Chapter 4

Tales from the Back Pages

Madge's fingers trace the chilly metal interior of her post office box. Nothing. Disappointment leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She tried swallowing it down, but her throat feels too tight.

She gives herself a mental pep talk. He often doesn't write for several weeks. Next week she'll have her letter.

It's just that she really needed something happy after her epic failure today. No, she can't call it a failure – she wasn't considered – never stood a chance to succeed or fail. And everyone in the office knows. That's what makes the whole thing burn. Disappointment is bitter, but the humiliation. Ilona treated her so carefully all day – Terry couldn't even look at her. Even he warms up by lunchtime usually. Junius wouldn't stop sighing. Ugh.

And who gave himself the rest of the day off? Haymitch. Oh, she could kill him. Wrap her fingers around his flabby neck till his eyes pop. She wonders if he tried at all to change Plutarch's mind about hiring that man.

She's never felt hostile toward that man before. In fact, at another time in her life she might have been thrilled to work with him. Not today. In fact, he has the dubious honor of participating in the worst day of her life since her mother's death.

Madge closes her mailbox with the finality of a grave digger, blinking angrily at the swimming, brass numbers 237.

"No news is good news. No bills," says a chipper middle-aged man in coveralls, whose box is in the same row as hers, several columns over. He closes the door to his box, turns the key and waves her goodbye.

Bills. The word makes Madge's stomach twist. The first time she had to pay rent after her father and she were taken off of refugee status had come as a shock. Madge honestly didn't know how much it cost to live before then. Quite a lot, it turns out. That had been a hard first year. She learned to carry food on a tray and not to snap at customers even when they acted like pigs. She worked for Sykes at the Broken Oar with Ruga and Bartel. Then she went to school and talked Haymitch into creating a position for her. That helped her pay grade, but only enough to cover basic expenses and a little extra, like her father's prescriptions and the membership at the subscription library.

"I'm sorry, Miss," says the clerk behind the desk where packages are weighed. His lined face shows concern. "We close in five minutes. Do you need stamps?"

Madge realizes she's been standing in front of her box for too long to be normal. She shakes her head at the clerk, adjusts the straps on her purse over her shoulder, and slips out of the glass-plated post office.

…

All the lights are out when Madge comes home except for a dim glow in the living room. As soon as the doors open, she smells something burning and kicks into survival mode. Her fingers scramble for the light switch, then she drops her things on the kitchen table to race over to the oven.

"Dad!" she cries in alarm, rushing to rescue a saucepan from the stove. Her father left the pan of oatmeal to boil over, then burn black on the range top, forgotten. She hastily switches the burner to the off position and tosses the red-hot pan in the sink. The smoke burns her throat and makes her eyes water. If only they had windows! She finds an oven mitt, batting the air. The smoke didn't trigger the sensor on the detector even though it's billowing along the ceiling. Madge isn't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. She'd hate for the fire brigade to come out again because of ruined oatmeal. But then, she'd hate for them not to come on the day when more than oatmeal is on the line.

"Dad!" Madge calls again. No answer. She hopes he didn't leave the apartment – that he's only asleep. Otherwise she has to go after him.

Reluctantly, Madge puts down the oven mitt to check the living room. "Dad?"

Madge finds her father sitting in his armchair staring blankly at the wall in the living room, glasses askew. Madge bends down next to him, but his eyes stay fixed on the wall. A book lies open on the floor at his feet. It's the one from Effie, she realizes. She lifts it up to put it away, but a bookmark slides halfway out from between the pages. She tries to slip it in farther, but it catches. So she opens to the page it's supposed to mark.

It's a picture of the Justice Building in Twelve, or a building very similar to it, anyway. Madge purposefully refuses to let her eyes drift to the caption. She snaps the book shut. This must be the last page her father saw, if that's where the bookmark was. No wonder he's triggered.

Madge shoves the book under his armchair then gently takes her father's hand. When he's like this, all she can do is sit with him until he comes out of it. This is why she wants him at the community center so badly, so he's not alone all day when an episode sneaks up on him. She can't stand the thought of him being by himself when he's hurting so badly – and clearly, he's a danger to himself.

Her legs feel tingly all over from sitting on them when he finally blinks at her. "Madge?"

"Are you okay?" she murmurs.

