My uncle takes a few swigs from his bottle of Jim Beam.
"I need you to drive me into Portland to see my lawyer."
I've never driven so far and certainly not in traffic on city streets. The thought makes me nervous.
"Why can't you drive yourself?"
"I'm too upset - who knows what could happen."
"But I don't have a driving license," I point out. "What if I get stopped?"
"Well, drive carefully and no one will ever know you're breaking the law."
As it's already afternoon and my uncle has drank a fair amount, I suggest that we delay the trip until the next day so he has time to sober up. Fortunately he agrees.
We're on the road before eight the next morning. Uncle Haymitch directs me to the office of Beetee Latier.
"He helped me collect my inheritance when my parents died. He seemed competent enough."
It seems crazy to show up in the office of a lawyer you haven't seen in nine years without an appointment and expect immediate assistance, but my uncle seemed fixed on the idea that this man will right everything.
My nerves grow frayed as I maneuver my way through city streets, where I must shift gears often in the stop-and-go traffic. I'm damp with perspiration when I park the car.
"I'll see if I can fit you in somewhere," the receptionist says. "But you should have called and made an appointment. Without one, you'll have to wait."
Uncle Haymitch scowls and takes a seat in the tiny waiting area. I sit beside him separated by a small table.
He drums his fingers angrily on the wooden armrest of his chair.
"Why don't you have a phone?" I ask him. Mama didn't have one at home because of the expense. But surely my uncle could afford one.
"You sound just like Effie. I had to pay a fortune to get the electric company to run a line out to my house. I'm not paying the phone company, too. Besides why do I need a phone? I don't want anyone bothering me."
I pick up a copy of The Oregonian that sits on the small table.
"Do you want a section, Uncle Haymitch?"
He shakes his head, and continues to drum his fingers.
I'm almost done reading the entire paper when the receptionist calls my uncle.
He stands, and then glares at me. "Well get up, we don't have all day."
"I didn't know you wanted me to go in there with you."
"You're my witness," he says.
Witness to what? I don't want to get involved in this situation.
The visit only serves to make Uncle Haymitch angrier even though Mr. Latier, a nervous man with thick, corrective glasses, notes that Effie's allegation would be difficult to prove.
"From what you've told me it sounds like she's set it into motion because of a grudge against you."
Which she has every reason to have based on my uncle's actions.
"Now I can talk with her attorney and try to reach a settlement between you two. Or I can represent you in court. But it's understandable that your publisher would hold up the printing of the book until this matter is resolved."
"This is ridiculous," Uncle Haymitch shouts. "No matter what happens I'm out money. You're all just a bunch of damn crooks. You, her, and Heavensbee."
He stands up. I throw Mr. Latier an apologetic glance before following my uncle out.
My uncle strides through the reception area, picks up the newspaper off the side table and shoves it under his arm before walking out.
"Why did you steal his newspaper?" I ask as we ride down the elevator.
"I might as well get something for the money I'll have to pay him for that worthless piece of advice. Maybe I'll strike it lucky and get a story idea out of that paper."
My uncle keeps silent as we drive through the traffic that has increased since we arrived in Portland a couple of hours earlier. Glancing down the street ahead of us, I catch sight of a movie theater marquee. Romeo and Juliet.
A memory surfaces in my thoughts - Peeta in my father's study quoting a line to me from that play. A wave of sadness washes over me.
As we get closer to the theater, my uncle breaks his silence. "Now that's one sad story."
"Maybe you could take that story and change the ending."
"I already did," he says. "It was the plot of Star-Crossed Lovers."
"So you've stolen from Shakespeare too?"
"I'd prefer to use the term `borrowed', but yes I've gotten ideas from Shakespeare and a lot of other classics, including the Good Book itself."
We pass a Hooverville camp as we leave the city outskirts and head back to Sandy. A few men are walking about, their clothing dirty and some in tatters.
"You ought to write about those poor souls," I say. Living with my uncle in his big house, going to bed with a full stomach, sleeping in a canopied bed makes my hellish journey west seem like a bad dream.
