Cai
"For me?" Peeta asks when I offer my father's hat and clothing to him to wear.
"Yes. You and Gao are nearly the same height. From a distance it would be difficult for anyone to notice that you didn't belong here if you were dressed in Chinese clothing. In your uniform…"
"Oh, no. I understand that part," Peeta interrupts. "It's just that these belonged to your father. Are you sure you want me to wear them?"
I smile at his thoughtfulness, his respect for my memories of my father. My father deserves respect, and I know he would be so disappointed with us right now, especially disappointed that Gao and I have not married and joined our families as both Gao's father and my father wanted. My father was such a practical man, and yet I sense that he might have actually liked or admired Peeta in some ways, even though he'd have seen protecting him as dangerous.
"Yes. My father is gone. I honor him by using everything he gave us for our family."
"But for me?" Peeta asks, a surprised lilt in his voice.
"Making sure you are not found is caring for our family," I clarify.
Peeta nods and begins to look over my father's clothing, feeling the fabric with his fingers. It is quite different from that of his uniform.
"I'll wait for you outside," I tell him.
Gao believes the immediate danger of the Japanese inspecting the plane's crash site has passed, and although all of our neighbors know about the crash because of the severity of the fire, what they saw when they helped us clean up the wreckage lead them to believe that there couldn't have been any survivors. Even so, there's always the chance that one of them will see Peeta on our farm, and we cannot predict what they might do if that happens.
But when I see Peeta in my father's clothing what I suspected is confirmed: dressed in Chinese clothing, Peeta does look more like he belongs on our farm than one would imagine a yellow-haired, blue-eyed man could. I lift his chin, revealing his face from under the cone-shaped sun-hat. He smiles shyly, his white teeth shining and his eyes partially closing for protection as the sun hits his face.
"I can't imagine what I must look like," he laughs.
My hand drops at the vibration his laugh causes, and briefly touches his neck on its way down to my side. His eyes follow the route my hand has just taken, and I feel a sudden panic.
Why did I touch him at all? It wasn't necessary. Why didn't he stop me?
"You look like yourself," I tell him. Turning away to gather the two bowls we used for our breakfast and slip them behind a rock just inside the opening of the cave, I attempt to hide my insecurities also. "You're just dressed in clothes like we wear. There's nothing strange about that, Peeta." I lay the chopsticks neatly on top of the bowls before adding, "well, maybe that is strange, but you do want to leave the cave. Don't you?"
"Only if you think it's safe," he answers, a distinct protective tone in his voice. Over the last few weeks Peeta has been worrying about us. He keeps saying he'll leave as soon as he can walk well enough, but Prim and I have warned him that there really isn't anywhere to go. I personally believe Peeta knows that but is willing to take the chance if it means avoiding harming the family he believes has saved his life. He mentions that we have saved his life almost every day, expressing thanks and telling us how he wants to repay us now that he's getting better.
"So, ready to go to the lake?" I ask him.
"Yes," he confirms.
Stronger than I expect him to be, he manages to get to his feet once we are outside the cave, but he can't walk without help. I place my arm around his waist, and I feel his muscles tense under my hand where it comes to rest near the bones of his hip. He's lost weight, his face seeming thinner when he turns to look at me and his body feeling leaner when I help him walk. He eats every bit of food I bring to him now, and I believe he might still be hungry after he's eaten even though he never asks for more food. Unfortunately, I'm giving him all we can spare including some of my own portion. Feeding another person, especially an adult man, is something we simply never expected or could be prepared to do in our current situation.
Peeta begins to limp beside me as I take small steps. He pulls away, testing whether he can walk without leaning on me for support. After a few attempts he shifts back toward me, but I still don't feel burdened by much of his weight. He sighs heavily.
"You are doing well," I tell him.