His expression is hollow and pained. "I should have—"

Madge squeezes his hand. "You aren't supposed to think that way anymore, remember?" she says sternly. "You couldn't do anything more for the district…or for Mom."

"Your poor mother." Mr. Undersee takes a deep breath, then seems to steel himself. "Is everything alright?" he asks. The twist on the back of her head is falling apart and he smells smoke.

"You left the burner on," she says quietly.

Mr. Undersee releases her hand and pushes himself out of his chair. Madge follows him into the kitchen. He surveys the cloud of steam and smoke rising from the pan in the sink. "I forgot about it," he says, downcast. "I'll clean up the mess."

"No, Dad, it's fine," Madge protests, even though it's far from fine. She pulls out his chair at the table for him to sit in, so she can keep an eye on her father while she works. When he's vulnerable like this, he makes rash decisions.

"I'll make you some dinner." She turns the tap on, throws soap flakes into the pan to soak, and wonders if she should bother to scourer it out or throw it away. If today had gone differently, then maybe she would just get rid of the dented, flaking pan and buy a new one.

Madge opens the refrigerator and surveys the bounty. Looks like tomato soup and cheese sandwiches again. Which reminds Madge of something important she'd discussed with her father.

"Dad," she says in her best impression of her father's diplomatic tone. He's still loitering by the counter instead of taking the chair she offered. "I thought we'd agreed on making sandwiches when I'm at work? Um, so you wouldn't have to use the stove?"

"Did we?"

Madge nods, eyes still on the inside of the fridge. He's been hopeless since Mom passed, growing more and more absent. Madge feels like the parent-child roll flipped somewhere. And now it's getting dangerous. Today isn't the first time he's set something on the stove, walked away and forgotten about it.

"Well," he says humbly, "that's probably a good idea."

Madge closes her eyes tight. She doesn't want to hurt his feelings or make him feel foolish. She also doesn't want a phone call from security informing her that her father has set Level 9 on fire. She resolves to unplug the stove tomorrow morning. She doubts her father will think to check that if he forgets he's been banned from making hot lunches.

"How does grilled cheese sound?" she asks.

"With soup?" he asks, hopeful.

"Yes."

"My favorite."

Madge laughs – it's going to have to be his favorite, it's the only thing she's good at making. "Fine. You can start by rinsing out that pan while I get the skillet warmed up."

They work together companionably until their little dinner is done. Mr. Undersee opens the cans of condensed tomato soup and adds water. Madge only burns herself once on the skillet. The soup and the sandwiches don't burn at all, so she's happy.

She pulls a chair over to take out the dinner plates and bowls from the cabinets that are too high for her. Her father sets the table.

"You didn't say how work went today?" Mr. Undersee points out when they're seated.

Madge's shoulders sag. She stirs the red soup around in her bowl, watching the swirls. "They gave the position to someone else," she murmurs.

"Oh," he says awkwardly. He quickly takes a spoonful of soup while Madge stirs hers around in gloomy silence.

Mr. Undersee clears his throat after several minutes of her moping. "Well, chin up." He pats her hand. "Something else will come."

"Yeah."

"Who got the job?" he asks after a reasonable amount of silence.

Madge bristles all over. Her eyes narrow into tiny slits as she assaults the bottom of her soup bowl, imagining the face of that man. "Gale Hawthorne."

Mr. Undersee blinks. "Should I know that name?"

"No," she grudgingly replies. It's a fib, but she doesn't care.

"Hmm, still." He purses his lips, trying to recall. "It has a familiar ring to it."

Oh, Dad, she sighs inwardly. She doesn't remind him that Gale single-handedly rescued the district by leading them out of the fence. Thinking about that will only break her dad's good mood. And it won't do anything to improve her own.

"But today is letter day," says Mr. Undersee, trying to be upbeat for Madge. "I forgot. Now that must have brightened things up for you."

Madge's eyes water for the dozenth time. "There wasn't anything in the mailbox when I went to look."

"Morning or afternoon post?"

"Both." Madge sniffs.

Mr. Undersee blinks in the face of another blunder. "Oh. Oh dear. I didn't mean to make you upset."

"I'm not upset," she denies, sounding distinctly watery. "I've just had a really awful day."

