My collar itches, no matter how often my fingers yank it and try to fold it away from my neck. It's a nervous response, not a genuine problem. I'm anxious about this dinner, more troubled that my wife is coming. It's one thing to make my choices for myself, but what I do could have consequences for her.
Meyla and I have spoken only about the Hunger Games since I rejected her advances. At least there is something to discuss. This afternoon, Katniss destroyed the supply dump held by the volunteer tributes. I caught some of the events on my way home from the Peacekeeper's Main Office. Rue appeared to be safe as she could be in the arena, huddled into a tree.
I'm sitting at the dinner table, a computer powered on in front of me. The information gathered by the crawler is compiled into a preliminary analysis; the program is designed to allow active testing of any potential structure in a fictitious environment. A full render of the columns' integrity will take a few hours, and I have only a few minutes before Meyla is ready to leave.
Looking at the pillars, there are some flaws at the hub: pressure and vibration fractures. Nothing that would be terribly worrisome, had I an incentive to care about the people who work in that building. Three pillars, the ones proximate with the flex point of the hub, are showing minor damage. Overall, though, the structure is solid. It's probably been like this since the Dark Days ended. Most likely the fractures happened under extreme pressure from a bomb that was simply not powerful enough to really bring down the building.
The Capitol wouldn't have wanted to rebuild so many structures, already feeling itself wasting too much effort on the districts. No sense in blasting the buildings to ruin if all it takes to succeed is a propagandistic fear campaign in conjunction with a ruthless, infantry invasion. I'll report the damage, although I will not recommend any action to be taken. Capitol engineers reviewing my analysis will concur and schedule new tests a few years from now to ensure that the issues aren't progressing.
Meyla comes out of the bedroom, so I shut off the computer. My wife is gorgeous, wearing a dark blue dress that accents her silky hair and makes her green eyes stand out, lively. I sigh, looking at this beautiful woman. My collar rubs against my throat and I scratch my neck, agitated.
She purses her lips, frowning at me. Have I done something wrong? "What?"
Shaking her head, walking around behind my chair, she answers, "You shouldn't leer at me, Kippen."
My eyes close and I take a deep breath which fails to steady my reeling turmoil. She's right. If I won't let her share my heart then I shouldn't be letting it show that some part of me still wants to. Actually, much of my emotions still beg to be rescued by her warmth. In this moment, it's tempting to abdicate this wretched station of mourning father and resume the satisfying post of husband. She would forgive my hostility in a moment if I only asked her to. Meyla would kiss me and smile and I would know my darkness inside hasn't destroyed her devotion to me.
But I couldn't forgive myself for relenting to an easy path. I don't want to live in a world that doesn't have even a pretense or semblance of justice. And she can't abide the hatred I cling to. It's strange, understanding my wife and knowing I can do nothing to reunite us. The least I can do is treat her respectfully, as near lovingly as situation permits.
"You're right. I apologize, Meyla." I stand up and we head out the door, not touching. "How do you feel about this?"
"Captain Covas or us?"
"Covas." I don't want to talk about us. I am weak just thinking about it. If Meyla opens her mind to me about where our marriage is, it might break me faster than the Peacekeepers' henchmen.
"He's after something." We round a corner on the street. "Are you going to give it to him?"
"You think I should?"
"No, don't give up anyone or anything that you can help."
Instead, give up on our son because I can't help him? The right thing to do is to see this through to the bitter end, ensure that consequences match actions. Jura Penrose should be put to death for murder! Should I let the Capitol have anything that it decides to take away, because nothing we do to oppose them will work? Is that how mankind has always lived? Weren't there great societies of good people once?
"Kippen, you can't do what is right out of hatred."
"I'm not. I'm doing this because it's right. What I feel doesn't matter." It's a lie. Of course it matters. It's the only thing that has kept me crawling out of bed each morning, biting my tongue when I want to spit in the Peacekeepers' faces. It's a mixed blessing to have such a wise spouse.
"If that was true, you wouldn't push me away." She takes my arm in hers, I don't twist away. "I could support you if it was about doing the right thing."
We listen to the breeze and the conversations of others around us on the street as we stroll. Meyla's arm is against my ribs, warm and electrifying through my shirt. How do I reject this woman? It's so clear and so hard to grasp at the same time.
Scipio is dedicating his entire life to the cause of the underground, which still has not yet defined its goals as far as I am concerned. He has a clear sense of passion about the atrocities of the Capitol. Still, he maintains ardor in check, limiting his emotional involvement, zeal repressed even amidst his special knowledge.
He once told me about a family of four in District 7 who were all whipped to death because the father had insulted the mayor in public. And then there was the third year of the Hunger Games when a brother and sister from District 6 were both selected as tributes in the same year. Death caught them before they had to break their familial alliance, but the mental exercise of preparing to slay your own sibling created quite a stir that year. The Games were still fresh then, and the people of the Capitol weren't quite so vivacious about the murder-fest.
I don't need reasons to hate the Capitol or its minions, but maybe I shouldn't hate them. I should just dislike what they support and represent, want to change that status quo. If I could just get past my sons crooked grin, smiling at me from the staircase, bloody and gray, maybe I could start searching for peace.
