We put the groceries away. My uncle insists I sit in the kitchen with him while he makes us sandwiches. He fries bacon, which he places on bread and tops with lettuce and a thick slice of beefsteak tomato.
Over lunch he questions me about my trip west. It's the first time he's shown any interest in how I got to Oregon. I tell him about the theft of my purse in Abbadon.
He's fascinated when I reveal that the robbery occurred because I had left the station to purchase his book. And pleased when I tell him that I passed it along to Mary because I thought she'd appreciate it.
"Have you begun reading the copy I lent you?" he asks.
"You've kept me too busy."
"I guess I have."
His face takes on a dark look when I tell him about the soup kitchen and working in the diner for fifty cents and having no where to shelter for the night.
"I ran into Peeta near a hobo camp in Indiana, but I knew him from Dandelion. He stayed at my mother's house to heal from a gunshot wound."
That bit of information leads us off into a different conversation altogether, my mother's wasteful spending habits and Dr. Snow's takeover of our family home.
But eventually he steers me back to my original narrative. I recount our experience in the boxcar with Bennie and Jack, our shakedown at the train yard, the help from the minister, and our decision to hitchhike. I speak of Darius and the Browns and the other individuals who gave us rides.
We talk for a couple of hours, his voice growing softer as he coaxes me to reveal more about my life. Even though it doesn't pertain to my trip west, I even tell him of my engagement to Gale, my trip to Frankfort to visit him, the ending of our engagement, and Gale's quick marriage to Senator Undersee's daughter.
Drained, I excuse myself and go upstairs to soak in the tub. My mind goes round and round, as I replay our conversation. I didn't tell my uncle everything about my trip with Peeta– some things are too personal to reveal such as our fake marriage and sleeping in his arms and my thought to seduce him in the hotel room in Salinas.
But surely he must have a good idea about my feelings for Peeta; after all he interrupted us in the kitchen.
It isn't until much later, after I've come downstairs and typed up several more pages of my uncle's latest story that I remember the woman's warning.
He is a thief.
My fingers rest on the typewriter keys as I survey the room, looking for evidence of thievery, while my uncle naps on the couch.
What can he have stolen? He seems well off. Why would he need to steal anything?
I dismiss the woman's warning as my thoughts turn to Peeta. It was stupid of me to not slow the truck and call out to him on the road.
If we'd spoken, perhaps we could have made arrangements to meet up, but I have no way of contacting him now. Besides the shock of seeing him in Sandy when I thought he was working on Mount Hood confused me. Why was he even there?
I leave Abigail, the heroine of A Prodigal Daughter, just as frustrated as I am when I stop typing at six.
Hungry, I dip two cube steaks in egg and flour. While they fry, I cut thick slices of bread and spread them with butter. Chaff left some ripe strawberries on the front porch, gathered from wild plants on my uncle's land. I wash the dirt from them and arrange them on a plate.
I carry everything to the dining table, before waking my uncle.
He snorts several times, but sits up and excuses himself to use the bathroom. The notepad resting on his chest falls to the ground.
Picking it up to set on the table in front of the sofa, I glance down at it, assuming it is more of The Prodigal Daughter. I am curious about what will happen to Abigail and Samuel as I've just typed up a chapter in which my uncle has separated the two lovers.
But instead of the story I'm typing, he has written down a list that appears to be the outline for a new story.
engaged to childhood friend
engagement ends because of other woman? (protagonist seems the jealous type)
meets second man as traveling companion
romance ensues amidst a series of adventures
separation (more jealousy)
happy ending? (how?)
Why has my uncle made notes on the personal information I confided in him. Why does he need to write it down?
A shiver runs down my back as the words of the woman in the grocery store ring in my head. He is a thief.
How does a middle-aged man who appears to have little interaction with others, most especially women, write a slew of popular romantic stories from the female point of view?
The woman's warning makes sense now.
Uncle Haymitch doesn't steal things; he steal's women's stories.
I rip the page from the notepad.
"What is this?" I wave the page in front of him when he returns. "Why have you taken notes on everything I've told you?"
My uncle gives me a cagy look. "I have a faulty memory. It's one of the burdens of old age."
He's not even fifty.
"But why would you need notes? Are you planning to turn my story into one of your books?"
He doesn't answer. Instead he walks past me, sits at the dining table, and takes a bite of his cube steak. When he has finished chewing it, he answers me.
"No one would read a book about you because it wouldn't have a happy ending."
His words sting because at this very moment he's right. Still I refuse to accept his insult.
"It may not look like blue skies now, but my story is not over yet."
My uncle chuckles. "I like your fire Katniss."
I join him at the table. "I've guessed correctly, haven't I?"