Mr. Undersee sighs, folding his hands over his stomach. He gives her a studious look. "Madge, why don't you go out tonight? Meet up with some friends?" he suggests. "I wonder if this letter business is getting a bit…out of hand."

The implication hangs in the air between them. Out of hand? Madge stops herself from making a face at him like she used to as a little girl. He doesn't understand what a lifeline the correspondence has become to her. She couldn't cut her friend out of her life any more than she could stop talking to Katniss or Peeta.

"I don't want to go out tonight," she says glumly. "You'll be all alone then."

"I don't mind." He points in the direction of his armchair. "I have more books to read. I'm feeling like myself again, if that's what you're worried about."

Madge manages to swallow some of her soup, mulling over her father's suggestion. It's a horrible idea, but maybe Madge does need to get out.

…

The call of the doorbell saves Katniss from having to pose for another of Peeta's sketches. He puts his pencil down. They quietly wonder who that could be and while Katniss answers the door, Peeta leaves to wash off the graphite smudged all over his hands.

Katniss steps back when she sees Madge pacing on her doorstep, pale and wringing her hands. The image of distress.

"Madge—"

"I'm fine," she blurts out, shouldering past Katniss to the dining room table where she stands in front of her usual chair. She clutches her thin jacket around herself.

Katniss studies her from behind, still standing by the door. "Are you really…"

Madge shakes her head. "No," she says, her voice thin and watery. "I'm not fine."

To prove this, Madge slumps into her chair and cries. Head down on her arms and everything. Katniss closes the door, wishing she were on the other side of it. She'd like to support Madge, but she's not good at the whole comfort thing. She glances down the hallway, hoping for rescue.

Peeta comes out of the bathroom and shoots Katniss a questioning look after he spots Madge face-down in a puddle of her own tears on their table. Katniss shrugs unhelpfully.

"I'll get the cake," he says, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Katniss sighs in relief. Peeta always knows what to do in these situations. Madge continues sobbing, but Katniss stiffens her spine and approaches the table. With Madge this upset, Katniss's attempts to sooth her can't possibly make it worse. Not by much, anyway.

"Um." Katniss draws invisible circles on the table with her finger, trying to think of what to say. "Want to talk about it?" she asks.

Madge needs little encouragement. "Gale got my job!" she cries into the Formica overlay. Her arms muffle the sound of her voice.

Katniss eyebrows knit together. She didn't expect that. "Excuse me?"

"My job." Madge looks up over the protective circle of her arms. "My department had a management position open. Haymitch said it was as good as mine."

Katniss kindly refrains from pointing out that she should have seen the error right there. Haymitch's promises are hardly binding, and he leaves everything open to interpretation. His own, that is.

"But what happened?" she asks instead.

Madge sits up, accepting a napkin from Katniss to dry her cheeks and nose. "Plutarch Heavensbee completely bypassed Haymitch and hired Gale instead."

"I had a hunch about that," says Peeta to Katniss, carrying in a cheesecake, plates and cutlery, "when Gale told us he'd be working for Haymitch."

"How badly were you counting on that position?" Katniss asks, looking troubled. She wonders if Gale knows that by accepting this job, he cut Madge out?

Madge knots her fingers in her loose hair, like it's the only grip she can get on herself. "I wanted to start saving to put my dad in some sort of day program. He almost set the kitchen on fire today. But that's not going to happen on this salary," she tells them. "His prescriptions alone are killing me. I mean, we're making it fine –" she says quickly before Katniss and Peeta can offer to help. "I just really wanted this job."

She takes a deep breath and allows Peeta to slide a plate between her elbows resting on the table. "I just feel so disappointed. If I didn't have my letters to look forward to, then I don't know what I'd do," she sniffles.

Katniss looks blank. "Letters? From who?"

"I don't know," Madge admits with a blush. "They're anonymous."

"You're writing to a total stranger?" asks Katniss unhappily.

Madge smiles weakly. "He doesn't feel like a stranger. In fact, I wish he was here to wring Gale's neck. No offense."

"We've all felt that way about Gale from time to time," says Peeta sympathetically. "Stop scowling, Katniss. I know you have too."

"That's beside the point," Katniss snipes at Peeta. She says to Madge, "How did this all start?"

Madge sniffles again. "I put an ad in the paper about a year ago."

