Chapter 22: Godmother
I feel the tremors in the earth before I hear them.
The air conditioning in the bakery is on full-blast to counteract this barnburner of a summer morning in late July. I have been home from mentoring in the Capitol for a couple of weeks already. The 69th Hunger Games moved at an unusually brisk trot; the Victor this year, District 9's Abram Mills, had the Crown in his hands within five days of the gong going off. It was quite an upset; Ben and Nolan must both be quite pleased to have another man in their Village, especially after Wheaton Vale's passing a while back, but I do feel for poor old Evelyn Morris. For her sake, I hope her district produces another female Victor at least before she dies.
At this time mid-morning, the Bakery is often at a bit of a lull between the breakfast and lunch rushes. Plus, it's a Tuesday – the steady stream of weekend shoppers has run its full course. I am perched on the front counter, washing down the fine marble countertop (it was a gift from me to Danny in celebration of our third wedding anniversary – it cost me a pretty sesterce, even with my Victor winnings, but the look on my husband's face was worth it. The thank you sex, on top of the brand-new counter to christen it, was worth it too). All of a sudden, a quaking throughout the whole building nearly bucks me off the structure. I have to grip under the countertop just to hold on. As I watch, a toaster oven across from me – which we mostly use to bake smaller breads like bagels and even some more compact baguettes – jumps out all by itself, its electrical cord straining until it tears right out of its socket and topples forward.
Over by the front windows, I watch Jonadab clutch onto a customer table for support, leaning against the mop he's been using as additional support to keep himself upright. As the earthquake subsides, my oldest boy drifts over to the front shop windows. Cupping his hands against his eyes so that they look like goggles, to shield against the glare of the sun, he peers out into the distance.
From down in the basement, I hear a shout, and then Danny and Peeta emerge upstairs. The sight of my youngest boy covered in flour – they must have been shifting sacks of it ready for kneading – would be funny if I still wasn't so shaken.
The door to the back loading dock bangs in and here's Rye, darting back in from where he has been taking out the garbage. "What happened?"
"Earthquake," Danny shrugs, holding out a hand to gentlemanly help me down from the counter. "They happen from time to time up in the mountains." We learned about the mountain range – nestled beyond the woods bordering District 12 – when we were in Upper School. It's still called by its olden name…. Appalachia. "Are you all right, darling?" Danny's thumb caresses my cheeks, and I nod.
There is a hiss, and we all glance back to Jonadab, who is wincing through his clenched underbite so hard, his teeth are grinding together. "That was no earthquake…." And my normally stoic and practical eldest son points out into the distance, where a plume of smoke is defiling the brilliant blue, cloudless sky.
My face turns as ashen as the coal dust that I now know is being shot hundreds of feet into the air. I hardly know any miners who would be working down in those dank, dangerous conditions, save for two – Clay Hawthorne, husband of our family's washerwoman and my friend, Hazelle. And Glen….
"All of you boys, stay inside," I order. "Honey, call Merle on the Justice Building landline and let him know!" My brother-in-law, the Mayor, probably already does, but it can't hurt to make sure. I kiss Danny quickly before racing out the door and pelting across Town and into the Seam.
Mining collapses in District 12 have happened before, even back when I was a little girl. But they're usually a once-in-a-blue moon event, occurring perhaps a handful of times per year. In the days of Dannel's and my grandparents, when the miners were still digging new tunnels for fresh ore, the risk was greater, the collapses more frequent. District 12 has really refined its production in the decades since. I don't know if I can necessarily say the same for the safety procedures.
I pass by the Everdeen place, and as I get closer, I can clearly see the collapse originated in District 12's largest mine. Dex Stalag, the Miner Foreman, sees me coming and pre-emptively comes to meet me, hands raised, to cut me off before I reach the main entrance.
"Miss Donner, I'm gonna have to ask you to stand back…"
"No, please, you don't understand, my best friend's husband is down there…"
"I understand, ma'am, but I'm going to need you to keep a safe distance away – please, let us do our jobs…."
The screech of metal is heavy on my ears, the mine lifts complaining and swearing loudly even as the miners here above ground can't seem to get them to rise and then plunge again, back into the depths of the earth, fast enough.