I see no way that is going to happen. Not with my sister losing her mind in torment. Not while watching Rue being hunted like a pheasant. Not while Peacekeepers laugh and joke over ordinary people starving and working themselves to the bone to satisfy our Capitol masters.
We arrive at the plaza. Only a few people stand around the handful of screens broadcasting the Games. Little must be happening. The sun has almost set there in the arena, already having left District 11.
Captain Covas has been waiting in the plaza and waves us over. He's dressed in the plain clothes of a citizen, something enlistees aren't permitted to do. They have to wear an off-duty jumpsuit uniform to separate them from residents. After greeting us, Covas leads us to a street-side restaurant that serves mostly chicken and rice meals. Mostly it's just rice.
A handful of eateries in District 11 cater to the Peacekeepers. By comparison, this place is almost bland. It's just where people can go if they don't want to cook their own food for an evening. A few other customers are eating. Covas brings us to a table near the edge of the restaurant's undersized sidewalk pavilion.
A waiter brings us plates of the brown rice with some gravy, almost the same shade, a few chunks of chicken mixed in. There's no other food offered tonight, save fresh bread. Our only order is for drinks. I settle on an expensive glass of white wine, hoping the alcohol will numb my emotions, not my wits. Covas orders milk and Meyla asks for tea.
Before the waiter returns, we begin eating. The gravy is so thin, watered down nearly to broth in order to reduce cost, leaving the whole meal is practically tasteless. I chew chicken and mash the rice on the roof of my mouth.
"I appreciate you both taking the time to see me. I know an old geezer probably isn't the best company so it's kind of you." Covas' grins wryly, probably laughing inside again. He continues, "Meyla-Oh, I'm sorry. May I call you by your first name?"
"By all means," my wife exudes grace. My stomach is so knotted I don't know how she does it. The daily act burns me up.
"Excellent! I understand you're running a drive for donations for the girl competing in the Hunger Games this year?"
"Yes, that's right." She tries to corral more runny sauce back into the tan rice.
"I understand the donations have picked up some since she has allied with Katniss Everdeen." Covas pipes that ever-cheerful, scary breed of sinister.
"Quite a bit actually. People are confident that Rue has made very wise choices so far." Some people donated because they felt sorry for her, watching Rue ruefully admit that she hasn't seen any gifts yet at all. Seeder had yet to find a way to put the charity to my niece's benefit. "Our neighbors are very generous when presented with the opportunity."
"Kippen, I've heard that you made a substantial donation, yourself. Is that true?"
Where was Covas going with this? "What about it?" I can't think of anything illegal I have done. Maybe saving your money is a crime when the Peacekeepers decide it should be. Fine, I'll donate every cent in the lockbox to Rue's fund or to the Amaranths. I don't care.
"Oh, nothing at all, really. I've been considering making a modest donation myself. As an officer I've been assigned to this district for well over a decade. It would be nice to see the home team win once in a while, huh?" Covas winks and withdraws an envelope from beneath the table. "Strictly speaking, I don't care to be noticed in my philanthropy, so can I trust you two will maintain privacy in this matter?"
He slides the envelope to Meyla who accepts it. "Of course."
Didn't Scipio say Covas was going to be feeling me out? Gunning for me even? At first, it occurs to me that the envelope contains some sort of incriminating evidence. I watch as Meyla flips through the contents before stuffing it into her purse. Only bills. Is this a bribe somehow? He gave us money without any terms other than discretion. Not a bribe.
Covas making a donation for Rue? He's a betting man, then, I speculate. Wait. Betting on Rue? What would the chances be on that? It's uneasy to think about, but betting on Rue would probably face ridiculous odds. The probability of her winning is insanely remote, even with less than ten tributes remaining. At some point, Rue would have to kill someone.
"Thank you!" Covas beams, his age showing in crows-feet wrinkles around his eyes.
The drinks show up and I put away half of my glass in a single, stinging toss. I risk asking, "Hedging a gamble?"
Covas stares at me chewing a morsel of chicken. "I haven't placed any bets. It would be very nice to see that sweet little girl return home to her family. Somebody has to win. I'd prefer that it really mean something this year."
My shoulders shrug. "There's always one winner, sure." I finish the rest of the wine like it's a shot of whiskey. "But every year there're twenty-three losers. Twenty-three families that don't have anyone return."
He nods, faking a hint of sorrow in his eyes. "That's true. It's the price we all pay for the mayhem of the Dark Days."
I turn my wine glass around in my fingers, watching electric light curl through its gleaming edges. "You're from the Capitol, right?"
"Born and raised until I enlisted, that's right."
I continue to turn the glass and decide better than to reply. I want to ask exactly what price he has paid, what gives him the right to speak about Rue as if she means anything to him. He should have to answer what it costs anyone in the Capitol for the Games to continue year after year.
And not the financial expenses for the extravagant costumes and parties or the elaborately contrived arenas. Does anyone pay with their conscience? Scipio insists that many people in the Capitol are disgusted by the Games, yet are similarly powerless to do anything to stop their government, lucrative captives in some respects. The years I spent in the Capitol provided no evidence to think that about them.
