For Clarice Starling, the next day came all too quickly.
Given everything she had to take into consideration, rolling out of bed at the usual 5:00 am seemed a rather insignificant quandary, though these days sleep was a luxury. A precious thing of limited resource, something she found she needed with aching precision. Perhaps it was a reflection of her childhood days in the orphanage, or perhaps age and stress were finally catching up with her.
Gallivanting in bars, certainly, did not help her dilemma. Especially when she found herself in the company of mysterious strangers who were too altogether nosy for their own good. True, she hadn't encountered many that fit that description, but last night's episode had fueled her for a lifetime.
The audacity of that man!
Starling had enough on her mind without having to worry herself with her appearance in public. Over the years, she had mastered the many devices and techniques in which to conceal misery, allowing it to fester and brew until you rightfully couldn't stand it anymore. A counselor at school once told her that repressing emotions wasn't a way of healing them, causing her to never visit the office again.
Of course, schoolgirl outbursts were behind her. She had behaved herself, come reasonably far in life, given her upbringing. And yet…yet…
Teaches me to frequent in bars, she mused to herself, finally rolling out of bed, refusing to accept the challenge from the alarm clock and simply hit snooze. Also teaches me to stay out until two if I have to get up in three hours.
It wasn't this difficult when she was younger. Starling found herself facing the incontestable evidence that she was no longer sixteen years old. When she eyed her image in the mirror, she poked a face at it, as though trying to push the thought away and buy herself some precious time. "Mornin' Sunshine," she quipped to herself. Her voice stank of West Virginia hills.
Some realizations took awhile.
The vow remained never to stay up as late again without double-checking the caffeine supply, despite her inner revelations. Almost reluctantly, she forced herself into routine. Her sweats remained where she threw them the day before, as did her pullover and sneakers. She wiggled into jogging clothes, changing the settings on the Mr. Coffee she shared with Mapp so that a warm cup of French Vanilla would welcome her when she returned.
There wasn't much that she remembered after the sudden departure of that doctor the night before…oh, what's his name. Starling shook her head, her eyes falling over Mapp, passed out on the sofa, still fully clothed. It would be a while before her friend answered the call of morning, even longer before she decided to get to school. Lucky for her there were no exams that day. More excuses to make. Funny that no one seemed to tire of her friend's logic, the long stream of poorly constructed justification for her incessant tardiness. Yet, if she were late…
The air was chilled, not too much, but enough to make her shiver as she stepped outside. Empty, barren streets awaited her, the night not having lifted the veil of courtly silence it endorsed habitually. Though no one could ever describe Washington as a peaceful city, there were some aspects that she could appreciate. Starling's neighborhood was relatively quiet. It had to be; mostly colleagues within the Bureau made up its residents.
Customarily, she made a resolution to get to know her neighbors as she stretched, but Starling's thoughts were detached this morning. Distant. Elusive.
Patterned behavior…
And she set off, desperate to leave last night's memoirs behind.
"You look like you're troubled about something."
Starling shook her head, attempting unsuccessfully to concentrate on the sound of her feet against the pavement. Gollop, lop, lop…
"Perhaps you don't manage your rage?"
The urge to reply to that aloud was strong, but she withheld, biting her tongue. Instead, her mind formed the response, and she smiled tightly. Sadly. The last thing I need is a fucking professional telling me I'm nuts.
Patterned behavior.
Gollop, lop, lop, lop…
Christ! Though she was not and never would be a 'people person,' Starling felt she had developed a knack for it. She had endured years of people telling her she wasn't good enough for the job, that she should quit while she's ahead, that she if was doing something right, it was probably on her back.
That was before the other accusations came. After people realized to some extent how very far off the mark they were.
Cold fish! Cold fish! Cold fish!
Wasn't running supposed to be relaxing?
Again, her mind rebelled. Hell, honey, when is anything relaxing anymore?
"Perhaps you don't manage your rage?"
Why should I, she thought defiantly. Leave myself open for more assholes like you?
"Well, from your aggressive behavior, I do believe I can summarize why you might have difficulty."
Gee, you're a really observant psychiatrist.
After all, weren't most people in bars troubled? If they weren't, wouldn't they be elsewhere?
Sweat glistened her forehead and dripped into her eyes. A voice screamed within her, reasoning why this was troubling her so. Anger had nothing to do with it. She was frustrated, yes, but more on the idea that she had allowed herself to become so easily read, literally by a stranger. Starling knew how annoying people were who forced their troubles on others, as though expecting some compensation for all of life's prejudices. An explanation, a reassurance that they aren't alone in their misery, something. Though she was confident that her state of mind had not lowered itself to the term 'basket-case,' the ordeal was disconcerting. In a sense, it was almost worse.
Hello, my name is Doctor Something-or-Other, and I'm studying you for an evaluation on patterned behavior.
Patterned behavior.
Nuh-uh. I don't think so buddy.
The falsified words of the doctor ensued, and while she knew he hadn't spoken them, something rotated nastily in her stomach at the thought.
