5. An Effie Evening
The sound of Haymitch's TV makes up for his lack of speaking. He is eating the hen ferociously. He always does this in a manner that makes me think that the only night that he eats is the night that I bring the food. Buttercup is quietly enjoying his hen. He has a whole hen because I packed 4 and I can barely eat the one on my plate. That cat is going to get seriously fat. As if he needed any help with being uglier.
I watch the television and pick at my food while thinking about the red-headed girl hugging Peeta. She seemed pretty enough, from what I could see, but I didn't know that was his type. In fact, I didn't even know Peeta had a type. Except of course, for me. I was his type once. I think miserably as I hear Effie's voice suddenly flitting into the room. I look up at her and see a woman with sea green hair a matching sea green top and slightly dimmed eyes.
Effie Trinket. Former Hunger Games escort. Fashion icon. News reporter. Haymitch seems to perk up when Effie comes on screen and says genially "Look, at the old girl go. You'd think she'd come into this world with a microphone in that painted hand of hers." but I try to ignore him, paying close attention to Effie as a picture of District 12 flashes across the screen in the upper right-hand corner.
"Today the rebuilding of Districts' 12 and 13 began. On the order of President Paylor, Councilman and Secretary of Communications, Plutarch Heavensbee sent in the National Guard to survey the damage and it was determined that at least 2,000 carpenters, agriculturists, contractors, and construction workers are needed. There had been talk of creating grander and more decorative Districts' 12 and 13," Effie speaks in her same chirpy voice, but it is ever so slightly toned down. I can hear the emphasis she puts on each important word, and I can tell that she is good at this. Probably great. She leans towards the camera as she says the next word in an affected tone, as if she and whoever is watching are in on some secret. And even though there are probably millions watching, it still feels like she is speaking directly to me.
"But…" Effie says with a small smile, "after tallying the votes of the native residents, itching to return to their former homes, it seems that the council has agreed to simply till the land, clear the wreckage and build houses, allowing the residents to shape their own Districts!"
The camera switches views and with the backdrop of a Capitol building, a woman with brown hair and eyes and another woman with grey strands sweeping in and out of deep black hair are there talking excitedly. Their olive skin and familiar tones let me know where they are from: The Seam. These are people from my home in the old District 12, people I'd recognize anywhere.
"We don't need any fancy improvements!" The brown-haired woman screeches in a low birdlike trill, to the off-screen person holding up the mike. "Just build back our houses and give us our farmland and we'll be fine!" She screams, as if there is some obvious reason to be yelling.
The other woman, the older one, nodding her head says quietly, "We lived off the land for 30 years my husband and I. Lost both our sons and our daughter to the games. Then I lost him to the war." As she speaks her words of tragic loss I feel a slight tug inside of me, and I search her eyes for the look that mirrors my own reflection. The look of lost and longing, but I find none. The woman seems content and calm, and I find myself wishing I knew what this feels like. What it feels like to not be haunted by nightmares, and thoughts of the dead that roll around in your head like familiar beloved things.
"But I can go on living another 30 years if I just have a roof, a goat, and my sewing for selling." The woman says and seems to be motioning to her coat implying that she made it. It's nice and it makes me think of Cinna, my stylist from the games.
Cinna is one of those who died because of me, who I try not to think about, but always do. Cinna, Madge, Prim.
Prim…
I tune back in and the screen is flickering again showing several different people with different opinions. Some of them, even ones that lived here before, are violently against remaking the same district.
"It was nothing but famine and coal!" a grey-eyed man screams. Others, like the two women seem extremely positive about it remaining the same. The people and opinions blur together. No one is neutral but the majority, those for remaking District 12 in the same way, definitely win out in this case.
I am just turning back to my hen when I catch the name flashing across the bottom of the screen. Captain Gale Hawthorne. I look up at the picture and watch as he appears. His grey eyes seem luminescent under the lighting, and it makes me wonder if this was shot before today, until I look at his background and see that it is the woods. My woods, and then I know that this is being filmed today. Maybe it is being filmed right now, although the lighting is such that it seems like mid-daylight. But, I know that the Capitol can do this, make the night look like day, because of what they did with the games. They can do about anything.
Gale is staring intently into the screen, and I take in his features. Tightened jaw, strong chin, large but slender nose. Fiercely determined look in his eyes. It occurs to me, that Gale looks very different now. Instead of just a manlike teenager, he actually does look like a man. Like a full-grown adult. I wonder why I didn't notice it before. It is only as he opens his mouth and begins speaking that I remember that he is on TV being interviewed.