About ten minutes later, the Capitol ambulance that is stored on reserve in the Peacekeeper Barracks halfway across the district comes screaming up the gravel road. I already know that whatever meager medicine and provisions are in that truck won't be enough to cover the damage from a blast like this, and a high-speed Capitol train takes the better part of two days to reach Twelve from the city, even when going at full throttle.
I want to help, but I am in such shock that all I can do is stand there. Probably figuring that he won't be able to shoo me away, Dex finally takes pity on me and suggests, "Look, if you really want to make yourself useful, we'll need help identifying the bodies."
Although I readily profess my lack of acquaintance with most miners outside of my washerwoman's husband and my quasi-brother-in-law, I do as he asks. The sheer number of bodies... I haven't seen this many dead since I was in the arena. Corpse after corpse is brought to me; thankfully, most of the miners have ID tags on their persons for me to match with their faces, even if I don't know them by name or sight. A few, however, I can recognize without checking any badges, because they've been regular customers in the Bakery or in the sweet shop that Kaydilyn and I still help our father run. One man stands out in particular – Kristoff Callan hasn't aged at all well since the death of his adopted daughter almost two decades ago. I tearfully close his eyes. His wife, Belinda, is getting on in years; she and I have exchanged Winter Festival cards on occasion… gods, how am I going to break it to her...?
When Glen's body is brought to me, I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle something between a sob and a scream. I know it is him – instantly. The chiseled jawline. The ash-grey eyes, now open and unblinking. It is unfathomable that that beautiful singing voice will never be heard from again….
"Glen Everdeen," I report to the coroner taking copious notations.
"Next of kin?"
"Belle Everdeen, neé Foley. Katniss Everdeen. Primrose Everdeen." The coroner seems surprised that I can readily supply him with next of kin, for once, but takes down the names. As the coroner moves away, I tenderly close Glen's eyes. Kiss his forehead. I remember being so touched when he asked me and Dannel to be Katniss's godparents. Now I will have to partially fulfill the promise that I made to him.
A sharp gasp and a wrenching cry makes me snap my head up and I blanche. Belle is pelting up the path towards me, trembling like a mouse.
"Glen…..? Glenny?!..."
I try to intercept her, speak soothing words that won't come, but it does no good – with an anguished scream, Belley throws me aside and flings herself to her knees besides her deceased husband. My best friend raises such a commotion, that Dex Stalag is called away from whatever other thankless task he's been performing to see what is going on.
"M'am – Mrs. Everdeen, I'm going to need you to step back and calm down…." Dex doesn't quite know what to say, though I don't fault him. I barely know what to say myself.
"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!" Belle screeches, in hysterics. "SAVE HIM, PLEASE! I HAVE TWO LITTLE GIRLS WAITING AT HOME! SAVE HIM!"
"Ma'am, I know this is a shock, but we tried CPR and failed to revive him. Time of death was pronounced 10:12 AM….."
Belle lets out something between a wail and a moan behind her hand, swaying dangerously on unsteady feet. I let her teeter into me, bracing her against me, and I nod over her keening head to Dex. "I'll get her out of here," I whisper. Rubbing Belle's back, I nudge her back towards her house, which is only steps away. "Come on, honey. I'll make you some tea…."
I manage to maneuver Belle past her front gate. Just as we're crossing the lawn, I hear a car backfire as a fancy Capitol sedan comes roaring up the gravel path, not even coming to a complete stop before Merle is leaping out, sprinting for the scene of destruction. My brother-in-law and I lock eyes momentarily, and taking in Belle's state, he nods in sympathy to me, his own face contorting with pain.
Belle and I half-fall across the threshold, and I just manage to manipulate her into a chair before her knees completely give out. She is staring at the far wall, at embers in the fireplace still dying from last night, appearing to be in a catatonic state. When I try to entice her with tea, she doesn't even turn her head. I finally have to circle the entire chair with cup and saucer just to get her to look at me.
"Belley…." I croon. "You're going to have to drink, eat something. Glen… Glen would want you to go on living." Like a lightning bolt, I hear the echo of my own words, in Brutus's voice, about someone I lost oh so long ago: Haymitch would want you to go on living….