You're really pathetic. Care for some help? Some…EV-AL-U-A-TION?
Pity from a stranger. Not even compassionate pity – it was observatory sympathy. 'I feel sorry for you because I'm better than you are, and that's fucking hilarious.'
What was his name? What was his name?
Doctor—
Something to do with elephants. I remember that much.
Hannibal.
At that, Starling nearly paused in stride in an incursion of giggles. Aligning this man in the same category as elephants, no matter how much or little she knew of him, was amusing.
Gollop, lop, lop…
Lecter.
"Dr. Lecter, please. It seems most appropriate for your age and station."
I'm sorry. You need to be beyond the mentality of some sob-story teenager to partake in this conversation. Come back when you get your attitude straightened up. Have a nice day.
Starling's hair brushed into her eyes, and she hastily drew it away. She could see her porch. Never had the prospect of ending a jog seemed so liberating. As she approached, she slowed, deciding against her usual cool-down walk. No more tinkering with thoughts this morning. Not when she had to go into work. That required strength.
Why is this bothering me so much?
Starling didn't break stride as she settled into a paced walk to the front door. Perhaps jogging in the morning wasn't such a good idea, especially on as little sleep as she had acquired. Three hours was hardly sufficient.
Coffee waited inside. Caffeine. The source of life. She could smell it from here.
It's bothering me because what he said was true. Because he hit a fucking nerve.
Starling slammed the front door shut, refusing to give the matter another thought.
* * *
The taste of new irritation washed out with the influence of the old. This day was like no other. Same rudimentary snickers from male students, the both appreciative and leering stares radiating at all angles. Whispers, rumors, accusations, assumptions. Was she going to cut it?
Starling was tired of it. So very tired of it. She was only a student, after all. What was to happen once she graduated? These were the minor leagues. The test to see if she could do the job.
Carry on as you are, and you will continue to be dissatisfied, shunned, overlooked. You indeed do not portray yourself here as you would at school. That much is abundantly clear. You're not fitting the role they expect, which is well played on your part.
This case had been too much for her. Another had floated and she couldn't stop it. Hours of skipping class, hours of pouring herself over page after page of case file, all shattered. What was she supposed to see here? Something, or else Crawford wouldn't have had her prime and ready on the front lines.
Had.
It was no longer hers. Stop wasting a trainee's time. Or should she stop wasting theirs?
Who the hell are you kidding, Starling?
Crawford didn't speak to her today, nor did he try to establish eye contact when they passed each other in the halls. Did he not want her to see his regret, or his shame? Was he, too, going to blame this on her small, still-learning shoulders?
She thought he was above that. Perhaps not.
At lunch, Starling broke for Fazoli's, eager to get away from it all. Eating out was often the only highlight of her days, as she so looked forward to escaping fellow students. As a result of an isolated childhood, she found she was a reclusive person, surrounded constantly by others who in no means shared her interests or views. Of course, not many people came to the academy from a Lutheran orphanage. Her best and damn near only friend was Ardelia Mapp, and Starling preferred it that way. Socializing with the brain-numbed members of her class was uneventful and boring. There weren't that many female trainees, as it was; one of the main reasons she and Mapp had bonded. Chances were if a male student showed interest in talking it was due to their supreme desire to get laid.
Starling usually dined with Mapp, but her friend had yet to show up for the day. She toyed with calling and decided against it. The woman was probably sprawled out on the couch still, having not recovered from the heavy drinking that ensued the night before. It was nice to be the permanent designated driver—no one ever questioned her when she declined a refill.
Though she did not betray it, Starling was somewhat disconcerted. Having Mapp at her side seemed to boost her confidence. Where she was quite and polite, reserving her witty remarks for her own amusement in the mindset of keeping out of trouble, her friend never held back. Another area of envy. Starling had the stinking suspicion that she would never get away with such deliverance, and the thought made her sick.
You got to admit, it's getting better, she hummed inwardly, munching on a garlicky breadstick. It's getting better all the time…
Uh huh.
No such thing as favoritism. Kiss my ass.
She had long ago arrived at the conclusion that life intentionally devised little obstacles and miseries, perhaps out of boredom or the need for good humor. However, Starling was tired of feeling like a walking target. There had to be more than this.
Especially with the unfold of recent events.
As she sipped on her coke, picking at a serving of baked chicken parmesan, Starling felt something seize her—an unworldly premonition. Without having to pause for self-analysis, she groaned and closed her eyes, fighting the temptation to sink directly into her pasta, as though it offered some formidable disguise.
Of all the restaurants…
And he just would approach. How typical.
"Afternoon, Starling."
"Hello, Mr. Krendler." The distaste was evident, rooted deeply her tone. While she was courteous to a fault, Starling didn't have to pretend she liked it. Negative vibes and bitter insults were expected between these two. It was no secret to anyone, except Crawford, who tended to only see what fancied him.
A frown creased Paul Krendler's face, head cocked to one side. "Well, aren't you a little ray of sunshine?"