Sure, I wasn't permitted to roam freely among the populace. During what contact there was, I never got any hint that anyone questioned the baseness of the Treaty of Treason. Such a concept wasn't even an issue considered, not even stumbled upon. Whatever moral guides Capitol people have with them at birth are dispelled after a few years being raised by decadent parents in a debauched, depraved, degenerate, self-indulgent, narcissistic, supercilious culture.
Having more than twenty years on me, Scipio still had less practical experience with the Capitol, having never been there and having no direct contacts within it. Of course those were both facts that I had to take on faith from his oft-shrouded statements.
Covas breaks the silence once more. "Alright, let me get something off my chest to be fair to you both." He sips the milk. "I wanted to do this away from the Office. My methods are a little outside of standard procedure sometimes and it tends to ruffle a few feathers."
My mind screams, you don't say?
He goes on, oblivious. "Kip, I've looked over some of your work from the past few years. Your interim audits have always come back very positive. The Capitol doesn't maintain a standing or anything, but if they did you... You would be near the top of the list of Capitol professionals in the Districts, based upon the audit scoring."
My fork pokes at chicken, gathering the bits of meat up. They taste better, or at least a bit fuller, than the rice. "It's probably just the buildings I have to work with."
Meyla runs her hand down my shoulder. "You've always been very smart, Kip." She's playing her part, the good wife in a family recovering from trials. I have a part to play too and I have to get into character, fast.
"That's right!" Covas points his fork at me. "Kippen Silvernale; graduated third of the class in your year at the University, special degree in structural engineering and architecture. Apparently you spent most of that time locked away in the school, studying like crazy." He eats piles of rice on the fork, winking my direction. "Not one to appreciate the benefits of the Capitol, hmm?"
Ok, Kip, I think. Time to let your character do the work for you. I can't tell him that I was disgusted with the Capitol and its horrible inhabitants almost as soon as I got there. I can't tell him that after two months, I vowed to leave the campus for the Capitol only if it was a matter of absolute necessity. Some of the other students availed themselves of the offered lifestyle. I intended to, except I was repelled by it from the get-go. "Well, University... students from the districts aren't permitted to many... areas of the Capitol... You know."
Covas nods. "That's true, but they are allowed to a number of places. You never really were interested in any of that, were you?"
I need to get away from this topic as quickly as I can. Mustering a grin, I force other lies through my lips. "School was a lot harder than you might think. I wanted to graduate top of the class. It took everything I had to get third."
That does the trick and Covas rocks in his chair laughing. I can feel my wife beaming by my side as she laughs along. My ears must be glowing bright red. I hated the University. I was studying, but only about half the time I was studying my subjects. I could have graduated top of the class, no problem. Instead, I spent most of the time in the school library, reading about history, finding things they never teach anyone these days, among the millions of dusty old volumes and digitized information.
"Fair enough, Kip. Look, I just want to be sure that you're going to be able to keep the Main Office standing. I have to work there, you know?"
"Oh, that place is-" I interrupt myself with thoughts and pause for a second. Something makes me lie again or at least hold back what I learned today. "The Main Office is a massive building. I barely have enough information to make a preliminary estimate on the structure's expected lifespan." I eat a forkful of rice and try to carve pensiveness into my expression. "I suppose, granted that it's been standing there for a hundred years or so, it will probably be fine for another hundred or so. Of course, that's all assumption without knowing anything substantial about status of the structure."
"Well, that's good to know. It wouldn't look good on your reports if it came down while you were working on it, am I right?" Covas lets the corners of his mouth angle up, but he's deadly quiet. This is not a joke, nor is the concept of sabotage alien to him.
Covas watches me mull over his statement. I stumble, scrambling to think of what to say. I'm still struggling to understand exactly what Covas means and what I have to say to throw him off when Meyla answers for me. "It would be worse if they had to dig him and his reports out of the rubble." She laughs and kisses my cheek. Probably a tad overly-romantic for our age.
I manage a chuckle, even though Covas is still watching me. "Yeah, that wouldn't help my career one bit!"
The Captain breaks a faint smile though he doesn't laugh at the macabre humor. "It's a good thing for us that you studied so hard, then."
"What's a budding engineer to do?"
He points his fork at me. "You're tenacious, I'll give you that. You should've become a cop. We could use some detectives with a drive to find the truth."
My face flushes. I went to him time after time, begging that he take my son's case seriously, never with a result.
Covas eats the remainder of his rice. "It's hard to find good men in the corps, these days. A lot of these boys just aren't interested in what's right." You never were, my mind growls. "Someone with your intellect could be very useful, I believe." Covas finishes his milk. He leans forward and lowers his voice. "If it were up to me, you'd be put to better use than repairing structures that have survived a century after being damaged."
"Maybe I could investigate accidents," my quip flows out before I can stop it. "In case they weren't accidents."
The Captain sighs and leans back. "Now, Kip. Do you really want to go through all this agai-"
"I go through it every single day!" I shout, all control lost in a moment. "Do you know what it's like to wake up every single morning with the dread of another day choking every single breath?"
Covas glares at me and moves his lips without speaking, yes.
My tirade surges as if the pressure valve can't be closed now. "My son was murdered!" I slap my palm against the table, rattling the silverware. "And you did nothing! Murdered in cold blood and you buried it!" With every word I know I am sealing my death warrant and probably Meyla's too.