"District 12 was always a beautiful place that was just run down by the…conditions. I think that it's perfectly fine that people want it the way that it was. But I also think that people should learn to accept change when it's for the best. So, I vote that we do rebuild it, leaving the land for people to cultivate but the houses should be more modern, more convenient. Everyone should have running water and a fridge, not to mention access to all of the opportunities that those in the Capitol have. In addition to the already restored train tracks, I'd like to build a hoverport and a college. Ultimately, I want this to be the same District 12 but even better." Gale is speaking intensely gesturing with his hands, his eyes on fire. He is so passionate about this that it startles me. Passion, I realize. That is what I am missing. I am not passionate about anything anymore. I just feel empty now.
"So, what is your hope?" The reporter is saying off screen and Gale is staring intently again, clearly thinking of what his answer will be. "What do you hope to accomplish for Districts 12 and 13?"
"My hope," says Gale, "Is that the people of the districts will never forget the past but will also wholeheartedly embrace the future."
A quick smile from Gale and Effie is filling the screen again smiling widely and saying coyly "Spoken like a true Captain! There we have it everyone, Districts' 12 and 13 being rebuilt under the very watchful eyes of Captain Gale Hawthorne. As a former District 12 and District 13 resident I think we can all agree that he would know best." It's so strange to see Effie talking in her personable way to the camera, but I can tell that this is what makes her so good at it. That ability to make people believe, no matter what the story, she really cares. A small part of me thinks that she does. She leans in, armed with her signature blinding smile and saying her now infamous line "So that's all I have for tonight, everyone. Good night, and always remember: When you're watching Evenings with Effie, the odds of good news are always in your favor!"
The screen goes dark, and I see Haymitch shaking his head darkly as the control drops from his hand to the floor. "Some things will never change." he says, shoving two of the chicken bones into his mouth and savagely sucking the remaining meat from them.
"Effie's changed." I say, feeling defensive of her suddenly, though I have no idea why. It's not as if I owe her any favors.
"I wasn't talking about Effie." Haymitch says and he pulls a flask from seemingly nowhere and guzzles it down greedily. "I was talking about the rebuilding of the districts. They're trying to modernize us. They're trying to turn us into the Capitol."
"No, they aren't. Gale wouldn't do that." I say aloud, but inwardly I know that I have little to no idea what Gale would do anymore. Not Gale, my best friend and hunting partner. Captain Gale Hawthorne, with the face of a man and the passion of some storybook hero.
"It's not about Gale." Haymitch muses and the way he says Gale makes it clear that he's mocking me. "It's about Plutarch, the fat bastard, and all the other Capitol cronies. Take a look at the news sometime, Sweetheart, and see what's happened in all the other districts. Pretty soon they'll make it so that you can't tell one District from the next. They're all almost uniform now. Except for ours and District 13." He swigs more of the alcohol and wipes his mouth with his brown sleeve. "And that's just the way I like it!" He stumbles out of his chair and heads down the hall towards what I can only hope is his bathroom. The sound of him retching turns my stomach and I give up picking at my food to instead toss it down to Buttercup who eagerly begins to gobble it up.
Making the Districts uniform? I think and wonder why they would want to do that. I never even thought about what District 12 would look like after the rebuild. I mean, I knew it wouldn't be the same, but who cares what it looks like so long as it's rebuilt? I don't, and I feel that familiar pang of jealousy when I think of Gale and his passion for the future and Haymitch's passion for the familiarity of the past. Well, I don't have the luxury of feeling passion. Not now. Maybe not ever again. Between my waking nightmares, and my haunted thoughts, it's all I can do to stay sane. Passion is for regular people. Passion is not for grounded mockingjays.
Haymitch reenters looking uncharacteristically refreshed and wearing a new shirt. Looking at him in his clean white shirt with his sad eyes as grey as I can ever remember, a thought that I'd never considered enters my mind. I suppose, if he tried, Haymitch might be somewhat attractive; or at least more agreeable to look at. Seeing him as a 16-year-old boy in the Games, made me realize that potential, but I never really had a chance to think about it before. Clearly, he hasn't either. Haymitch Abernathy may have a lot of things, but self-awareness is not one of them. And this mess in his house is further proof.