Belle shakes her head meekly. "I can't…. Every morning, I would pack his lunch. Waiting on supper when he got home in the evening. He's supposed to be home this evening…." Burying her face in her skirts, she breaks down in sobs, and I draw her to me. Lifting her eyes from the folds of her dress, she wails, "GLEN! I WANT GLEN!"
The cries of their mother summon the two little girls from upstairs; I hear the pitter-patter of their little feet on the landing. Katniss is in a simple blue sundress, her chestnut hair in a single braid running down her back. Her eyes – Glen's eyes – blink owlishly in concern and maybe a little fear. Primrose, her golden pigtails framing her like an angel's halo, whimpers in terror.
"Auntie…. where's Daddy?"
I beckon Prim to me and draw her into my side, rubbing her arm. "Daddy…. Daddy won't be home tonight sweetheart. He… he had to go out to the meadow." At only 7, Prim won't get the euphemism. At just over 11, Katniss does, and her grey eyes bulge huge as she staggers back a step. Religion is expressly forbidden in Panem, but I've known many Seam and even a few Merchant families speak of a place beyond this wasteland, where there isn't any more pain or Hunger Games. Ironically, I have found myself flashing back to images of the meadow in my arena whenever I've tried to picture such a place.
I whisper low in Primrose's ear: "Why don't you go play dolls with your sissy while I help Mummy in here, OK?" Bottom lip trembling, Prim nods before racing back for the stairs and grasping Katniss's hand. My goddaughter studies me intensely while she is dragged all the way up the stairs.
Left alone again, I sit with Belle and hold her, while the day's shadows grow steadily longer along the walls. At what I judge to be evening, I nudge my best friend awake, and whisper to her that I'm going to start cooking dinner. She continues to stare at that spot on the far wall as I work making up a pot of soup and set it to boil. Ladling some broth into a bowl, I bring it to her. It quickly becomes apparent that I have to spoon-feed my best friend like she's an infant, but I do so gamely.
"There are going to be injured miners, you know." The comment causes her to focus in on me for the first time nearly all day. "Even if…. you couldn't save Glen, you can still save others. You're a Healer; it's what you do and you're good at it. It's a honorable way to help provide for your little ones." I know I might be broaching the topic of finding a line of work too soon, but encouragingly, Belle seems to digest my words, nodding heavily.
I cross back to check on the soup, turning to call up the stairs: "Katniss! Primrose! Dinner!"
The girls traipse down the stairs morosely – Katniss's eyes are red and puffy, like she's been crying. I serve up their supper wordlessly. I try to engage them in conversation, but I can't think of any talk – however small – that doesn't sound ludicrous in this morbid context. I am saved by a knock at the door.
Dex Stalag and Merle are on the doorstep, hats in their hands. I manage to coax Belle to the threshold long enough for the Miner Foreman and the Mayor to both offer their condolences. All told, they report that over 30 miners – including both Glen and Hazelle's husband, Clay Hawthorne – perished in the collapse, one of the worst District 12 has seen in living memory. Close to 20 more miners are injured, a few grievously. I am thrilled that Belle seems to rouse at this, and she promises to gather her Healing supplies and set out to the site immediately – it is, after all, but a stone's throw away. She and Dex manage to compromise that she'll come by in the morning, as she is exhausted and grieving and needs at least a good night's sleep first. I doubt she'll get it.
When Dex leaves, Merle offers to stay and sit up with Belle; he apparently has his cracker-jack team combing over the mining site. I volunteer to put the girls to bed, carrying a sleepy Primrose up to the mattress she shares with her older sister. Kissing them both, I am moving to turn off the light when Katniss grips my arm:
"You won't leave us, will you, Auntie? You'll stay?" and I know she means well past just this night.
"Of course, precious…. Always." I blow out the gas lamp by their bedside and finally drag myself off the property and towards home.
I arrive home at the bakery to find it locked up for the night. Using my key, I slip inside just long enough to call our mansion with the landline and tell Danny I am on my way home.
When I drag myself into Victor's Village, Danny is right there to take me in his arms.
