Chapter 4: Thank You Very, Very Much
Abner Cartwright, Delly's grandfather, and old Greasy Sae scrutinize the Head Peacekeeper insignia on the old breastplate Bert, Haymitch and the others found near the human remains.
"Unless someone stole Thread's uniform and tried to impersonate him – which is highly unlikely… I would say this is genuine," Abner states gravely. "'Course, we'll have to do one of them fancy Capitol DNA tests to know for sure."
"It's Thread, all right," Sae croaks. "Why, even with him being nothing but bones now, you can tell the build is the same."
"And you're sure?" Bert Petrie is pressing my neighbors. "You're absolutely positive it's him?"
I am listening intently, even with my holophone pressed to my ear. I am shaken out of my focus when Peeta nearly shouts, "Katniss! Katty girl, are you there?"
I feel my cheeks flush at what sounds like a term of endearment. I have to admit, I prefer 'Katty girl' to 'sweetheart.' I like it when Peeta refers to me lovingly.
"I'm here, Peeta, I'm sorry. Delly's grandpa and Greasy Sae have just finished an ID on the body. They're 99.99% positive it's him."
"You mean Thread?" I can almost see Peeta gnawing his lip the way he does when he's trying to think out a problem. "If this is true, how did the Head Peacekeeper end up dead in a ditch outside the district limits? Did the rebels run him out of Twelve on a rail?"
"Too soon to tell, and even then, we may never know. Anyway, does it matter?"
I can hear Peeta's heavy sigh through the holophone speakers. "No. I suppose not. I still say a forensic analysis should be conducted, even if there isn't exactly much interest."
"We might have to pay to bring in a Capitol doctor for that," I wince. Not for the first time, I really, really wish Prim was here. I'd even be fine with Mother being here. Between the two of them, my mom and my sister would know how to conduct a decent autopsy. Back before the war, the mines had employed a company doctor who boasted Capitol credentials, but he wasn't classically trained, the way that Mother and Prim were. The uncertainty as to what to do with Thread only brings up another urgency: establishing a competent hospital here in Twelve, with trained medics to staff it.
"Mr. Abernathy," Bert is approaching my mentor.
"I think we can expense with the formalities, Petrie. Call me Haymitch."
"Very well, Haymitch… what is your district's customs for burying dead?"
"Sir?"
"Well, I know it has been said the meadow should be the place to reinter human remains, under the circumstances, but as we are in all likelihood dealing with the remains of your former Head Peacekeeper, I imagine there may be a traditional burial…"
"A traditional Twelve burial is too good for the likes of him!" I pipe up, caustic, and Abner Cartwright is nodding in grim agreement. "Our fallen tributes deserve more honor than him. Besides, Thread wasn't even in command of this district for six months! There's no love lost for him. He doesn't deserve to be mourned!"
Haymitch, however, has an odd gleam in his eye. His smile is positively wicked. "Maybe not, mourned, sweetheart, but his demise should still be acknowledged."
Greasy Sae snorts. "I say leave him out here to rot, for all I care!" I know she is still smarting over the loss of her liquor business when Thread's goons torched the Hob.
"Aww, hell, Sae, you won't be saying that when I tell you what I have in mind."
By now, I'm smirking. "What do you have in mind, Haymitch?"
He doesn't answer me, turning to our radiation technician friend. "Bert, run back to the Justice Building and you and Thom tell everyone to gather in the Sqaure tomorrow at dawn. The snow should let up by then. The rest of you, let's round up these bones and find a place to contain it, least till we can get a coffin."
"A coffin?" I ask, dismayed. "Haymitch, you're not seriously suggesting we have a funeral for Thread, are you?"
"My dear sweetheart: who said anything about a funeral?" Haymitch winks devilishly.
Haymitch fills me in on his intent as we trudge back to the Village, battling the elements all the way. Peeta sweeps me into a hug the second I come in the door, and sitting him down, our mentor and I tell him our plan.
"We're short a coffin," Haymitch finishes. "But then, I was hoping you might be able to help with that, Boy."
I glance between the two most important men in my life, confused. "What do you mean…?"
Curled into himself, Peeta's head is hung, expression deeply sad and pained. "Leven… my eldest brother, he was married to Morticia Sowerberry, you know, the daughter of the undertaker? I know roughly where their business used to be – Leven always said they kept coffins in the basement, belowground."
My grey eyes twinkle with intrigue. "And if the firebombs didn't reach belowground…"
It is dark by the time Haymitch, Peeta and I arrive at the charred ruins of what my district partner is pretty sure was the remains of Sowerberry's Funeral Home and Crematorium, halfway across town. The building is nothing but charred rubble now, and when Peeta hangs back, I gently take his arm. He's probably wondering, because I'm wondering myself, if this is the final resting place of his oldest brother. Though I am inclined to doubt it, still I tell him:
"If… if we find any…. bodies…. We'll let you know. And we'll be right here, for you." I squeeze his hand, even kiss his cheek, which seems to ease him.
Haymitch does most of the work clearing away debris, until we come to a square of wood set into the grass and soil. Charred and rotten besides, the wood itself gives easily, opening up a trapdoor space into darkness below. Haymitch shines a spotlight he found in his attic down into the gloom. Turning back to us, the shine from the spotlight makes our mentor's face almost ghoulish as he grins:
"We've got some coffins."
It takes much of the rest of the night for helping neighbors to hoist the empty coffins out of the Sowerberrys' basement and rehouse them in the Justice Building. Though no one says it, we're still not done finding human detritus, and probably won't be for some time.
By the next morning, the snow has significantly abated, and though the chill hasn't, it doesn't stop nearly all of Twelve – already about 250 strong and expected to climb – from gathering in the Square before the Justice Building. At least the winter weather helps to create a clear distinction from all the past times we used to stand here in the heat, and wait to learn which of our children had been condemned to death.