Glancing around the room with the beer bottles, papers, food wrappers, and dirt, I wonder what has made him so averse to cleaning and I speak my thoughts aloud "How can you live like this?"
"Who has time for cleaning when there's so much to be done?" Haymitch says lightly, walking across the room to the tall glass cupboard near the fireplace.
"What do you do? Every time I see you, you're drunk. Always. Since the war, I've never seen you do anything aside from the few times you go into town to buy more booze." I say, my tone becoming more high-pitched in disbelief with each word.
"Exactly! And that's because there is so much to be done." Haymitch pulls a bottle from the cupboard and says in a serious tone but with a clearly comedic fashion "For instance: Tequila," pulling out another bottle, "Vodka," and another "Rum," one more "and of course the old standby, white liquor!" before kissing each of the four bottles and bumping the cupboard shut with his hip. "Being a hateful drunk is a full-time job after all." He muses and walks back to the table.
I really wish he wouldn't act this way. Because I have the sinking feeling that he'll probably be dead within 10 years, which is really a shame when you think about the fact that he can't be much older than 40 now. And just sitting around drinking in this filth? It's enough to make me wish that he did have a full-time job. But even still he'd need a maid.
All at once it hits me. Full-time job. Cleaning. The woman from the square with the arrow.
"If I got you another maid, would you pay her and let her stay?" I ask, already knowing that I will get her, and he will pay and let her stay, whether he wants to or not.
"Of course, I did before didn't I?" says Haymitch.
"Well, good, I'll send her here tomorrow evening, she'll get this house clean in no time and more than earn her wage." Haymitch doesn't respond but I can tell that he's satisfied thinking of having someone else here to clean up after him.
"Sounds good to me." Haymitch murmurs his lips already pushed against another one of his bottles.
I pick up Buttercup, the basket and walk towards the door. Abruptly, I get the urge to aggravate Haymitch, make him pay for his drunken haze. For ruining our dinner with his vulgar antics. So I walk to the door and even open it, before I lean forward and say quickly "By the way…she has two little kids!" and before he has time to do anything but spit the liquor across the floor in a rage, I slam the door shut and race down the steps.
It's been such a long time since I've laughed that I immediately replay Haymitch's spit-take and laugh to myself even more as I walk in lazy steps towards my house. Knowing Haymitch, he doesn't even have the coordination necessary to run out and catch me, demanding an explanation. But as I absently glance over at Peeta's house, I remember the red-haired girl with the bag and the smile drops from my face.
Peeta's house, where the lights are always on and the house is always silent, is now dark. Dark but not quiet, and it's almost as if Peeta and the girl are trying to be heard, their laughter mixed in with a soft, tepid music, echoing out into the night.
My first instinct is to rush over and peer into his windows. See where they are. Why they are laughing. What is so funny?! But I know that this is irrational and completely out-of-place. Why should I care about Peeta and the red-haired girl? It's not as if we've spoken at all. It's not as if we're friends anymore. Not in reality. Only in the pocket of my mind that is still reserved for secret thoughts of Peeta and the way he was back then.
The true Peeta Mellark; funny, kind, gentle, selfless…amazing. But that was all before the destruction at the Quarter Quell. Before the torture, the hijacking, and the bombing. Although I am somewhat aware that he's better now, I still have no idea who he is anymore. Is he himself again? Or is he changed like me? Or is he somewhere in between? The answer is nowhere within my reach. Just like him. And I painfully admit that now, in all honesty, Peeta Mellark in a darkened house, with a redheaded girl who he finds to be the funniest person alive, and listens to music with, is absolutely none of my business. I reluctantly accept this, and I walk into my house allowing Buttercup to slip onto the ground and slam the door shut. As if it makes any difference.
I strip down to my underclothes, suddenly too tired to put on night clothes and instead of doing anything remotely routine, like bathing or cleaning teeth, I climb beneath the warm covers and pull them tightly up to my chin. I lay here gradually trying to rock myself to sleep, when all at once the tears hit. They come down and down and down and there is nothing I can do to stop them. I tell myself that they are for the war victims. They are for Cinna, Madge, Finnick, Boggs, and the others.
And Prim. Of course, they are for Prim.
But inside I think I know, with every tear that drops and as soon as they fall, that they are for him…
The boy who is only 10 yards away; in the darkened house with a redheaded girl.