But my experience was real and not a day passes that I don't think about Bennie and Jack and Thresh and the portly minister that gave us the loaf of bread and let us sleep behind his church, and the Browns.
My uncle sighs. "I'll leave that job to a better writer than myself."
Surprised that he admits there are better writers, I can't help but ask him to explain himself.
"It takes a certain talent to incite your readers to action. Harriet Beecher Stowe had that gift. And Erich Maria Remarkque shows it in All Quiet on the Western Front, although I'd say the jury's still out on that book. Those folks in Europe seem never to tire of fighting. Look at what's going on in Spain right now.
"But my skill lies elsewhere. I'm meant to cheer people up."
It's all I can do to not burst out laughing.
Cheer people up? My uncle is one of the least cheerful people I know.
My eyes leave the road for a mere second to look at his face to see if he is joking. But his countenance is serious, sad even. I have a sudden urge to encourage him because I don't need him depressed any longer. I need him writing again so I have something to do.
"I don't know if one kind of writing is better than another, but I do know that every woman I delivered books to in the hills around Dandelion wanted to read The Rich Man's Pearl. You made their lives better. In fact, just being the delivered of that book always made me feel good."
A faint smile comes to his lips. "So what did you think of it?"
"Um, well..," I stutter.
"You haven't read it yet; have you?"
"No. I'm not in the mood for a love story these days."
As we drive up the to the house, something shiny on the front porch catches my eye as it flashes in the late morning sun. I drive the truck to the spot behind the house where my uncle keeps it parked. As usual, we enter the house by the back door.
Later that afternoon, Chaff hands me a mason jar, with a paper folded up inside it. "I found this on the porch. Is it yours?"
That must be what sparkled on the porch this morning when we drove up to the house.
It's the same kind of jar I've used for all my jam making and pickling. How did it get outside of the kitchen? And what can be inside it? I twist open the lid to retrieve the note.
Thanks for the jam. It was delicious.
Peeta
My face grows warm and I look up to find Chaff staring at me.
"Yes, it's for me. Did you see anyone put it there?"
He shakes his head. "No, but it wasn't there when I left yesterday."
Peeta must have returned it when Uncle Haymitch and I were in Portland.
Oh, if only I'd been here to see him, to talk with him.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
After visiting his lawyer, Uncle Haymitch's gloomy mood grows even worse. He predicts dire consequences. "My writing career is over."
Finally, sick of his pouting, as well as desperate to do something besides keep house, I devise a plan to end the conflict between my uncle and Effie Trinket.
"Do you know where Effie lives?" I ask Chaff.
He frowns. "She's staying with a friend in town. But you should probably stay out of it."
"I have to do something."
Reluctantly he gives me directions. The next morning, I lie and tell my uncle I'm walking to town to mail a letter to Primmie. Instead I go to Effie's residence.
She shares a house with a widow. I look at the white-haired lady who answers the door and wonder if she is the heroine in any of my uncle's books.
"Is there something my uncle can do to make you drop the lawsuit?" I ask Effie as we sip iced tea.
"No. He stole my story."
I know from Uncle Haymitch that Effie is just as much of a thief as he is. But pointing out her own faults probably won't win her over.
"You're right. It was awful of him. But it's my understanding that he's changed the details considerably. No one will recognize you.
She picks up her glass and takes a sip of tea.
What does she want from my uncle?
I don't think her actions are motivated by money because they were sweethearts for a long time. It dawns on me that Effie knows that the public won't recognize her in the book, what she wants is my uncle to recognize her value to him.
"What if he added a dedication page to you that said you were his inspiration for the story."
Finally she smiles. "That would be nice. I'd like to be paid, also."
Ah, so maybe I was wrong about the money.
"You should meet with him and discuss it. Come to dinner at six tomorrow evening."
"Did Haymitch send you here?"
I already lied to my uncle about where I am. What's one or two more lies? "He did. He wants to set everything right."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
While my uncle snores the next morning, I prepare for a feast. Cold fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, and biscuits. Blueberry pie for dessert.