His injured leg rarely fully touches the ground, but whenever it does I notice a distinct change in his expression. Watching him in pain upsets me, which I don't quite understand because it is not as though I've never seen people in pain in the past. My mother's role as the local healer means the neighbors frequently seek her out for help when people are sick or injured, but she often goes to their homes to visit them. On the rare occasions when they come to our farm, I usually make sure I'm busy somewhere else until they are gone. On the night that Peeta's plane crashed, I ran away out of fear just as I always have, but something changed the night I thought he might die of that fever right there in my arms. I was no longer afraid. Squeamish. Shy. But no longer afraid. I just wanted to be near him, and I still do.
Peeta explains that he used to do some kind of games at school as we are walking.
"They were 'sports.' There was running, ball games, all kinds of games. Have you ever heard of 'baseball?'"
"And why did you do them?" I ask.
"I was required to play one 'sport' every season, but I did enjoy being on the wrestling team."
I don't understand all that he means, but he seems happy to tell the stories. This is one of the many reasons I like to be with him, his stories fascinate me. He tries to explain the different games to me, and I ask questions that make him shake his head and laugh.
"You'll be able to play those games again when you go home," I tell him, my heart feeling suddenly heavy at the thought of Peeta being so far away now that I've gotten so used to him being here with us…with me. The feeling strikes me as odd, and a little scary. I don't want to miss Peeta if he makes it back home. Shouldn't I be happy for Peeta if his people can return him to his family? No doubt he would heal more fully at home with them.
"I don't think I can play again, Cai. I'm not sure I'll even walk well again," he tells me, continuing to search for the right words as he tries hard to express his ideas in Chinese. His eyes often say so much more than he's able to say with his words, and I can tell he's very intelligent even though he makes many mistakes. I wish I could speak his language or he could speak mine better or that he could read the books in Mandarin that the landlord sometimes lets Gao bring to our home. Peeta likes books.
He talks about school some more.
"I liked history and learning about new places," he says.
Peeta's voice is even, not broken with heartsickness as it sometimes is. It was the hopefulness in his voice this morning that first made me know that it would be a good day to try visiting the lake. By the time we arrive Peeta is out of breath from all the walking and talking. He lowers himself down to sit on the trunk of a fallen tree while I compliment him for walking so far.
"I have to keep up with you," he says. "So is there any katniss in the lake?" He teases.
He's told me that "katniss" is a water plant, and in my mind I imagine it like a lotus even though I doubt it looks anything like that. Nobody could believe I resemble a beautiful lotus in any way.
"I don't know what they look like," I admit.
"Just for fun let's imagine there is some katniss in the water." He says. Then he pulls up using my arm for leverage so that he's standing beside me. Sometimes it takes very little to make Peeta happy.
Having worn clothing that I don't mind getting wet I slide down into the water first. Peeta removes my father's shirt, leaving only the shirt he wears under his uniform to cover his upper body. He hesitates, then leaves the hat in place. His eyes glance over at mine in search of approval. I nod.
Peeta has no trouble approaching the lake alone by holding onto a large tree branch and hopping to the edge of the water, but then his good leg slips on the muddy bank. He ends up tumbling clumsily into the water as he tries to use his injured leg to regain his footing. I can't help but stifle a laugh when he comes up from the water sputtering and flailing his arms.
I swim to him, but he's settled his feet on the lake bottom by the time I reach him.
"Now you know why they didn't put me in the navy," he says.
I laugh again.
"I told you I didn't know how to swim," he says. That's true, but imagining Peeta as unable to do something that has always come so naturally to me seems strange.
"Well, the first step is learning to put your head under the water, so you have already done that," I tell him.
He shakes his head back and forth gently at my attempt at humor.
"But the most important part of being here in the water for you is strengthening your leg, so even if you just walk a bit in the water it should help," I explain.
"And the water around my leg is what helps," he points out.
"Yes, my mother would say that the water holds you up so your broken leg doesn't have to work so hard."
He looks down into the water, and I see understanding slowly cross his face. He stands evenly here, as if both of his feet are firmly on the lake bottom. I believe they are, and he just hadn't realized that he was standing so normally until just now. When I look up, his eyes look moist. He nods before looking down into the water again, stretching his hands over the surface of the lake.