"Is there something you would like to say, Mr. Krendler?"
"I was just wondering if you have any idea what's to become of you now."
From anyone else, that comment might have bit with rancor. Failure this early in her career was not a good sign, even if the evidence lacked that she knew how to execute the job. No one asked her if she wanted this. For whatever godawful reason, Crawford had faith that she would succeed, even exceed, and his undying confidence was the largest factor that made her progression—or lack thereof—all the more bitter.
But from this man? Insults and sneers were expected, anticipated. She could defeat the Spanish armada, blindfolded with an arm tied behind her and nothing more to fight with than a greasy banana peel and he would still waver to give her a genuine pat on the back.
The insults she could deal with. However, Starling had a firm misgiving that a part of her failure could be accredited to him. Not so much with actions as words. Despite his ignorance, Krendler's political tug was strong, and reliable in some circles. People trusted him, and why shouldn't they? He always did what they wanted, said what they expected, delivered what they asked. To what extent, it didn't matter, for they didn't care, as long as he pulled through. This man would steal candy from a baby to console a single mother by a stroller, and compensate with ice cream for the whole family.
Even if he was already married. Even if he had a number of mistresses on the side. It never failed to amaze Starling how many gullible women actually accepted his slimy offer. How they remained oblivious of his numerous indiscretions, feeling lucky to be at his side, at least until he tired of them.
Why this man got married was a mystery. Perhaps to prove to himself and the world that he could do it.
And the Asshole of the Year trophy goes to…
"Starling?" His voice, his voice! Piercing her brain like shards of glass, a preferable situation to this man's company. It drew her out of her reverie and back to the present. "Did you hear me? I'm sure you know what they're saying."
"What have you been telling them to say, Mr. Krendler? That a trainee can't do a federal officer's work, not just yet? That much should be self-explanatory."
"Starling, you're at the top of your class. You're only a few months from graduation."
"That doesn't make me an agent, Mr. Krendler." She smiled with malice. "Now, kindly leave me alone."
"There will be no graduation for you, do you understand? Not this year, anyway. Not only did you not get the job done, but you're so far behind that your make-up work stretches from here to Timbuktu. There ain't a stone's throw in hell that—"
Small victory as it was, she knew he was reveling in the fact that she was still a year away from true authority. Whatever time he could buy while bossing her around was still on the market.
All of this torment because she had declined an offer that no woman in her right mind would accept.
Still, the words were on her tongue, rolling off carelessly. Her eyes widened with anger, and she heard herself blurt: "Backed in make-up work because people put me on this without asking me!"
Her temper flared at last, and she shook her head remorsefully. Knowing he had struck a nerve, Krendler smiled his twisted smile.
"That's the way life goes, Starling. You don't get many choices. Oh well. A year ain't that long. You'll manage." He put on a face of console, though his eyes were twinkling, and pulled away, strutting to the front of the restaurant to place his order.
And she, sitting there, fuming with truly little provocation, came to a sudden epiphany.
I. Will. Not. Take. This. Any. More.
Okay, another year before graduation. Starling seized control of over-sensitive emotions and calmed herself, snatching three more breadsticks. Though Krendler rarely spoke the truth, that was one of the rumors she had heard. A believable one. An accurate one. Another year.
Another year to cope, to smile nicely and nod, to accept disappointment and the constant mockery of others. To be looked down upon. Inferior. Unequal. The same homework, classes, instructors, and field assignments. Things she could do in her sleep, if she weren't so far behind in work. How utterly humiliating.
Why should she believe this time around would be any easier?
A thought drifted through her mind, suddenly, without warning. The voice she had earlier scorned rose effortlessly, and she felt herself still.
In six months, I could have this young lady coached in ways they do not fathom at the FBI. In six months, I could pass her off as a duchess at an Embassy ball.
Though the comment had originally infuriated her—and rightfully so—Starling swiftly perked, as though enlightened.
Oh could you, could you really?
A window suddenly opened, and though she had never been one to readily seek help, she found herself at a new understanding. Help from others, even arrogant psychiatrists, was better than none at all. If he really believed he was that good, why not let him prove it? Six months was more than enough time.
Starlings don't accept failure.
Coached help or not, it was better than nothing.
Thus, as much as she hated the thought, Starling resolved to find that doctor. That Hannibal Lecter, and take him up on his offer. Certainly, she would lose nothing. And as much as he annoyed her, infuriated her, made her want to gnash his teeth in, she reflected, sipping her soda, he was most certainly superior to Paul Krendler.
Of course, that's not saying much, she thought dryly. A baboon in heat is superior to Paul Krendler.
That thought made her smile. A good-to-honest smile. A face that hadn't known a smile in days perked with sudden mitigation. Amused, she raised her glass to an invisible guest and toasted: Here's to Hannibal Lecter, who is at least superior to a baboon in heat, and drank.
Without further prompting, Clarice Starling dissolved into laughter. It felt good. She hadn't laughed in weeks.