He doesn't answer; instead he continues to eat his cube steak.
"A man could get used to hot meals like this."
I expect this comment is his thank-you for my cooking his dinner.
When he has finished eating, he pulls a cigar from his pocket and lights it before he launches into an indirect answer to my question.
"Where do writer's get their ideas? Who knows? Ideas are all around us. Writers don't steal them; they simply grab hold of things that catch their interest, polish them up, and give them new life."
Blinking away tears from the smoke of his cigar, I reply, "So that's what you were doing by taking notes of the personal things I shared with you? Grabbing hold of some ideas?
"Is that why a woman in the market warned me that you are a thief?"
His face turns red. "A thief? What did this woman look like?"
"She had a hat with a big flower on it."
"Effie," he mutters.
"Your old secretary?
He nods.
"Is she right?"
He puts his cigar between his lips and stares at a spot in the corner of the room. After a long silence he speaks. "Not in the way that you think."
"So you completely made up the story of The Prodigal Daughter?"
He sighs and turns his head to look at me. "It depends on what you'd call `made up'."
"I don't understand. "How did you come up with the plot?"
"There might be some similarities between The Prodigal Daughter and Effie's life."
"What similarities?"
"Both Effie and Abigail were born into wealth. Both fell in love with men who worked for their fathers. Both eloped and were cut off by their fathers. Unfortunately, Effie's husband died, leaving her penniless.
I haven't typed that far into the story, and my heart twists. "Samuel dies?"
I picture Peeta, who I have mentally cast into the role of Samuel, pale and still. The food in my stomach rises to my throat.
"No, no, no. That's what happened to Effie's husband. His name was Fred by the way, not Samuel. And I'm not going to kill him off. What kind of story would that be?
"Instead Samuel gets sick, so ill that he can't survive without an operation that they can't afford. Behind her husband's back, Abigail will go to her father, and beg him for help. She'll promise to leave Samuel to make her father happy if he'll pay for the surgery to save her husband's life."
My eyes grow big. "And her father agrees to this bargain? Does he force her to give up her husband?"
My uncle smirks. "You'll have to wait and see how my story ends."
I frown. "But at least tell me that Abigail and Samuel are together at the end."
"I already told you how my stories conclude."
He leaves the table, returns to the couch, and takes a few swigs from a newly opened bottle of Jim Beam.
I clear the table, and wash the dishes. It dawns on me that Uncle Haymitch completely sidestepped the question of why he took notes about what I told him.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The days continue much the same. Every morning I wake up before my uncle, do some housekeeping tasks and then make breakfast for the both of us before I sit down to type.
I lose track of time.
"We forgot to celebrate the Fourth of July," I say to Uncle Haymitch on July 6th.
"We'll celebrate double next year; I'm on a deadline."
Once the last page of the hand-written draft is typed, my uncle gives me the revised beginning of the book and I begin typing the final copy of the story.
"Make sure to keep the copy clean," he insists.
Almost a month after I arrive, The Prodigal Daughter is completed. I drive my uncle to the post office to mail off his manuscript to the publisher. A letter awaits me from Primmie.
I open it as I lie in bed that evening. It's full of news about her husband's practice and the summer heat that sets records across the country and astonishment at our uncle's writing success.
But then the subject changes.
Gale Hawthorne is running for a seat in the United States Congress. His father-in-law was slated to run but had to step aside due to poor health. However, Senator Undersee convinced the party to support Gale in his stead. Of course he likely won't win, but what if he does?
I dig around inside myself, trying to register something, but I only find relief. My anger at Gale has faded altogether. Perhaps now that I have some free time, I should drop him a line to brag about myself. Tell him I've moved to Oregon and work for my uncle, a popular author. Of course I'd wish him success in his political campaign. And maybe hint that his jeweler is a crook.
I close Primmie's letter and sigh. I miss Peeta. Every morning I awake wishing his arms were around me. How could I have grown so accustomed to sleeping next to him in such a short period of time?
Without a looming deadline, my uncle takes a rest from his writing. It seems he has nothing for me to type because he has no thought for his next story.
He spends his time lounging on the sofa, drinking from his bottle of Jim Beam and searching the wedding section of The Oregonian for a story idea.
I keep myself busy housekeeping and helping Chaff outside. He shows me where to pick blueberries and blackberries. I collect two buckets full and spend a long day in the kitchen making jam.
I sleep in the next morning, waking to the sound of knocking on the front door.
I stick my head out of my bedroom window. I can't see the door because of the overhanging roof that covers the porch so I call out, "who's there?"
The knocking stops and Peeta steps out from beneath the porch.
My cheeks rise in a grin so high that my face hurts.
He has kept his word and returned to see me.
"Hello Katniss."