That doesn't mean anything to Katniss, who stares blankly at Madge.

"A personal ad," Peeta says to help her out. "In the newspaper…I guess you didn't read those much."

"You think?" Katniss mutters. "What's it do? The ad?"

"Well, I just wanted someone to write to about the sort of things I learned in my classes…. Men, specifically." Madge blushes as the look on Katniss's face grows more and more toward consternation. "I had a few replies, most of them duds. In fact, I almost decided to retract the ad, but then I got his letter." She manages a smile. "He wants to talk about the topics I suggest. I got the impression from the other men that they were just humoring me to get a date."

"These people date each other?" Katniss gapes. The Mellarks aren't the best spokesmen for traditional dating. Their circumstances were anything but normal. But writing someone to get a date is far beyond Katniss's ability to understand or desire.

"You should go on dates," says Peeta over his wife. "You don't have to write letters to get one."

"It's not that easy," Madge replies uncomfortably. "The single men I know are painfully shy and too young, or painfully annoying and too old. I guess I don't get out enough to meet more. The intention wasn't to fall in love with him, not really."

"Do you have feelings for this stranger?" he asks carefully.

Madge grows quiet and thoughtful, staring at her uneaten piece of cheesecake. "Well, I don't know for sure. Maybe?" She glances up at them. "We haven't met yet, but…I want to."

Peeta and Katniss look at one another with concern.

…

Gale scrabbles around in the half-light, looking for a switch. He finds it, flicks it on, then waits for the fluorescents to pulse into existence. He finds himself standing in a bare kitchen that smells strongly of cleaner fluids and new paint.

"Welcome home," he mutters to himself. "Hurrah."

He throws a bag of new suits, generously provided by the department, on the kitchen table and pulls out a letter from his coat pocket. He meanders into the furnished living room, takes a look at the bathroom and bedroom. It's an apartment. So what. All the furniture's covered in plastic sheeting and pulled away from the walls. He doesn't bother moving it out of the way when he sits down to read his letter. He feels guilty for not writing one of his own, but between the moving around and whatnot, he didn't get a chance. He'll make it up to her. Maybe he'll write two whole pages for once.

Gale reads to the last line and goes back to read it again. It's just the balm he needs after a first day of a new job. Where does she come up with the things she writes? he wonders. He folds the paper carefully and puts it in his wallet to carry with him.

Gale rummages around in his pack to find his notepad and pen. But when he sets it down on his knees to write he doesn't feel all that inspired – not enough to match her, anyway. Maybe it's just because he's in a strange room and feeling shiftless. Screw this. He's not sitting around by himself all night. He grabs the phone Plutarch gave him and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He dials the number written there.

A trilling, upbeat woman answers the phone amidst a cacophony of children's voices.

"Hello?"

"Er, this is Gale Hawthorne. Is Bristel home?"

…

Twenty minutes after the phone call, Gale narrowly avoids getting smacked in the back by the swinging doors of the Broken Oar when he hears Bristel's voice over the crowd. He easily spots the familiar lanky frame of his old crewmate. They look like they could be cousins in terms of build and coloring: same black hair, angular face with gray eyes. But Bristel's hair curls and there's laughter in his eyes instead of the steady intensity in Gale's.

Bristel slides out of the booth the rest of the way to greet him with a mixture of a hug and a hearty slap on the back. "So, you're back for more, eh?" he greets.

"Sure," Gale says, extricating himself. "Thanks for coming out tonight. I didn't feel like eating alone."

Bristel's still wearing his coveralls from work. There's a mechanist badge sewn onto the right sleeve. Gale called just as he walked into the door of his family's quarters. It's Tansy he should thank, really. She's the one at home with their scads of children. And she seemed to understand that tonight wasn't the best time for Gale to join them for a boisterous family dinner.

"Well, I'm glad you're in Thirteen again. Place isn't the same without you," Bristel says, seating himself in the booth while Gale hangs his coat up on a peg nailed onto the side of the booth. "Even if I do love it down here."

Gale's nose wrinkles in disbelief. "You do?"

"Oh sure. It's grand," he drawls. "Well, except that the kids haven't seen a real tree outside of a pot. Tansy tries to supplement with picture books." He shrugs.