When he awakes after two, the dining table is set with flowers.
"What's going on here," my uncle sputters as he eases himself into a sitting position on the sofa.
"We're having a guest for dinner."
Uncle Haymitch raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "Who? Have you found a new boy to play with or did the old one return?"
I glare at him, taking pleasure in my answer. "Effie Trinket."
His face goes red. "I will not have that woman in my house."
"Maybe you should listen to her. It might save you a lot of money."
We argue back and forth all afternoon about the matter, but thirty minutes before she's due to arrive, he goes upstairs to bathe.
Effie is seated in the living room with a glass of wine in her hand when my uncle descends from the stairs.
He pours himself a glass of Jim Beam and sits down to join her. Their conversation is stilted, mostly about the exceedingly warm weather.
I call them to the dining table and set out the food. I have already decided to play waitress for this meal with the hope that my uncle and Effie will forget I am around and discuss their concerns like mature adults. Besides, I'm well aware of my uncle's temper and I don't want to be struck in the crossfire.
Neither talks at the table. Effie cuts the meat off her piece of fried chicken with a knife and a fork, while my uncle takes the drumstick up with his hand, licking his fingers when he sets it down on the plate. A piece of meat gets caught between his teeth and he puts a finger in his mouth to dislodge it.
"Oh really Haymitch," Effie mutters at the sight.
After serving them iced coffee and pie, I escape from the house to give the pair some privacy. Morbidly, I find myself tracing the steps Peeta and I took to the river to our picnic. In all my walks, I've avoided going here before.
It's still light. I pick up some stones on the edge and throw them into the rushing water and fret about Peeta. Is there any significance behind the appearance of the jam jar, or was he merely being polite? Did he leave the jar himself, or did he get someone to drop it off?
It's dark when I return home. The house appears empty. The lights are off, Effie is gone and my uncle is nowhere to be found.
The thought that he may have killed her flits through my mind, but I toss it away as too fanciful. My uncle may be angry, but I can't imagine he'd go so far as to commit murder.
I clear the table, wash the dishes, and make my way upstairs to bed. A light shows beneath my uncle's closed bedroom door. It's the first time he's slept in his room since I arrived here more than two months ago.
Surely it's a good sign.
I fall into a dreamless sleep, waking only when I think I hear a woman laughing. But it must be a dream as I'm the only woman that lives in this house.
But when I go downstairs for breakfast, Effie sits at the dining table with my uncle, drinking coffee and eating toast. She wears one of his button-down shirts. My uncle wears a plaid bathrobe, I've never seen before.
"Good morning Katniss." My uncle's voice is hearty. He gives me a cheeky grin.
My face goes red at the sight of the middle-aged lovers. "I'm guessing you two made up."
"We have. Effie agreed to drop the lawsuit."
I look to Effie who nods back at me.
"In fact right after we've finish eating we're starting the outline for the next book," Uncle Haymitch says.
"You came up with a story idea?"
"Effie did. Sit down I'll get you some coffee and tell you all about it." He stands up and goes into the kitchen."
I look to Effie and whisper. "What have you done to my uncle?"
A sly smile forms. "I stayed away long enough for him to realize that he he couldn't get along without me."
"I don't understand."
"Haymitch can write, but he can't come up with plots for the life of him. That's what I do."
My uncle comes into the dining room with my coffee. "Has she told you her idea yet?"
"No."
Uncle Haymitch licks his lips. "It's a doozy and timely too. You've probably seen those pictures in the papers about King Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson.
I nod. I'd read about the unmarried British king and his married American friend while I sat in Mr. Latier's waiting room. Apparently the royal family was upset over it.
"Kings have always had mistresses, but Effie suggested we twist the story and have the king renounce his throne for the love of a commoner."
"But why would he have to give up his throne? Couldn't a king marry whoever he wanted?"
"Royalty has to follow all kinds of rules," Effie says. "Kings marry princesses, not commoners.
"It will be the most romantic story ever, a man giving up everything for the woman he loves," Effie continues.