"Hello Peeta."
"Are you still in bed? It's past ten o'clock."
It dawns on me that I'm wearing a thin nightgown. My hands rise instinctively to cover my breasts.
"Give me a few minutes to dress, and I'll be right down."
Giddy at the sight of him, I quickly put on a blouse and skirt, one of the only outfits of mine Peeta hasn't seen. I fix my hair, brush my teeth, and put on a hint of lipstick.
My uncle snores on the sofa as I pass through the living room. I'm grateful that Peeta's knock didn't rouse him. I don't need Uncle Haymitch getting between us again.
Peeta sits on the porch steps with his back to me, but he turns and stands as I step outside.
Remembering how we parted, I want to run into his arms, but shyness comes over me.
"Can you get away for a few hours?" Peeta sounds nervous as he shifts the satchel that hangs over his shoulder. He's probably worried about Uncle Haymitch chasing him off. "I brought some food for a picnic."
"Sure. Let me leave a note for my uncle. He's still asleep." I step back inside and jot a short note onto my uncle's writing pad that lies on the small table next to the sofa. I head toward the door, but then turn around and go to the kitchen pantry and pull out a jar of blueberry jam, before going out.
"This is for you. I made it."
Confusion appears on Peeta's face for a moment, but he accepts it from me with a "thanks" and puts it into his bag. We set off down the road.
"How have you been?" I ask him.
"Much busier than I expected."
"Are there a lot of murals to paint?"
"I haven't even begun to paint yet. The lodge is still under construction so they've set all of us to build it first. Then we'll construct the furniture and weave the linens."
"Do you know how to do all that?"
"Nah. But neither does anyone else. They have instructors who are teaching us. It reminds me of art school, having to try out every kind of craft, even things we have no interest or ability to do. It can be frustrating at times, but at least I'm picking up some new skills."
"I saw you a couple of days after we arrived when my uncle and I were out driving," I confess. "You were loading rocks into a truck."
"You saw me? Why didn't you yell out?"
Because a woman was flirting with you. But I can't say that.
"My uncle was giving me my first driving lesson. It was all I could do to keep the vehicle from stalling out."
Peeta leads me away from the main road to a beaten-down path, lined by fir trees. Ahead of us is the sound of rushing water.
"Are we going somewhere specific?"
"We are, if I can find it. Finn, the fellow that shares my tent, told me about a spot he said would be a good place for a picnic."
After a ten-minute hike, the trail ends and we find ourselves in a grassy meadow dotted with dandelions. It's a picturesque setting.
Just beyond the meadow a river rushes past. A memory surfaces, Peeta taking me to the river near the hobo camp so I could bathe.
It seems like a lifetime ago.
We walk closer to the water and find a level spot to sit.
"This is the Sandy River," Peeta says. "Did you know that wagon trains used to cross it eighty or ninety years ago?"
I shake my head. "You sure know a lot about the area."
"All of the workers at the lodge grew up around here. I've heard lots of stories about how this place was settled.
"Are you thirsty?" He takes a bottle of Pepsi from his bag. "I got you your own bottle. We don't have to share."
"I don't mind sharing."
"Okay. We can save the second bottle for later." He pulls a penknife from his pocket and pries off the cap. He hands the bottle to me.
After a sip or two I hand the bottle back. While he drinks, I ask Peeta a question I've been wondering for a long while.
"How is it that you were able to attend art school?"
"Actually, I have Coriolanus Snow to thank for it."
My eyebrows rise. "Dr. Snow? That awful man?"
Peeta snorts at my reaction. "Yes. He saw some of my sketches when I was a child and thought I showed promise. When I turned eighteen, he offered to pay for me to attend art school in Chicago."
"He paid my sister's tuition for nursing school. But he expected her to work for him afterwards at reduced pay. And when that plan failed, he turned our home into a nursing facility."
"There are always strings attached when Dr. Snow is involved."
"Do you still owe him money?" I blurt out without thinking.
"No." Peeta's face grows hard. "It wasn't easy, but I repaid him every last penny for school."
"At least you stayed on decent terms. I, mean, he removed the bullet from your leg." And let you live in our home for a month.
"It was an even exchange. I spent a week painting his portrait after I left your house. Do you know how hard it is to make a snake look friendly?"
He smiles at his own joke and I burst into laughter, at his description of the doctor.
Peeta sets the bottle of soda down onto the ground and opens his satchel. "I have bread, cheese, and potato chips. Are you hungry?"
We stop talking, and eat. Peeta finishes the first bottle of soda and opens the second.
"I've only been talking about myself," he says. "How do you like working for your uncle?"
"It's fine. It turns out he's a romance writer. He's published almost three-dozen books. I just typed up his latest one."