The other conversations in the pavilion have died; a very public silence surrounds us. Everyone is staring at our table. I wave my hand at the sidewalk. "Do all these people matter, Vol? Do any of them matter! Or is it just whatever you have to do to keep what you have, and the rest of us are just the chattel of Panem?" My voice cracks with rage and I finally manage to suppress my outburst, to find that character I'm supposed to be. I'm shaking, gasping for air, adrenalin searing through my blood stream, heartbeat crackles like thunder in my temples.
Captain Covas stares icicles through me, taking note of the other people on the pavilion; probably to be sure they witness my flogging. Meyla reaches over and touches the back of my neck, her fingertips playing with my hairline. She knows it will calm me, even though I have already committed the worst crime in Panem; standing up against authority. The sensuality of my wife's touch instantly calms my pulse, but my chest still heaves, now with fear for what I have done to this woman, whom I still love, still want to be happy, regardless of my choices.
Then Covas does something really unexpected. He leans forward again, almost whispering. "Kip, I'm trying to play this whole thing low key because I really do like you, but you have to work with me on this." He leans back and breaks into a superficial grin. "Well, I think you've had enough wine for the evening! You're talking crazy and someone might get the wrong idea if we let you go on and on about nothing."
Slowly, the conversations resume across the pavilion. Attention turns away from us, though we're never far from a glance. Meyla's magic has worked and I'm back to my reserved normal, now fearing Covas even more. What game is he playing exactly? One minute he's trying to trap me into condemning the Capitol and the next he's trying to keep me from doing the same very thing!
The wine was a bad idea, I conclude. Alcohol is not available in vast amounts for most people and not many have a high tolerance. I hadn't had much to drink for a number of months, and I don't feel terribly buzzed but that's the catch of it. With little experience and a hollow diet, you rarely have any comprehension of where your limit is and whether you've gone past it or not. A single glass of wine? With half the rice still on my plate, maybe the alcohol was strong enough, undiluted by the meal. It only takes a little ice to slip down a staircase.
Covas counts out enough money for the tab and tip, tossing it to the center of the table. While he stands, he whispers again, "Get a hold of yourself, Kip. Otherwise I'll have to get hold of you."
Meyla bids Covas farewell in her gentle voice and sits, waiting for me to decide to stand. My legs are weak. Confusion saps me, the buzz is still growing. I can feel it now. My head aches from the emotional outburst, and I remember that wine gives me a hangover, even if I only have a little. The waiter asks if we would like anything more so I ask for coffee and water. Meyla adds a few bills to the cash on the table.
Think, Kippen. Think! What was Covas' angle? My outburst was plenty enough to garner arrest and interrogation under duress. Probably, it was enough to be executed, especially in District 11, where the mayor seems to be little else than disgusted that he has to live in a district and hasn't yet been invited to become a Capitol resident.
The water and coffee arrive. I chug the former, sip the later, unable to tell if they're diluting my buzz. The lights aren't swimming in my vision any worse than they had been before. It will pass.
Meyla and I stick around just long enough to finish the piping hot brew. As we're leaving I wonder if we'll even make it home or if Covas is gathering an enlistee force together. It's unlikely, I suppose. If he didn't have a team waiting on hand, retribution will come later on.
It's mortally quiet during our walk through the streets of Three Corners. From perhaps a third of the houses and apartments, soft music can be heard. There's a new song going around about Katniss Everdeen, and her lovesick admirer, Peeta Mellark. As much as people want to root for someone from their own district, fanfare for the Girl on Fire has caught on in almost every district, or that's the news at least. I even saw one young girl wearing a homemade mockingjay pin fashioned out of scrap metal. It was decently well constructed and proudly worn.
About three blocks from home, Meyla finally speaks. "Do you feel better?"
I don't know if she means the wine or the dinner or the situation or... "About what?"
"Did being honest help?"
It could be the euphoric edge of drunkenness except the buzz is worn down pretty far now. Despite my new concerns and confusions, it did feel good to get my opinions across to Covas, to tell him to his face what I've been itching like a madman to scream for months. The release actually felt fantastic, aside from the adrenalin. Apprehension for the consequences kept me from noticing. "Yeah, it kinda did."
Meyla reaches for my hand and I don't resist, feeling her fingers tangle in mine. Her skin is soft, though the harvest season is coming up and she will develop calluses again. Hunger for her all these months emphasizes her femininity. The scent of her perfume dominates my thoughts, driving away this evil, precarious situation. By the time we walk back into our dark house, I'm overpowered, standing in the doorway. Suddenly my imploding world is distant and my wife replaces everything. What reasons could I possibly have for leaving this wonderful creature?
Meyla walks to the counter and puts her hands on it, letting her head hang, hair shining in waves. "Kip? Can you try something for me?" She turns around. Tears have streaked lines on both her cheeks. "Can you give me one night where you just love? Where we're a family again?" Meyla raises her hands slightly at her sides. "I have to know we tried. I have to know that you tried to love me again."
"I do love you, Mey. You know that."
She puts one hand on her hip and the other over her forehead. Her voice breaks with dismay. "No, I don't know that, Kippen!" She sobs quietly for a breath. "Sometimes-Sometimes, the only thing I get from you is coldness and hate."
