Pirates You Don't Know, and Other Adventures in the Examined Life: Collected Essays

Quid Pro Quo, Dr. Lecter

74 Quid Pro Quo, Dr. Lecter Starbuck had been trying on new emotions, pretending he was mad or upset or joyous, then believing his invented states. “You can’t have any juice right now,” Mrs. Churm told him. “You’ve had juice already. Have some water instead.” “You mean I can never have juice again, never ever in a million trillion ducal-blaster years?” he wailed, practicing being hyperbolic. He was especially fragile at dinnertime, even though he’d had a good day at school. He incited riots with his brother, then got upset when we said he was in trouble because he knew Wolfie copied everything he did. “What am I going to have to do to get this pasta in you today?” I asked them tiredly, like a used-car salesman. Starbuck ended up getting himself sent to his room before bedtime.Mrs. Churm went to say goodnight and said she expected better from him the next day. Starbuck looked past her at me as she lectured, and I shot him a look that was 60 percent,“You’re gonna get it from me when your mother’s done,” and 40 percent, “You’re gonna get wrestled down and kissed on the neck.” His eyebrows went up hopefully. I made him wait to find out which it would be until Mrs. Churm helped the boys say goodnight to each other and led Wolfie out of the room and down the hall. Starbuck tried to force the issue—“What? What are you going to do?” he pleaded, pretending terror—but I only looked sideways from the departing Mrs. Churm to Starbuck sitting on his pillow. quid pro quo, dr. lecter 75 “Okay. Now,” I said. I paused. “It’s time you met . . . the Tickle Spider!” My right hand ran toward him on its fingers, and he shrieked in delight. He sledge-hammered the spider with the bottom of his fist as it ran up his leg toward his armpits. He pulled it off him and sat on it, giggling, but intent and fierce. I let him struggle with it a minute, then said,“Wait, wait. Stop. Stop it.” “Huh?” he said. He stopped but wasn’t about to get off the spider. Who would? “Tickle Spider has something he wants to say,” I said. Starbuck shifted his weight off my hand—cautiously, cautiously—and held the spider down with both hands. He leaned down. “What is it,Tickle Spider?” he asked. “I want to tell you a secret,” I whispered. “Come closer.” Starbuck did. I said, “I want to tell you . . . I have . . . a brother!” With that, my other hand ran at him. Starbuck jerked back, allowing both Tickle Spiders to come at him at once. He screamed and began to sob. I cradled him to my chest, said I was sorry, and reassured him. I felt horrible but pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. He made me promise never to bring out the Tickle Spider ever again, and I promised I never would, not in a million billion ducal-blaster years. I lay next to him as he calmed down, and just before he fell asleep, he asked the Tickle Spider to come and sleep on his chest. r I’d been promising Starbuck his first camping trip, Wolfie being still too young, and their godfather was visiting his own folks in our hometown, so I decided it was a good time for just the two of us to hit the road. Due to intangible fears (lions, tigers, and bears not being available in southern Illinois), camping in a tent somehow became sleeping in the back of our minivan. But that would mean buying mosquito netting for the windows, and in the end I reserved a “rustic cabin” at Giant City State Park, south of Carbondale. It’s a lovely park I’ve visited since I was a boy, with a lodge built by the Civilian Conservation Corps from rough-hewn local timber and chiseled fieldstones. 76 quid pro quo, dr. lecter The lodge always had a couple of original cabins nearby and a restaurant with excellent chicken dinners, but recently it had been sensitively updated with a bar, a swimming pool, and Wi-Fi. New cabins came in several sizes, from modest to Aspen townhouse, and the rustic cabin we chose had been totally rebuilt. Though plain, it had two comfortable full beds...