Gale slides along the bench seat across from Bristel, grabbing a laminated menu to browse over. "So, you and Tansy are on what, two sets of twins now?" he asks, trying to remember when he last spoke to his old friend before tonight.

"Three sets, actually." Bristel tries counting off on his fingers. "I'm pretty sure. Who knows anymore. They all look alike. I forget where I started counting." He shrugs again. Gale looks shocked. "Eh, you've been gone for a while."

"I guess," Gale snorts. "Hell's teeth. You and Tansy might want to consider different methods for…you know. I mean, it's only been what…six years for you? They'll have to dig out a whole new level just for your family at this rate."

Bristel laughs good-naturedly. "Well, it's not from lack of planning, Hawthorne. Believe me. Apparently, we're fertile." He spreads his hands in a what can you do? gesture. "But it all works out for you, eh? Think of all the advice I'll be able to give when it's your turn."

"Boys and girls?" Gale asks, shuddering to think what advice Bristel would give.

"All girls," says Bristel, revealing the first hint of being overwhelmed. "Seven women in one suite. See why we have to keep having kids? I know there's a boy in here somewhere." He points in the general vicinity of his pants.

A waitress named Ruga comes by, slapping down glasses of water and giving Bristel a look which plainly says that she doesn't want to know. She takes their orders, two beers and some sandwiches. She leaves them with a basket of shelled peanuts, which Bristel digs into with relish.

"So what's the deal? I thought you were some backwoods surveyor," Bristel asks when Ruga leaves.

Gale grabs a peanut, crushing the shell to extract the meat. "I have a shiny government job now. Manager." He smirks. He never thought he's say that. Even as a surveyor, he worked for himself basically, contracted by the Department of District Development, set up through the outreach office.

Bristel grunts. "That's a treat." As far as either man is concerned, government agencies are a hoax designed to rob people of their hard-earned money or keep them living in the dirt. It'll take more than a revolution to get that kind of distrust out of their systems.

"You're telling me," Gale mutters. "And you'll never guess who I work with."

"Who?"

"Remember the mayor's kid?" Gale asks. "Back in Twelve."

"Blond girl." Bristel shrugs.

"They're always blond," Gale points out.

Bristel pops a peanut in his mouth. "Which is why I said it. Can't go wrong." He winks at Gale. "I bet she has blue eyes too."

"Bluer than blue." Gale slides the basket of peanuts back and forth between his hands. "She brought me morphling after Thread had me whipped."

Bristel shudders, remembering. He and their friend Thom helped carry Gale home. They were paid well, but Bristel didn't do it for the money. "Bad night. So, what's her name?"

"Madge."

"She sounds like a nice girl," Bristel says conversationally. "Nice to work with someone you know, too."

Gale scowls, rubbing his jaw. "That's what you'd think. I don't know. She gave me all kinds of attitude today."

"You're in charge, eh? Better nip it in the bud real quick," Bristel warns.

"You bet I will." Gale's not about to let some snotty, ex-mayor's kid walk all over him. Maybe Haymitch lets her get away with it, but Gale won't.

"So what made you want to take this job? You hate it down here, ties are like nooses, and you already had a job." Bristel ticks off each point on his fingers, then spreads his hands. "What's the incentive?"

Good question. Gale's been asking himself that ever since the morning he told Johanna he'd come. Sure, when he accepted the job here in Thirteen, he thought about doing it for the "right thing" and helping the department. Anything to thwart the Jabberjays.

And then, say, he wants to meet the girl he's been writing. He considered what he had to offer her, and it wasn't much. Maybe he's not cut out to be someone wearing a necktie, but the extra cash doesn't hurt and well, it sounds more impressive than leading the Flannel Shirt Squad, McNair's epithet for their crew. Whoever this girl is, he bets he's going to have to impress her.

And sure, maybe he's jumping the gun by thinking that far ahead. He doesn't even know her name. But he's twenty-five, all his friends are settling down. If it's not this girl, it'll be someone else.

Ruga stops by with their drinks. Gale takes a long pull of his beer, then rolls the bottle between his hands before answering. He sat a lot today and it's showing in his restless movements.

"I have the future to think about," he says to answer Bristel's question. He takes a pull from his beer glass. "Suppose a guy is thinking about getting married…"

Bristel beams. "Congrats! Who's the lucky girl?"