Meyla takes a step closer holding one hand outstretched toward me. "I need you to love me tonight and have nothing else. Just please try this for me?"
Another contemptible debate commences in my thoughts, but I cast it away. My wife, the most important person to my life, is asking me for what is her right, what is my obligation and I know it in my bones without thinking about it. It's like the way cool water soothes on a blistering summer day. It doesn't need to be reasoned into sensibility, because it is perfect.
I feel my knees tremble that I have confounded myself out of this obligation, this joy of marriage. She told me that I can't do what is right out of hate and I understand that now. The right thing, tonight and maybe every other night is to be my wife's dedicated, loving husband, the shoulder she leans on and the broken soul she works to mend.
I stand up straight, taking her hand and look down into her eyes, holding her. "Yes, Meyla. I do love you. I'm sorry that I haven-"
"Shh," She puts a finger to my lips. "Leave it outside, dear."
I shift around her finger and press into a longing kiss, on this night letting my walls of solitude crumble under the force of her desire. Something deep inside me twitches. Tonight, we're married again and I banish everything from my mind except for her. I will unpack everything from my soul and I will do this for her because she deserves it. And I want to. I miss her so terribly! How could I have pushed her away for so long?
As we stumble toward the bedroom, I sneak kisses at her neck and she giggles with a wonderful satisfaction that is the death of unrequited love. To see her smile and hear her laugh again inoculates me against habit. I never thought it possible, but here Meyla is, making everything alright, making life wonderful once more. Her eyes pause the moment, glowing with her desire. I've taken the wrong path this whole time.
Our bedroom is dark. A soothing patter of rain dances across the window, broken clouds let a faint shine of the moon peek through. Meyla's pale skin catches the sheen of silvery glow. She's sleeping on her side; her shoulder elegantly curves in the dark. I kiss her soft skin, hoping my tenderness will seep into her dreams.
I can't sleep. Caressing my wife gave me a rush of bliss that felt in the moment like it washed out every grain of anger I had stored up and coddled for months. Now that the flood of passion receded, of course everything was still there, stinking in the comparison of the gift my wife shared with me.
Meyla is healed of everything except my distance. On the other hand, I'm broken, unsure of whether I can be fixed or should be. How did she get over Mason's death, I muse.
How? I stand and pull back further the single curtain, watching water drip down the pane, distorting the glittery-blue landscape of nighttime Three Corners. I guess you really can't ever move on when your child has died. You just... endure it.
There are parents who break, every single year. Children go to the Hunger Games and it permanently destroys their families. Though the Capitol would refuse to share the information, I suspect they keep suicide statistics of relatives to defeated tributes.
Because it is designed to keep the districts subservient to the Capitol, the Hunger Games tread the fine line of shocking and scaring people just enough so that they submit under the economic, political, and social tyranny of the state. On the other side, if they go much further, the risk is in rallying the people together. Life must be harsh and brutal, only that people be dispirited, not invigorated.
For a system that appreciates with such wild animalism, the Capitol is oddly nuanced in its methods and reason. That's why it has lasted under this system for seventy-four years. Beastly power mixed with intellectually inhuman tactics.
The curtain falls back in place when I let it go. Meyla hasn't moved from her peaceful rest. I pull the bed covers up over her bare arms, brushing my fingers across her hair, tucking it behind an ear.
I could get there, someday. There's always that chance, I guess. Mason's crooked smile will never go away and Rue's scorching eyes probably won't either. Still, I have to try. Meyla is right. I can't bring justice to this world. It has vomited fairness out, gagging. Come to terms with that, somehow. She'll help me and I will certainly need it. I'm too weary of this game with Covas. There has to be a way out from this suffocation!
Rapid pounding on the front door jabs me out of thought. I pull on a pair of pants and a shirt. It's sometime past two in the morning. Meyla's hand-wound watch is no where to be found.
Just before I open the front door, I flip the kitchen light switch. An ochre pallor flickers, filling the room. Electricity is quite available during the Hunger Games, if a little disturbing because of the television content. Having light from a non-flammable source is an enormous convenience.
Marek Amaranth comes in carrying Wren in one arm and Breck in the other, both sound asleep. The light rain must be harder to the east over the Amaranths' apartment. Everyone is dripping wet. Hannah follows Marek in, struggling to hang on to Sythia. Chish and Lilja step in after their parents. I take Sythia from my sister, "What's going on?"
Hannah wipes hair out of her face, says nothing. Marek whispers so the kids aren't awakened. "I thought it would be better if we could be here for the next few hours. Is that alright?"
"Yeah, sure. You're always welcome here. What's the matter?"
My sister sits down at the table and bites her fingernails, staring into empty space. Marek leans over to me. "Those three Career kids captured Rue about an hour and a half ago."
I lean against the wall and take a deep breath so as not to drop Sythia. Lilja and Chish sit on either side of their mother solemnly. They know what's going on, why they're up so late. Those families that are undone by the forced tragedy of the arena return to mind. There are five more kids Hannah and Marek have to care for and still the twenty more reapings they'll face.
Marek sits down trying to maintain his composure. I have to ask. "Is she...?"