A thought nags at me. "Isn't that the plot behind A Rich Man's Pearl, a man giving up everything for love?"
"You've finally read it?" My uncle looks surprised.
"Just the back of the book."
"That's the plot of a lot my stories," my uncle admits.
"Because it's something women enjoy reading about." Effie winks at me.
While I'm happy that my uncle has an idea, the couple's enthusiasm depresses me because it reminds me that I'm alone.
As the days pass, a further realization hits. By reconciling my uncle and Effie, I have put myself out of a job.
I suppose I could stay on and be the housekeeper and cook, but Effie soon moves in and makes changes to the household routines. Although we get along, it's likely that because we are so different, at some point we will inevitably come into conflict over some ridiculous matter if I stay on.
And clearly she is good for Uncle Haymitch. His drinking decreases considerably after her return. He writes again.
I came to Oregon for a new start, but it seems as if I've reached an impasse.
And I still miss Peeta.
Was giving up my job in Kentucky to head west a mistake?
Without talking about it to my uncle and Effie, I begin a search for work. First in town, but when that avenue quickly proves dead, I apply for jobs in Portland. School has started up again so it's too late to look for a teaching position, but now that I know how to type, perhaps I can find work in an office.
September is a scorcher. Even with the window open, my bedroom is too warm. I take a blanket and pillow and go downstairs to sleep outside on the porch. Sleeping outside reminds me of my journey west with Peeta.
I think back to Effie's comment that she stayed away long enough for my uncle to realize how much he needed her. Is Peeta coming to a similar realization after our separation? Does he miss me at all?
Two weeks after I begin my job search, I strike gold. I receive a letter in the mail asking me to come to Portland for an interview.
I show Uncle Haymitch the letter. "Can I borrow the truck?"
He frowns. "I don't know. You don't have a license."
Is he serious?
"Oh Haymitch, let her take the truck." Effie smiles at me and I'm guessing she understands my predicament.
"But if she takes a job in the city, how's she going to get there? She can't take my truck everyday."
"She can find a place to board in Portland."
It's clear that Effie is ready to take over as the only woman in my uncle's household. She's just too polite to say it to my face.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Cinna Jackson is a tailor. He leads me into his messy shop and asks me about my job experience.
I tell him of my work history - teaching school, delivering books by horseback, and most recently typing up my uncle's manuscript.
"Sounds like you have people skills," he says.
I wouldn't describe myself that way at all. But if it helps me get the job I will agree to almost anything he says.
"This job is only temporary, a few months at most," he warns. "My wife works with me, but she's expecting, and she gets tired so easily these days."
I must make a good impression, or maybe it's because I can start immediately that he offers me the job on the spot.
As soon as I leave his shop, I purchase a newspaper, find a bench to sit on and look for a place to live. By the time I return to Sandy that afternoon, I've rented a room at the home of Jacob and Isabel Boggs.
A couple of days later, I'm living in Portland and working at Cinna's shop. My life is changed so quickly yet again. But maybe it's better that way. It's been a month since Peeta returned the empty jar, two months since he said goodbye. Despite what I feel for him, I know deep down he's not coming back.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Uncle Haymitch, Effie, and I sit at the diner on Spring Street and make small talk while we wait for our food.
"I like what you've done with your hair," Effie says.
"Thank you."
"Humph. You look like every other girl now." My uncle shakes his head in disapproval.
My hand goes up to the end of my shoulder-length hair and I twirl it round my finger. After moving to Portland a few weeks ago, I went to the hairdresser and had my hair cut off. Partly for a change and partly for the money I received by selling it to a wigmaker.
I need warmer clothes. Foolishly I got rid of all of mine when I left Kentucky, not realizing that it gets cold in Oregon too. And I need a warm coat; my father's leather jacket looks outlandish over a dress.
"Are the Boggs treating you well?" my uncle questions.
"Yes." Surprisingly he was quite concerned about me renting a room from strangers. But the Boggs are decent people. Mr. Boggs is a clerk at the Portland City Hall and a deacon at his church. Mrs. Boggs is a homemaker. They have no children, only a tabby named Buttercup.