Thread's remains have been transferred into one of the Sowerberrys' unused coffins. Haymitch will lead the whole of Twelve in a procession to the ex-Head Peacekeeper's final resting place, which is known only to him.
"Where do you think we'll dump him?" Peeta whispers to me, as we stand with all our neighbors in the throng, while I rest my head on his shoulder.
"Don't know, and don't really care. But you know Haymitch: he'll make it a spectacle."
One thing is already pretty apparent: there will be more laughter and celebration than is normally appropriate at this memorial. What is there even to remember, really, other than roughly six months of torture in the run-up to the Quarter Quell? Cray, our Head Peacekeeper before Thread, was a dream compared to the asshole who succeeded him, and whipped Gale within an inch of his life.
A great cheer goes up as Haymitch appears on the stone steps of the Justice Building. With a great flourish, he stands aside to reveal the black coffin hefted in the doorway, the sight of which elicits another great cheer as a group of a half-dozen pallbearers (including Thom, Abner Cartwright and Bert Petrie) emerges into the overcast light. The men descend the steps of the Justice Building and load the coffin onto a horse-drawn hearse while Haymitch waves his hands like one of those conductors at a Capitol opera, conducting a sing-along:
"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fell-ooooow….. and so say all of us!" We whoop and holler again.
Haymitch is holding a little black book, something he says he found last night when he and Bert ransacked Thread's old office. The pair of them have become quite good friends, and I fear those two might get up into some troubling escapades in the days and months to come. My mentor is ripping the pages out – pages allegedly detailing the crimes committed by the district citizenry – and casting the sheaves of paper into the air like confetti, to each and every cheer. Finally, he rips the last of the little logbook in two down the spine and sends the remnants tumbling to the snow-covered earth. Lifting his hands, he calls for quiet:
"Ladies and gentlemen… on behalf of all the people who have assembled here… I would merely like to mention, if I may –"
"You may!" Several folks jovially call out.
"That our unanimous attitude is one of lasting gratitude… for what our friend has done for us today! And therefore I would simply like to say:" Haymitch now begins singing a cheerful little ditty. "Thank you very much, thank you very much, that's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me! I may sound double-dutch, but my delight is such, I feel as if a losing war's been won for me! And if I had a flask I'd have my flask out, to add a sort of final victory touch! But since I left my flask at home, I'll simply have to say thank you very, very, very much!"
Haymitch leaps onto the hearse, sitting astride Thread's coffin as the carriage begins to pull it along the crumbling cobblestones, bound for the Seam. "Thank you very much! Thank you very much! That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me. It sounds a bit bizarre, but things the way they are, I feel as if another life's begun for me! And if I had a cannon I would fire it, to add a sort of celebration touch. But since I left my cannon at home, I'll simply have to say thank you very, very, very much!"
As our crowd swells through the streets of Twelve, miners, refugees and even a few former Merchants jump on the hearse and shout jubilantly. Spit on the coffin. We're not exactly dancing on Thread's grave, but it's a close thing. After all the war and destruction, it might seem a little petty, but I think after 75 years, we in the districts are allowed to be. Even Bert Petrie, though not of Twelve himself, jovially gets in on the fun as, with a million-watt grin, he and Haymitch begin dancing on the coffin and leading the crowd in our signing:
"Thank you very much! Thank you very much! That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me. It isn't every day good fortune comes my way - I never thought the future would be fun for me! And if I had a –"
"HEY!" A woman's voice shrieks out from a second-story window, in one of the few buildings in Twelve that is nearing completion. "You woke my baby! Will you keep quiet?!"
Haymitch, truly shame-faced, takes off his cap. "Begging your pardon, Widder Corney!" He directs the chorus to soldier on, this time sotte voce: "And if I had a bugle I would blow it, to add a sort of how's-your-father touch! But since I left my bugle at home…. I'll simply have to say…. Thank you very, very, very much!"
We finally arrive at the edge of the Seam, steps away from where I grew up, which much fanfare. We're at the West entrance to the Abernathy Mine, named long ago for our district's second Victor. Selecting a particularly yawning shaft, Haymitch directs the pallbearers to cart Thread over the gaping hole, where the men unceremoniously dump his body down the well.
The roars and jubilant screams are deafening. Grinning impishly, he plucks a match and strikes it. "Bert, my boy, may I?"
"My liege, do what you must," and Bert acquiesces with a sweeping bow.
Holding the match over the mining shaft, Haymitch bellows: "HAPPY TRAILS, MOTHERFUCKER!"
The match tumbles through space and into darkness almost in slow motion. With a great WHOOSH, the whole shaft goes up in flames in the second after it takes Haymitch to leap back. As a perfectly good shaft goes up in smoke and will no doubt crumble in on itself, I have to wonder about another question that we still must answer: whether or not Twelve will ever resume mining. I can't say I would mind if we never did.
Curling into Peeta's side, watching the flames now cremating Thread spark up to the heavens, I have to concede: this is one of the few kinds of fire I like best.
The unseasonable snows melt quickly after that, replaced by spring showers. Seated on either side of the archway leading into my mansion, Peeta and I spend a lazy afternoon just watching the rains fall. I find my eyes and my soft smile shining as I spend just as much time watching Peeta across from me, looking relaxed for once. It's been several days since he last had an episode, and though Haymitch says it's too soon for us to hope that he may one day leave the flashbacks behind completely, I dare to think that my boy with the bread is slowly but surely beginning to heal.
And maybe, as my lips upturn gently, tenderly, my gaze full of… love, I begin to think that I can heal too.