"No. They're ahm." His lip shakes. "They want to ah, use her as bait to catch that other girl." Marek looks up at me, his eyes glossy. "My little girl, Kip! What do I do?"
I don't answer. There's nothing you can do and I especially can't say that to him. Sorry, Marek, it's just how the Games work. You have to watch and that's that. Nightmares come to mind, the one where I'm in the plaza and I see Mason standing there waving. I wave back and scream and holler, running toward the Justice Building, but Jura Penrose pushes my son and my sluggish legs just can't reach him before he crunches into the stairs.
Sythia coughs in my shoulder, still napping. Her hand-me-down pajamas are patched all over, wet from the walk. I put my free hand on my in-law's shoulder. "Lemme take care of the kids, Marek." He looks away to hide his sorrow from me and his children. Hannah is still dazed. At least she's stopped chewing on her fingernails. She's holding her children's hands now.
Meyla comes out of the bedroom wearing an old bathrobe that has seen better days. Her eyes curl upward empathetically. I shake my head. Sythia wakes up groggy while I relay to my wife what Marek told me.
Meyla and I take the kids one by one and change them into dry clothes. We really don't have anything that fits, so some of Mason's clothes suffice. We put the three youngest in our own bed and the other two in our Mason's old bed.
By the time we get back to the kitchen, Hannah and Marek are holding each other, neither crying. Marek gently runs his hand down his wife's head and back. I know this. I remember from the handful of times Meyla and I tried to maintain each other those weeks after the funeral. There isn't sufficient consolation for the pain. There is nothing that makes it alright.
Meyla begins making tea while I check the broadcasts. Sure enough, Rue is there, unconscious, little feet and hands tied up in the webbing of a net. The Careers huddle together near her discussing how to trap Katniss. Cato wants to kill my niece and be done with it, while Marvel from District 1 insists she's the 'perfect trap'.
Katniss is still in the miniature gulch, passed out, having covered herself with a makeshift blanket of leaves. The other tributes haven't changed. Peeta is stunningly resilient. It's amazing that he's still alive. He's hardly moved that I can see.
Verona from District 5 is controlling her diet oddly, senselessly. She's waiting until she gets fidgety and then she swallows a few berries. It's as if she's never been hungry before and doesn't know how to ration effectively. Everyone in District 5 has been hungry at some point, even if it's not a regular state of being.
Thresh is still in that tall field of wheat, hiding somewhere, waiting out the rest of the tributes.
Is that all there are left? It seems so fast even though it's been more than a week since the bloodbath. So many always die in the first few days, and then the Games drag on forever. There was one year when the Games lasted almost four straight weeks, from the time of the bloodbath to conclusion. Time has been screaming past though, this time around.
We're not in control. We're less than servants to our masters in the Capitol and in the Main Office and the Justice Building and the mayor's mansion. I have been to all of those places and I have intimate knowledge of three of them. My stomach remembers how it feels selfish to abandon Mason so that my wife and I can live happily, at least happily when we're not thinking about our family.
As my eyes gaze on little Rue's limp form, all the rotten logic roars back. I have a rare and unique opportunity to actually strike at the powers that be, to maybe move them, if just a little. And if someone else can move them a little further, others may follow suit. All it will take for the whole Capitol to fall is someone willing to take the first stand.
I'm willing.
Meyla leads Hannah and Marek into our living room, each holding a steaming cup of tea. I stand to mute the television so we won't have to listen to the Careers discuss ways to kill Rue. My wife hands me a cup of tea and kisses me on the forehead, my gut twists as around a knife. I want the closeness we had once, that I caught glimpse of again. No decisions, I think. I'm just one man. What can one man do that's more important than love his wife?
There are bigger matters to worry about. Hannah and Marek are going to need a lot of help to get through this, if there is any light at the end of the tunnel at all. I lost my only child. My sister will lose one of six. That's not to minimize the tragedy. Rather it's an understanding that the other children will need their parents as much as ever. There's no break from raising your family.
This situation strains at me. Caffeine from the tea keeps me awake for an hour or so. Hannah and Marek never even touch theirs and are sleeping against each other on the couch. Meyla was stroking my hair when I went to sleep and she's there when I awake.
I love the smell of her hair. Lilac-something; it's a peaceful scent that I sense prior to becoming lucid. It salves my mind and shifts my troubled dreams to a more pleasant scene from which I awake. Meyla has her eyes closed, as she holds my head in her lap leaning against the arm of our second couch. At first, it appears she's asleep, but when I sit up she looks at me, loving eyes fraught with fatigue.
The television remains on, muted, still night there. Morning has begun to glow through our windows. Another day. I stretch, bones cracking. My neck is stiff and I bob my head around trying to loosen it up. My entire body feels worn.
"Rough night, huh?" Meyla asks turning to lean her back against me.
I twist so Meyla slides down until I cradle her upper body against myself. "It started out pretty nice."
She smiles and closes her eyes. "Thank you," she whispers.
My kiss is gentle and slow and she pushes back with her lips until I draw away. Then my wife rolls a bit more so her head lies on the cushioned armrest. Her breath warms my side, makes my heart shiver.