"Belle – is she….?"
I don't, can't answer beyond bursting into tears. Through hiccups, my husband is eventually able to get me to tell him the whole sorry tale. He appears genuinely pained and regretful over the death of Glen, his one-time rival.
Once I am seated in the living room couch without even fully realizing how I got there, Peeta nearly attacks me.
"Where's Katniss?" he peppers me with the steady barrage normally attributed to a Capitol submachine gun. "Is she all right? Is she hurt?" Peeta knows better than any of us how close the Everdeen place is to the blast site. It's a miracle the depths of the earth took the brunt of the explosion. Outside of a coating of coal dust, no other buildings or structures seem to have been harmed or otherwise compromised.
"Can it, Peet, our little cousin is fine," Rye teases. As I almost consider Katniss and Primrose second and third nieces after my actual niece, Madge, my middle child has often joked how we are practically related to the Everdeens, much to his little brother's consternation.
"She's not my cousin!" he blasts out angrily, lunging at Rye. As the initial shouts of an argument go up, I bellow over the threatening din:
"GOD, WILL YOU ALL JUST BE QUIET?!"
The four men in my life all freeze, Rye the most stunned out of all of them. I don't think any of my children can ever recall me raising my voice at them, or their father, for any reason. Sure, Dannel and I have had lover's tiffs every now and again, but the exchanged words are usually terse, not loud.
Realizing what I have done, my eyes swim with tears and I sink into the couch cushions, hand to my temple where I feel a horrible migraine coming on. "I'm…. I'm sorry. It's just that…."
"Well, sure, it's OK, Mom. Mrs. Everdeen's your best friend…" Jonadab comforts me, sending Rye a withering glare. Peeta is still adorably stricken over Katniss, prompting Rye to tease, though less cruelly, "Yeah. And Peet, I'm sure your future wife is just peachy."
She really isn't – what girl would be peachy after losing her father? – yet Peeta blushes all the same. Danny kneels before me, rubbing his calloused thumbs over my knuckles.
"Poor Belley…. Is there anything we can do to help?"
I wince at him, worrying my bottom lip. "I… I don't know." Legally, a Victor can spend his/her pension however he or she sees fit. I know; I had Beetee check the laws on such matters. Danny and I have never had any qualms about donating some of our wealth to the Community Home (more often than not in the memory of Gilla Callan's name), which we've done for years. What concerns me more is the optics – some would view a Victor favoring the family of a dead Seam miner as very, very suspicious. I could easily see someone running away with the conspiracy theory (however outlandish) that Prim is secretly mine, sired by Glen, and that I am now funneling wads of sesterces – hard, Capitol money – to his widow and children out of guilt. Or…. something. And if either Haymitch Abernathy or even Beech Berryhill was here, and the Victor in place of me, people would be whispering the same thing if either of them displayed such charity.
No, I might not be able to help Belle through monetary channels, however much I could and might want to. But I can think of a few ways that we could help. Danny and the boys could supply the Everdeens with fresh bread, at no charge. I will visit as often as I can to mind the girls and help Belle get back on her feet.
And there are other ways as well...
Several weeks later, Merle organizes a small funeral ceremony for the families of the thirty dead miners. Each widowed spouse is presented with a medal – it's not real gold, like my medal from the Hunger Games, but the sentiment is quite thoughtful. Belle is too inconsolable to accept the honor on her husband's behalf, so Katniss is the one to take the token and shake the Mayor's hand. Clay Hawthorne's oldest boy – the eldest of three and soon to be four – accepts the medal for his father. It was enough of an effort to get Hazelle to waddle up onstage, as she has a stomach out to her feet and is expected to give birth any day.
After the gathering, I take my brother-in-law aside, wanting to get his thoughts and hopefully permission on my plans. Madge, Katniss and Peeta will all be eligible for the Reaping for the first time next year; this year, I had to know Rye's name was in the bowl for the first time, and I was a nervous wreck. In talking with my few Victor colleagues who have gone on to have families of their own, I understand that children and even grandchildren of Victors are very popular choices to get Reaped. But no direct descendant of a Victor has ever gone on to become Victor in his or her own right.
