CHAPTER
94
STARLING HAD no sense of time. Over the days and nights there were the conversations. She heard herself speaking for minutes on end, and she listened.
Sometimes she laughed at herself, hearing artless revelations that normally would have mortified her. The things she told Dr. Lecter were often surprising to her, sometimes distasteful to a normal sensibility, but what she said was always true. And Dr. Lecter spoke as well. In a low, even voice. He expressed interest and encouragement, but never surprise or censure.
He told her about his childhood, about Mischa.
Sometimes they looked at a single bright object together to begin their talks, almost always there was but a single light source in the room. From day to day the bright object changed.
Today, they began with the single highlight on the side of a teapot, but as their talk progressed, Dr. Lecter seemed to sense their arrival at an unexplored gallery in her mind. Perhaps he heard trolls fighting on the other side of a wall. He replaced the teapot with a silver belt buckle.
“That’s my daddy’s,” Starling said. She clapped her hands together like a child.
“Yes,” Dr. Lecter said. “Clarice, would you like to talk with your father? Your father is here. Would you like to talk with him?”
“My daddy’s here! Hey! All right!”
Dr. Lecter put his hands on the sides of Starling’s head, over her temporal lobes, which could supply her with all of her father she would ever need. He looked deep, deep into her eyes.
“I know you’ll want to talk privately. I’ll go now. You can watch the buckle, and in a few minutes, you’ll hear him knock. All right?”
“Yes! Super!”
“Good. You’ll just have to wait a few minutes.”
Tiny sting of the finest needle—Starling did not even look down—and Dr. Lecter left the room.
She watched the buckle until the knock came, two firm knocks, and her father came in as she remembered him, tall in the doorway, carrying his hat, his hair slicked down with water the way he came to the supper table.
“Hey, Baby! What time do you eat around here?”
He had not held her in the twenty-five years since his death, but when he gathered her to him, the western snaps on his shirtfront felt the very same, he smelled of strong soap and tobacco, and she sensed against her the great volume of his heart.
“Hey, Baby. Hey, Baby. Did you fall down?” It was the same as when he gathered her up in the yard after she tried to ride a big goat on a dare. “You was doing pretty good ’til she swapped ends so fast. Come on in the kitchen and let’s see what we can find.”
Two things on the table in the spare kitchen of her childhood home, a cellophane package of SNO BALLS, and a bag of oranges.
Starling’s father opened his Barlow knife with the blade broken off square and peeled a couple of oranges, the peelings curling on the oilcloth. They sat in ladder-back kitchen chairs and he freed the sections by quarters and alternately he ate one, and he gave one to Starling. She spit the seeds in her hand and held them in her lap. He was long in a chair, like John Brigham.
Her father chewed more on one side than the other and one of his lateral incisors was capped with white metal in the fashion of forties army dentistry. It gleamed when he laughed. They ate two oranges and a SNO BALL apiece and told a few knock-knock jokes. Starling had forgotten that wonderful squirmy feeling of springy icing under the coconut. The kitchen dissolved and they were talking as grown people.
“How you doin’, Baby?” It was a serious question.
“They’re pretty down on me at work.”
“I know about that. That’s that courthouse crowd, Sugar. Sorrier bunch never—never drew breath. You never shot nobody you didn’t have to.”
“I believe that. There’s other stuff.”
“You never told a lie about it?”
“No, sir.”
“You saved that little baby.”
“He came out all right.”