In the heat of my wife's presence, I drift back into sleep and nightmares. Peacekeepers are chasing through the fields and forests, weapons raised and firing, thundering bullets rip through the air. Dashing through the woods, my clumsy feet stumble over every single twig, root, and rock on the ground. Still, my flight manages to evade the horde of hunters for the moment.
Then I sight another me. It's just a dream, I know, yet it's paralyzing. There I am, right in front of me, stalking through the forest wearing my same shirt and pants. Here I am watching this odd man, myself, his face bent with rage and in his hands he carries a broad metal pipe. He turns and sees me, letting out a wild, guttural howl.
Time to run again; feet more sluggish than ever, even snagging in the mud now, with every step. My gait is impossibly slow! The Peacekeepers should have caught me by now. With only a hair's breadth to spare, I dodge each savage swing of the pipe by my self/pursuer. More gunfire erupts and I know the Peacekeepers have picked up the trail. My other self doesn't care. He keeps swinging with every ounce of strength, meaning for the first clean strike to be a death blow!
Someone touches my face and the nightmare evaporates into my living room. Lilja looks at me, her nose wrinkled in confusion. "You were talking in your sleep, Uncle Kippy." I bet I was. I run a hand across my forehead. My palm glistens with sweat. My breath is heavy.
Meyla is still sleeping across my lap so I tilt her, sliding out from beneath her limp form. Marek and Hannah are both still out cold, having barely moved. Exhaustion both emotional and physical will do that to you. If you can get to sleep, it can become almost comatose.
Rue's now webbed to the ground in the net. Only one Career is watching her: Marvel, District 1. Cato and Clove must have decided to keep hunting Katniss by night. They had no luck because they settled down for sleep. Clove keeps watch as the sun begins its climb into the sky. Katniss is moving now, her head bobbing strangely. I wonder if she's deaf from the landmine shockwaves. Probably her left ear, at minimum.
Lilja grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen where Sythia is helping Breck sip tea. Chish and Wren are still asleep in the bedrooms. Sythia says hi. "Morning, Syth. You guys ok?"
I open the cupboard to see what sort of food we have. There are some cans of preserves and soups. My fingers settle on most of a loaf of bread wrapped in foil. My movements feel numb, still plagued by the nightmares of both the unconscious and waking worlds. Sythia states solemnly, "Rue's in trouble."
The bread slices easily. "Yes, that's... true." I open another cupboard, retrieving apricot jam. The kids will like that. It's very expensive. While I spread it on three slices, my mind churns, trying to think of what to tell them. Lilja is only nine years old and Sythia is six, I'm pretty sure.
Lilja asks, "Why do they make us go to the Hunger Games, Uncle Kip?"
I mull over the question, setting two plates of jam bread in front of my nieces. Breck squirms in my arms as Sythia hands him to me, although he is instantly satiated by the bread as I tear little pieces off for him.
Lilja may be starting to understand how things work in Panem even if she can't understand why. Once you get to the age where you are in the reaping, it just gnaws at you. You don't understand why things are this way. Maybe you read the Treaty of Treason and the history lessons. It doesn't add up.
In the mind of a child, people should just get along. There's no real need for strife so nothing can explain why strife exists. By the time you squeak past your last reaping much of that childlike idealism is peeled away. You see the Capitol for what it is: vindictive, sadistic, cruel for the entertainment of cruelty, greedy for the spoils of slave labor driven literally under a lash, the atrocious list is endless.
Most of all, for the survivors, the final message of the Hunger Games experience is to illustrate that the Capitol maintains and exercises an absolute sovereignty over the lives of everyone who lives in Panem. It insists to us that any breath we exert is at the pleasure of the powers that be. Even if we know, implicitly, that we breathe because our own minds tell us to, the message is one of total dependence upon these people who were merely born in a different circumstance. Trying to stand up against it is like trying to shout storm clouds back to the horizon as they pelt you with hail and lightning.
You can't say anything like that to children though. Even if they would understand, it's up to Marek and Hannah to teach their children the way of things. "They think the world is better this way, dear." The answer is almost a non sequitur. 'They do what they do, because they do it.'
Lilja's nose wrinkles at that thought until another taste of the sweet jam snatches her focus. Breck struggles to keep the bits of bread in his mouth. I dab a cloth napkin as his face to clean up the smears.
Sythia swallows the last of her slice and asks in her tiny voice, "Rue's really not coming back, ever, ever, is she?"
My throat closes up tight and I can't speak. I need to answer, to say something! Then Chish's voice perks up from the doorway, "What's that?" He points toward Lilja's remaining bite of bread.
I wave the boy over and hand his little brother to him as he sits down. The kids can all have another slice of bread. Seconds will have a thinner spread of jam since my knife is scraping at the bottom of the jar to use it all. I set two slices aside for Wren and another slice for the four adults to split. A little sugar might do well on the palate. This is sure to be a torturously hard day.
Chish passes Breck back to me as soon as I set down his plate. The seven-year-old stares wide-eyed at the slices of bread. "Is that all just for me?"
"They sure are, Chish. Dig in."
Wren comes in, sees the meal, and sits down silently, patiently, amiably. I smile and set the plate before her, lighting up her entire world. Breck fidgets and wants to crawl around. He can in the master bedroom because it's the only room in the house with carpet. He roams and tries to stand up, tugging on the blankets of the bed. Not quite walking yet but the little guy is giving it everything he's got.