In one of the first conversations I had with Glen, I also recall him mentioning how his father owned a hunting cabin, out in the woods beyond the district fence. Taking all this information together, and I know I can prepare the children for what might very well come their way, and do so safely. Plus, in the case of Katniss, the skills could prove useful, as she likely will have to supplement her mother's meager Healing wages. When I had first floated the idea to my goddaughter, she had agreed readily.
"I'd love to hunt with you, Auntie – Papa taught me how, a little…." and she had told me about bows and arrows hidden in secret places that she knew how to find.
Merle is not nearly so enthused when I tell him my intentions.
"The woods are dangerous, Maysie! And Madge is too little…"
I raise an eyebrow at him, cutting him off. "She's going to be 12 next year, Merle. And you might think that as the Mayor's daughter, she is protected from all that, but let me tell you, she's not! Snow wouldn't care about betraying a loyal Mayor by seeing his kid go in… and the districts would love it!"
Merle goes white at this, and finally, reluctantly, gives a nod of his head.
I smile. "Excellent. Drop Madge off by the Village tomorrow, just after dawn."
The lush greenery is still as I crouch with three preteens behind a fallen log. Peeking over the rim, we have a good view of the doe grazing by the small, still pond barely a hundred paces beyond Glen Everdeen's hunting cabin.
It's been years since I was in Training as a tribute, but I still have retained some of the rudimentary basics surrounding archery, even all these years later. Tilting my head, I whisper along my goddaughter's earlobe:
"Line up your shot." She strings the bow like someone several years her senior and experience and notches the arrow in the groove. I don't know exactly what Glen has taught her, but it must have been a whole hell of a lot. "Aim low, for critical organs. The heart and liver of a deer are usually the best places to pierce for a quick kill." They're also the best places to pierce for killing a human tribute, I think, though I don't voice this aloud.
Katniss breathes deeply. "Exhale…." I prompt. "And…. release."
She lets the arrow fly. The doe glances up, but not quickly enough before the arrow skewers its liver and she keels over, dead.
I grin broadly. "Perfect."
The collapsing of the doe startles some quail in a nearby thrush, and the birds take to the skies, squawking indignantly.
"I got them!" My youngest son lines up his shot far too quickly, and the arrow goes hopelessly wide. Madge lets out a cry of fear and also misses by quite a bit.
Growling in frustration, Peeta throws down the extra bow Katniss lent him into the dirt.
"Fu…."
"Peeta Haymitch Mellark," I admonish preemptively. "Language." Darting a fearful glance over at Katniss, Peeta clamps his jaws shut, and I have to suppress a smirk. The last thing my baby boy wants is for his chosen bride to think he has a foul mouth.
Katniss seems not to have noticed the almost-swearing…. but she did notice how off Peeta was on his aim. She shakes her head, sighing loudly at my boy's incompetence. "No, no, Peeta – you want to hold the bow like this…." She steals her arms around him, guiding his fingers on how to properly string the bow and notch the arrow. Peeta doesn't seem to be paying the least bit of attention to anything outside of where she is placing her hands. From the ecstasy on his face, I fear he is in danger of having a heart attack on the spot.
Spying a squirrel, Katniss partially manhandles my son to swing him round and take aim at the little beast, gnawing on a nut at the base of a tree. Her face is parallel to his – if either one of them turned their heads even the slightest degree, their lips would touch. Peeta seems acutely aware of this; Katniss is oblivious.
"Aim for the eye…." she murmurs, her voice sounding like sweet music. Peeta nods dumbly, like a marionette on strings. Katniss is his puppeteer; she has him completely under her spell. "Exhale..."
Peeta lets out a shaky breath.
"And…. release."
Peeta lets the arrow fly, and the tip of it impales itself into the squirrel's skull before it has the chance to even turn and run. A memory surfaces of that golden, carnivorous squirrel taking a few inches of my flesh, and I fight to tamp it down.
Katniss smiles in approval – a rare sight from her these days, at least since the death of her father. "Perfect."
Peeta beams at the praise, turning to look at her and realizing how close she truly is. Before he can gather his courage and do anything – like kiss her – Katniss moves away.