Gale makes a sour face. Bristel sure does jump to conclusions. "Now, hold on." He holds up his hand. "I just said suppose. I never said it was me."

"Well, I think it's a good idea," Bristel says with conviction. "You know, for whoever's thinking about it," he adds just to humor Gale.

Gale nods. "How much does it cost to live nowadays? Just you and Tansy, no kids."

Bristel gives him a knowing grin. "Why fool yourself?"

Gale laughs self-consciously. Everything's hypothetical at this point – he shouldn't even consider settling down with this girl. But you never know, he thinks.

"So?" he asks.

Bristel scratches his head. "You won't be able to go out for beer unless your long lost buddy shows up out of nowhere. But it can be done – and affordably too. I mean, you can't be extravagant." Bristel shrugs. "So, why all the questions? You're thinking about it, eh? Of course you are. Why else would you come back to the Underground you hate so much?"

"Let me show you something." Gale takes out his wallet and flips past photos of his family to the back pocket. He pulls out a thin slip of unlined paper.

Bristel looks at the paper suspiciously. "What is it?"

"This, Bristel, is a letter," he says wryly.

"Fancy."

Gale smirks, handing it over. "You have no idea."

Bristel holds it to his nose. His eyes grow round. "Is that perfume? Who's writing said letters?"

Gale leans forward till his stomach connects with the table. "That's just it…I have no idea. It's completely anonymous. This girl put an ad in the paper. I answered it and here we are."

Bristel turns the folded paper around in his hand like he doesn't know how a letter works. "What are they about?"

"We started talking, I don't know of lofty stuff," he says. "And eventually we got on the subject of love – on a theoretical level."

"Well, what else can you do in a letter?" says Bristel. "You're pretty interested?" The look on Bristel's face translates into you're pretty crazy.

"Just listen to this." Gale takes back the letter and unfolds the paper and starts reading:

Are you tall? Are you short? Do you shave? Don't tell me. What does it matter so long as our minds meet? We sift through enough mundane details in our daily lives. Our world is full of hidden ideas and new beginnings, it would be a waste to spend precious paper and ink and words on dull details, so don't let's do it. Don't tell me who you are, but who you wish to be. In our letters we can be anyone, say anything. I dare you.

Bristel knocks back about half of his beer glass, then licks away the foam on his lip. What does a guy say about an intimate letter written to another guy by some girl that doesn't sound pervy or stupid?

"That's…beautiful?" Bristel goes out on a limb to try.

Gale's sober eyes brighten. "It's poetry. This girl isn't like any anyone I've been interested in before," he tells Bristel.

"I'll say," Bristel mutters. "Poetry. Since when did you like poetry, huh?"

"I didn't think I did until now," says Gale. "Then the letters started coming. Bristel, there isn't another girl like this in the world."

"Gale, normally I allow you to be the wet blanket in our friendship, but as your buddy I just gotta say this: A woman resorting to ads in the paper…well, she's probability ugly and old enough to be your mother." His eyes grow large. "Oh gad, maybe she is your mother. You don't know….because this is a letter."

Gale scowls at him Bristel for putting a damper on things. Could this girl he's imagining really turn out to be some old cat lady? He doesn't dare think it.

"Don't point those laser eyes at me, man. I'm just the voice of reason. You should think about this before – that is…you're going to meet her, right?"

Gale shifts uncomfortably. He's been thinking about that. "I'm gonna have to. I've been holding it off, but now that I'm living in Thirteen again I have the opportunity. But…"

"But what if she isn't what you're expecting?"

Gale shrugs. He doesn't want to say it out loud and make the doubt real. Besides, it's only day one of his new life in the Underground. With everything up in the air, he can't possibly add her into the mix just yet. No. He'll have to wait. Even if he doesn't want to hold off – either on the disappointment or the elation.

Ruga arrives with their food and more beer. Gale slips his letter back into the safety of his wallet, then proceeds to pick at his sandwich. Watching the dissection of the sandwich, Bristel decides to take pity on his friend.

"I guess the bottom line is that," he says, "she did write those letters, though, whoever she is."

"Yeah," Gale replies with a small smile. "She did write them."

TBC

A/N: The title for this chapter comes from the song "Go Places" by The New Pornographers. Happy Easter to folks who celebrate the holiday. :D