Behind me, Sythia asks, "Uncle Kip? Do you think the moon has any trees?" I laugh and turn around. Sythia explains, "One of the boys at school says the moon has moon trees, and that's why it's gray because the leaves are gray."
"What do you think, Sythia?"
Her face scrunches and she tilts her head. "I've never seen a gray tree before, Uncle Kip."
I chuckle and sit down beside Wren who listens intently as she savors the jam. "Well, there aren't any moon trees, even on the moon. Do you kids know that people once went to the moon?"
"Uncle Kiiiiip." Lilja's voice pouts with peaks and valleys. "No body ever went to the moon!"
"No, I'm telling you. It's true!" The two girls shake their heads and Chish chews thoughtfully. "You don't believe me?" Of course they don't. That's the sort of history left out in schools. The sort I had to teach myself while I had access to the archives in the library. Men did once go to the moon and they did scientific experiments and they came back safe and sound, leaving behind flags that are probably still there. That was generations and civilizations ago.
Marek and Hannah come through the doorway, rested and restless. Taking up my offer the spot on the bench and they squeeze in. I cut up the slice of bread and give them each a quarter.
Once breakfast is wrapping up, Meyla awakens and donates our last quarters of bread to my sister and her husband. That's fine with me, since I don't feel very hungry.
The kids stay in the kitchen, playing with a board game that has been dusty since Mason was fourteen. We adults sit in the living room and talk. Katniss is making her way back to the rendezvous point, unaware that Rue won't show up. My niece is still tied up in the net. Marvel is hiding in a tree where my niece can't see him. He's watching the third pile of kindling, a short walk away from the trap, waiting for Katniss. The other two Careers are still resting. Now it's Cato who is keeping watch.
We talk about the weather and about the Amaranth children and how each of them does in school. They're very smart children, earning good grades in every subject. Conversation is uncomfortably dry.
The room falls silent. Everyone watches the screen, nothing changes. Verona gathers food with a few new supplies she must have scavenged from the wrecked pile. They're burnt and ugly, yet useful. Thresh eats more berries and oats. Katniss walks barefoot in a creek, cocking her good ear to the fore. She shoots an arrow into the water at one point and later on repeats, spearing decent sized fish. The Girl on Fire pulls the scales off one and eats it without even cooking, leaving the intestines in the slow moving water. It turns my stomach to see that, but Katniss is in terrible shape, her face bruised and her ribs stabbing horribly outward.
Rue is in one of the corner screens, still sleeping. "How?" I whisper.
Marek stutters in reply, "They-ah-she was trying to sleep and they saw her in the tree near the-the firewood. She tried to get away and got over, maybe two branches, but the girl-the one that throws knives?" Marek sucks in a whimper. "She... She hit Rue with a stick and… knocked her out."
That's all it takes. A single momentary lapse of concentration can be your undoing. Rue isn't dead. If Katniss ever finds her, the Girl on Fire will have to beat the trap and then when all the other tributes are dead and gone, Rue will have to beat Katniss. No, don't try to get your hopes up.
Even if Rue wins, the terror goes on! That little girl from District 12 won't have her big sister coming home. And all the other families who sent tributes this year will have that empty feeling I know too well; a missing child. Twenty-three lives obliterated each and every year, even more the one year when they had twice as many tributes compete. I was seventeen that year. They called it the second quarter quell because it was the fiftieth anniversary of the Treaty of Treason and the Hunger Games. Every twenty-five years they 'spice up' the Games with special rules. That year two boys and two girls were sent as tributes from each district. Forty seven out of forty eight children preordained to die.
Sometimes the kids can become used to seeing the Games, so long as none of their friends have to go. The massacre at the cornucopia was so dreadful that no one in my class could focus for weeks. Everyone was dizzy from the revolting display, even the most callous people. We feel that way now. Meyla is brushing my sister's hair; both of them stare at the little girl in the corner-shot.
Marek says, "You know, about a week before the reaping, I took Rue and Lilja into Three Corners to buy some food. And we picked up some oranges and apples and I cut one of them in half for the girls." He shifts in the couch to sit up. "Lilja wasn't happy because her piece was a little smaller than the one I gave to Rue. I was going to tell her not to worry about it, but Rue traded her before I could say anything." On the screen, she looks so thin and frail, hardly the sort of person who could be so mature and selfless. Marek adds, "I know she used to give the other kids some of her food. She tries to hide it but... I'm dad! I catch most of these things."
It used to bother Hannah. She would complain that her oldest daughter is not eating enough and keeps sneaking food from her plate to others. Can you tell your child to stop being generous, though? Rue signed up for tesserae without anyone telling her to.
When the Amaranths eat here, Meyla and I always make sure there is plenty more food than needed, more than we could afford, even. My wife and I eat very lightly for a week or more after to get back on our budget. Even so, Rue always made sure the other children had first say before she took the last biscuit or the last spoonful of apple sauce. "I'll be brave, Uncle Kippen." Her eyes pierce through my stomach, shaving away at the confused mess in my heart. I'll be brave.