"Sounds like he's doing pretty well for himself."
"I guess he is, although he hasn't come up with an idea for his next book, so I don't have much to do right now. Yesterday I made that jam I gave you."
Peeta bites his lip and looks away from me and toward the rushing river. I worry that my conversation is boring. Surely there must be something interesting I could tell him.
"I got a letter from my sister the other day. She said my old fiancé is running for the U.S. Congress."
Peeta inhales deeply. He turns back to me and reaches for my hand. "Let's walk along the river Katniss."
He helps me up and holds my hand as we gingerly make our way along the rocky shore. He lets go of my hand for a moment and bends down to pick up a rock. He tosses it into the river.
"Can you imagine traveling here by ox and wagon? It must have been quite a journey."
"Worse than sneaking on boxcars and hitching rides?" I joke.
"I don't know." He catches my eyes and gives me a sad smile. "Sometimes I wish I was born then. Life was so much simpler. A man could come west and start fresh."
We continue to walk hand-in-hand when Peeta stops suddenly.
"It's probably best if I don't visit you any more."
My throat goes tight. I'm standing in the sunshine beside a rushing river and I think I may faint from lack of air.
I drop Peeta's hand. "I don't understand. Why?"
Peeta grimaces. "I care about you Katniss, so much. I can't even close my eyes at night without seeing your face. If your uncle hadn't walked in on us…well, I would have… " his voice trails off.
"But you can do better than me. You're pretty and smart. You come from money and you have connections. You can have any life you want."
Peeta is everything I want. I love him. But my tongue lies thick in my mouth.
"I have nothing to offer you. I'm twenty-six years old and I have a dollar to my name. I just sent most of my paycheck to Delly because my brother is back in jail. I'll be living in a tent at the WPA camp for the next year at least."
"I know times are hard right now Peeta, but things will improve. You graduated from art school…"
He cuts me off. "I never came close to graduating. I left school after one semester."
"But Delly said you were a popular artist up north."
"I drew pictures of half-naked women for the covers of pulp magazines. Honestly, I'd be embarrassed if you saw them. I've done a lot of other things too, baked bread, painted houses, dug holes, even sold pencils on the street corner."
I have a sudden urge to slap him. To make him understand that regardless of where we began, we are the same now, he and I. Both casualties of the time in which we live. Why shouldn't we throw in our lot together?
Instead, I do the only thing I know to stop him from talking, I take a step closer, cup his face between my palms, and press my lips to his. He tries to pull away, but I hold him fast.
He groans. But his protest is short-lived. His arms soon go around me. He pulls me closer until I can feel his body pressing into mine.
It's not long before I'm ready to push him down onto the ground on top of me and give myself to him, like I wanted to do in the hotel room. I reach a hand down and unbutton the first two buttons of my blouse. But he comes to himself and breaks free.
"No Katniss. This is all wrong." He sounds angry, but I can't tell who he's angry with – me for kissing him, or himself for giving into me.
"I'll take you home now. He strides ahead of me and I rush to catch up, red-faced as I re-button my blouse. He handily grabs his satchel from the ground where we ate and we walk back to my uncle's house.
A terrible silence hangs over us, and it's all I can do not to cry.
Once the house is in sight, Peeta stops to explain himself again.
"You would never be happy with me. I'm always going to be the guy who comes from a family of moonshiners, and you're always going to be the daughter of the mine owner.
Never be happy? Is he crazy?
"None of that stuff matters." I stare into his troubled face and ask, "Why did you even bother to visit me today, Peeta? I don't understand why you went to all the effort you did to bring me lunch and find that meadow to eat it in."
"I'm sorry, but I had to see you one more time." His voice is strained.
The tears that I've been holding back, race down my cheeks. "I don't care about your background. My family has its own problems. If you stopped being so proud, maybe you'd have figured out that I love you too."
Embarrassed, I run to the house, almost knocking Chaff down as I hurry to get away.
Author's Note: The Oregonian is a daily newspaper based in Portland, Oregon. It began publishing in 1850 as a weekly, and has been published daily since 1861. It's the largest newspaper in Oregon.
Between 1841 and 1866, around 350,000 people came west to Oregon by wagon train. Pioneers who chose the land route (rather than taking the wheels off their wagons and floating down the Columbia River) went by way of The Barlow Road, a treacherous, toll-road that began at The Dalles in Oregon and concluded at Oregon City. They crossed the Sandy River as part of their journey.
In the building of Timberline Lodge at Mount Hood, the WPA wanted to develop the skills of workers, so people were provided training in a wide variety of jobs and asked to do work that they'd never previously done. For example, a carpenter might learn to do iron-work, in addition to building cabinets.