I reach out for one of his hands, and he grasps it immediately. Then he takes a few tentative steps through the water. He stays balanced which means he must be putting some weight on his broken leg. As I congratulate him he attempts longer steps, no doubt stretching the muscles that are so difficult for him to move since they lie right beside the broken bone. Walking is not easy for him even here, but overall he accomplishes much more in the water than he has been able to do out of it.
If only mother was well enough to come to the lake with us so she could help Peeta determine what exercises would help his leg most, but unfortunately she's having one of her spells again. She barely speaks to any of us except Min. Even to Min she says only a few sentences a day. She still eats and drinks, but if my father was alive he'd be so disappointed that she's not even the same person he used to know. Most distressing of all, each time one of these spells happens I wonder if I have lost her forever.
Without any specific ideas of what to do Peeta finally just lets himself float, his feet and legs suspended just under the lake surface while he holds onto a tree root that's grown into the water. "I could stay here all day," he says.
"And perhaps you could, but I can't," I tease him. "Too much work to do."
"What kind of work?"
"We're preparing to harvest one of the rice fields, and our roof was damaged in the storm a few nights ago," I tell him.
He nods. "Can I help?"
"Not yet. Maybe soon."
"I want to help, Cai. You know that, right?"
I squeeze his hand, and he looks down at where our hands are joined.
"Yes, Peeta. I know."
Getting out of the water is more challenging than getting into it for Peeta, so I stand on the bank and join our arms to help him. When he's on dry land again I notice how the thin shirt he's wearing clings to his body, outlining the muscles of his arms and chest. He picks up my father's shirt and glances in my direction. I quickly look down, not wanting to be caught watching him.
"So, I thought we might stop on the way back," I tell him.
"Stop where?" he asks.
"I have your things," I explain.
"My things?"
"Things from the plane," I tell him, then immediately wish I hadn't. Why did I bring up the plane today when he seems so happy? His eyes move away from me, off to the side, then back again. I look down regretfully, but he doesn't seem upset with me...exactly. He's just quiet, and I finally look up to see what he's doing. He's just waiting, watching me. Maybe watching me the way I was just watching him but with a much more somber expression than the curious one I probably revealed. If he's staring at me, then maybe that's good. I've made him feel badly, and in another way I can make him feel better. I look down at my wet clothing and shudder at my own thoughts. They don't seem like anything I would or should think.
"I don't know what most of the things are, but I saved them for you. I'll show you," I tell him.
I help Peeta walk to the edge of the woods where I've hidden the items from the plane and find a large tree for him to lean against. Then I remove the leaves and sticks covering the underground hiding place. Reaching down and pulling out the clay pot that holds the items, I look over at Peeta. He's simply watching, his face unreadable and his right hand running across the bark of the tree as he leans his back against the trunk.
Peeta slides down to sit on the ground in front of the tree, his broken leg outstretched. Together we open the lid of the pot. Peeta's eyes widen as he gets a glimpse of what's inside. Then he reaches for a metal, pointed object and runs his fingers across the top of it.
"What is that?" I ask.
"It's a 'compass,'" he answers. I don't know the English word he's using, but the object seems to mean something to him. "It's mine. For my maps…to help guide… Oh, it doesn't matter now."
"But it does," I tell him, wishing I'd never brought him here or shown him these things. "What you used to do matters. You were…you are…very brave. To come here. I'm sure your family is proud of you."
He shakes his head, now holding the compass tightly in his hand near his chest. His knuckles turn white. "My family thinks I'm dead. That hurts them."
"But if they think you died honorably…" I start to argue.
"It still hurts them, Cai," he interrupts.
"There is only one way to never hurt someone," I tell him. "That is to never be in their life. I don't think that's what you would want for your family."
He's quiet again, still holding the compass. I wonder if he's understood what I said about his family and hope he hasn't taken offense. The sunlight moving from behind a cloud catches one of the gold rings in the pot, making it shine. Peeta picks it up.
"Why didn't you sell these rings?" he asks.