"How's the job?" Effie asks.
"It's fine. I'm learning how to cut out patterns."
"That's good. But it's only temporary?" my uncle probes.
"Yes, until his wife has the baby." I'll have to begin searching in a few months again. I'm not looking forward to it.
Our lunch arrives on three plates that rest on the flat, out-stretched arm of our waitress.
"Do you need anything else?" she asks.
My uncle's eyes narrow as he studies her lined, tired face. "You're a marvel with those plates. Been waitressing a long time have you? I bet you've seen some things."
Effie slaps at his arm. "Not today Haymitch. We came here for Katniss."
"How's the book going?" I ask my uncle.
Effie frowns, as my uncle pours catsup over his meatloaf. "The writing's coming along fine; it's just those damn newspaper articles are making me nervous."
"What do you mean?"
Effie answers. "Mrs. Simpson has filed for divorce from her husband. Rumors are flying that the king intends to marry her."
"Can he do that? I thought you said kings can't marry commoners."
Effie shakes her head. "It's just not done. And the thing that makes me angriest is that if he abdicates for that horse-faced woman, it will ruin our book altogether. Everyone will think we stole the idea instead of making it up."
I have to bite my lip from laughing at these two thieves who ironically may be caught because the on original idea they came up with might happen in real life.
I pick up the catsup bottle from the table and douse my fries. I bite into one when my uncle turns to me, "Meet any nice young men?"
"Now Haymitch that's none of your business," Effie warns.
I scowl at him and continue chewing, not revealing that I've not only met someone, but reluctantly been out on a date too.
Not that Cato Ableman means anything to me. He's a deacon at the Boggs' church. I met him when I attended Sunday service with the Boggs and got trapped into accepting his offer for dinner when he asked me in front of them and I couldn't think of an excuse.
He has a steady job for the Portland Electric Company. Mrs. Boggs calls him "a catch."
But after our date, I'm ready to throw him back. He's no Peeta.
It's not until our pie arrives for dessert that my uncle pulls something out of his pocket. A stack of envelopes.
"This mail arrived after you left."
Primmie's neat handwriting is on the top envelope. I guess Mags and Gale wrote me too. Maybe even Mary Brown. I've been wondering about her lately.
My uncle hands them over and I shove them into the new purse I purchased, one with an extra sturdy hand strap.
"Aren't you going to read them?" Effie asks. "What if they need an immediate response?"
"I'll read them later." I can't help but wonder at Effie's odd question. Certainly it would be rude to read my mail while visiting with them at the restaurant."
Afterwards, I hug the both of them to say goodbye. "Be sure to read those letters," my uncle says, before he and Effie walk toward the truck.
My interest piqued, I wander down the street to a nearby park and sit on a bench. I pull the envelopes from my purse and begin to sort through them. Other than Primmie's letter, all of them bear a return address of Summit Meadows, Oregon.
My heart races. These letters are from Peeta.
Author's Note: A film version of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet was released in 1936. It starred Leslie Howard and Norma Shearer. Howard was 43 years old when he played the role of a 17-year-old, while Shearer was 34 years old while playing the role of a 14-year-old.
Uncle Tom's Cabin was written by Harriet Beecher Stowe and published in 1852. The anti-slavery novel is credited for helping the abolitionist movement.
Erich Maria Remarque, a German veteran of World War I, wrote All Quiet on the Western Front. The book describes the German soldiers' extreme physical and mental stress during the war and their detachment from life when they returned home. It was made into a movie and won the Oscar for Best Picture in 1930.
Spain erupted in a civil war in July 1936.
Edward VIII became king of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Empire and Emperor of India on January of 1936 at the death of his father. He abdicated his position as king on December 11,1936, to marry Wallace Simpson, a twice-divorced American woman. They lived the remainder of their lives in France. Ironically, the growing romance between the king and Mrs. Simpson was kept out of British newspapers, but was publicized in the American press.