought you hated Dr. Lecter. That's always been my consensus. Why show me someone you hate if it's apart of my problem?"
"Or solution?" he added helpfully, not a bitter note evident in his tone.
"Solution?"
"Starling, when you die, you come to some divine realizations. Like, in life I might have hated green olives, but now they taste heavenly, if you pardon the pun," Crawford explained. "I hated Dr. Lecter, yes. I sent you to him, though, and that's apart of my reckoning. The most important thing to me as far as you're concerned is your happiness and satisfaction. If Dr. Lecter is an equation in that problem, I don't care to stand in the pathway to the solution, you see?"
The last thing she needed was the one voice she valued above everyone, other than her father, pushing her toward Dr. Lecter if it was her resolve to fight him. "I think I liked you better alive," she decided. "It wasn't as confusing."
"Life is full of lies," Crawford commented narrowly. "In death, we have truth and realizations; you can't hide anything on this side. "Confusion hides the larger problem, what you see but don't want to grasp, or grasp but don't want to see."
"Stop!" Starling covered her ears, turning away from him, his words echoing like a perverse riddle she didn't want to know the answer to. "Let's go inside and get this cursed journey over with."
And inside they went. Starling stood immobile in the doorway for a minute, eyes shut as her pounding heart echoed with fervor in her ears. Her pulse raced and her breath hitched, though her other senses betrayed her. Immediately, she noted the warmth and the pleasant smells. The aura that was so...*him*. In defiance, she clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek, but to little avail. The thought came and remained stubbornly, refusing to grant her leave.
A hand was at her shoulder. "Come on...the sooner you see him, the sooner we can leave."
Starling drew in a deep breath and forced her eyes open. The interior was stunning, though she expected no less. Nothing short of grandiose, impressive without appearing egotistical, however much she knew that the doctor had plenty of esteem.
Soft piano music drifted through the halls. Crawford, leading the way, walked in its direction. Candles were aligned in the window ceils, and though they were allegedly not to be seen, the small fires flickered, almost touched, as they passed. It was the only festive decoration set in the house, and could have easily been dismissed for simple approval of their finishing touch.
Starling found herself thankful of that. Knowing Dr. Lecter was about as keen on Christmas as she was gave her a sense of satisfaction, though she didn't think to register why that was.
The entrance into the main parlor was not overdramatic: rather, quite contrary, short and immediate. Dr. Lecter was seated in an elegant robe at the piano, hands tickling the keys masterfully. In place of sheet music was instead a collage of newspaper clippings that held her face. Starling felt something run cold yet simultaneously warm within her. His left hand was scarred, not visibly, but enough to make her flinch.
He was as alone as she was today. That thought left her satisfied and similarly disconcerted. Alone...when they could be...
"Jack," she said painfully, closing her eyes, barely aware of the abnormal familiarity in which she addressed him. "Please...take me back."
"You sure?"
"Yes!"
The scene before her melted into a rummage of colors, swirled for a few minutes before again unfolding on her street. When she looked to Crawford, he was popping some pills into his mouth, as he had almost regularly in life. She smiled at the image it offered, even if his crown was adorned with a party hat. Inside, though, she was still trembling with the scene they just left, and what it meant for her.
"This is where I leave you, then," Crawford announced.
Starling heard warning bells sounding somewhere. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't host her through the future, though she knew, in referring to the text, that it had to be so. Coldness grasped her at the thought of who was to follow him, but she dare not ask. "I'll take what you gave me," she said. "Thanks, Mr. Crawford."
"No problem, Starling. Take care."
And, without any colossal goodbye, he, too, simply melted into the scenery, leaving her alone on the street in front of her house.
But Starling, wiser now, knew she could not go inside. For in checking her watch, she registered it was almost three, and the last of the spirits would be presenting itself shortly.
* * *