"They are yours," I admit, although he is right to believe that I considered selling them.
"Actually, they aren't," he tells me. "They're wedding rings."
"What do you mean?"
"If a man is married he wears one, and his wife wears another," Peeta explains. "Two of the men on my plane were married. These are their wedding rings."
"We could sell them now," I tell Peeta, but he sits up straighter and looks uncomfortable. "…if we want to sell them," I add.
"I'd…I'd like to keep them for now. Maybe I could bring them back to my friends' wives someday. I mean, I could give you money instead if I'm able to go home," he stammers.
"We should only sell them if we must," I tell him. "if it comes to that, you'll know what to do." He nods.
He murmurs something in English while looking from the ring in his hand to the one still in the pot and back again.
"What did you say?" I ask.
"I don't know whose?" He says. Then he points to the ring.
Leaning down I try to get him to look at me and ask, "don't know which man owned which ring?"
"Yes," he says with a frustrated sigh.
I don't know what to tell him, but soon the worried creases in Peeta's face start to soften and he says, "but they will know. I can go see one of their wives, and she'll know hers."
He seems comforted by this idea, and I imagine the wife of Peeta's dead friend receiving her husband's ring from him. It is a nice idea, but I also imagine how the ring could be used to buy food this winter and wonder if Peeta might see it as more useful for that purpose as time passes.
"Did you find bodies?" he asks, not looking at me.
"Yes, and we treated them like they were our own soldiers, Peeta. I promise," I reassure him.
He closes his eyes and leans forward. "I'm sure you did. Thank you," he says.
When Peeta is ready to look at the things in the pot again he focuses on a piece of a paper, which I think used to be a photograph. The image is almost completely worn away, but I assume that it must be a portrait of someone important to him because I found it in his uniform pocket. The photograph mostly fell apart when I removed it, but I laid in on a rock and let it dry that first night Peeta spent in the cave. What was left the next morning was the crumpled bit of paper he's now touching gently. Indeed, the person must be important to him.
"Was that a photograph?" I ask.
"Yes," he says.
"Who is it?"
"Delly."
His voice sounds a bit broken again. I want to believe he's just tired or that in time looking at these things will be good for him. Perhaps it will be, but right now he just seems so sad. Then again, I don't think he should have looked at them alone, and I'm glad I didn't simply give them to him and walk away.
"Who's Delly?" I ask, mimicking the pronunciation of the person's name.
He doesn't answer me, only looks at the bit of paper more, studying it. There's not much to see. A little of a face. Some hair that's wavy like his. I think the person is probably a woman. I've worried who she might be.
"Is she your wife?" I ask.
He lets out a breath.
"No, no. Delly and I aren't married. Not yet," he says before pausing briefly. "Delly for me is something like Gao is to you."
"So, you're promised to her?" I ask, my heart speeding up.
He nods. "Yes," he pauses again. "But I don't think I'll see her again. If I do get back home, she probably won't want to marry me."
"She would be foolish not to want to marry you," I tell him, feeling just as indignant for him as I do for me in my situation with Gao. I don't understand why people don't keep their promises, yet I feel a tug in my chest. There's a certain relief that Peeta is not married and that the woman he was supposed to marry is somebody who he might not marry. Still, I'm confused as to why any American girl wouldn't want to marry Peeta?
"I've changed," he explains. "Everything's changed." He looks down at his injured leg, and I wonder if he's referring to that. Surely she wouldn't fail to marry him due to a wound he received in war, especially one from which he's already recovering.
I replace the lid on the pot, but Peeta starts to take it off again.
"I think we should look at this later," I tell him.
He purses his lips and straightens his back against the tree as he looks off in the distance. "I just miss them. The men on my plane. I miss them, and I miss my family." He shrugs. "Nothing wrong with telling you that."
"No," I tell him. It's natural, after all. Men in battle form friendships that transcend even death. We women do understand these things. It's certainly normal for a man to miss his family during war and when so far from home, but I do wonder how much of the emotion I've just witnessed has to do with Delly.
