Chapter 28
Shadows dancing
Haymitch pulled out the padded stool in front of the piano, flexed his fingers and began with an old ballad he knew Effie loved.
With the kids giving her such a hard time, she rested back in her own room but the door was ajar. She'd had no trouble hearing.
"I knew you couldn't keep away, boy," Madam chuckled in his memory. That low, gruff sound you could hardly ever draw out of her.
Yeah, life was full of surprises, that's for sure.
Right before he and Effie wound up in bed together he played just to ease her mind off things, the night after he played so she wouldn't bring up again what had happened earlier and before he knew it, it had became a fixture to their evening routine.
Save these past few days he poured them both some broth almost every night and played her a song or two. Or three.
It was one of the few drink preferences they had in common. And since her first few visits to the Hob where Sae introduced her to the wide range of hot beverages Effie finally unchained him from those God-awful, postwar tea parties she insisted on throwing.
Dead flowers drowning on hot, honey-water. The memory alone was enough to trigger his gag-reflex.
Come to think of it he hadn't seen Effie so much as touch the teapot ever since he moved in. It got her nauseous too now, he reckoned. What with the pregnancy and all.
A few places in the Capitol sold the stuff. Broth, that was. Though none of them nearly as tasty as Twelve's. Sae was a wiz with her concoctions. She'd had enough practice and all – in bad times and worse – when they had little else.
But even after things got better, broth was such an ingrained part of their culture it remained a steady dish on the Hob's menu. Especially in the winter months and during the Harvest Festival.
Great hangover food. Without those occasional cups brought in by Katniss or Peeta or even Sae at times he would have knelt over from malnourishment years ago.
Warm milk with a pinch of spices that he stirred together when asked wasn't so bad either but he still tended to burn the stuff. Broth was easier.
"And it's really good for the babies," Effie said. The casting vote. She savored each and every sip; hands wrapped around her cup, much like Plutarch back in Thirteen when they finally broke out the coffee.
As for the music. It unwound her. Relaxed her when nothing else could. And when she relaxed he relaxed. If that wasn't a good enough reason he didn't know what was.
Anything to keep the babies in for as long as possible. To help them grow big and strong before taking on the bullshit of the world. Him for instance.
He was rusty, without a doubt. Especially in the beginning. But as time wore on more and more melodies found their way out of his fingertips.
It stunned him how accurately he remembered the ballads and lullabies and mountain airs of his childhood. A feat all the more impressive if you took into account he'd spent most of his inactive years marinating in hard liquor.
Muscle memory, Effie would have called it.
His heart had not forgotten the music of long ago. Simple verses with little variation from music assembly, the massively intricate melodies from Madam's brittle, old music sheets that scattered to the wind if you weren't careful. Even the occasional lullaby while ma rocked Amadeus in his cot or the joyful, playful tunes of father when he bounced his eldest on his knee.
Effie never asked about the songs. If she had insisted on knowing the origins behind each piece he'd have a hard time keeping it up.
Most of the time she just laid on her side, eyes closed and tapping her fingers to the music against her ever-expanding belly.
"They love it," she said. "I can feel it."
Such a sweet thought. Much unlikely but he hoped she was right.
It was still hard. Gone were the days when he played simply for his own amusement or even escapism, the thrill of mastering a particularily difficult song.
But if it brought them some joy he could better stand it.
And yet, despite the painful memories interlaced with the music – of a different life, a different family – there were still moments.
Not often, not long-lasting but just as strong, just as all-consuming as ever before. Times when a string of melodies, a song once loved, struck a chord in him.
Reminded him of why he gravitated toward the piano in the first place.
There would always be songs he couldn't play. Not without having a complete nervous breakdown. Like "A rain of tears" or anything even remotely close to the hope song. But with or without them there were still plenty of melodies to go around.
Once in a blue moon when the tremors weren't as bad he even played freehand. One of his favorite pass-times as a boy. And being now an adult he could figure out bits and pieces of songs he once wrote but never finished.
The evening sun made a star in the smooth wood. He was on the last verse of "Daydreaming" – as Effie had come to call it. The gentle note petered out. He scratched his nose and without even reflecting he played the somber introduction of "All the pretty little horses."
Brow crinkled at the sweet, sad sounds he paused.
Where'd that come from?
The song never even crossed his mind, not for several years now. He gave a slight shake of his head as if to clear it and then picked up where he left off.
Why not?
If nothing else it was a song he hadn't already played her half a dozen times already.
When ma needed to finish a big job and couldn't afford having him running about the house papered with patterns and cutouts of fabric, she always left him in the safe ward of Greasy Sae.
She was fond of singing. Some of the first lullabies he ever learned he learned in her kitchen. They weren't songs written down on a piece of paper. They passed by mouth. From parents and grandparents, siblings, neighbors.
Sae's greatest source of music however came from Katniss's grandmother. They were best friends growing up.
The first time she sang him this particular piece he couldn't have been older than three, three and a half. It was a sunny day, just like today. All of her kids were at school. He was tired and cranky, yet refused to stay down for his nap. Instead he sat cross-legged on the kitchen rug playing with the house cat.
Now, Buster was a lot more docile than a certain flat-nosed, one-eared creature named after a yellow flower but even he had his limit.
Sae was in the adjacent room making the bed but she rushed out at the sound of him.
Fingers sprawled out like a sea star, he wailed at the top of his lungs. Buster glared at him from under a side table. Turned out he'd gone and pulled the cat's tail and got a well-deserved scratch for it.
Ma would have given him a telling-to but Sae never got mad at him when he was little. She simply led his obnoxious self over to the sink where they washed the tiny cut on the back of his hand.
It was so small he didn't even need a band-aid. She merely kissed the top of it and lifted him up in her arms. He clung to her neck on the way to the bedroom. Cried for a few more moments just for good measure.
Tucked in, his sobs had subsided to snivels but he didn't kick off the blanket this time. She booped his nose, something that never failed to put a smile on his face and with her hand in his she sang him the song he was playing now – in a fair and surprisingly beautiful voice.
Good old Sae.
He should call her.
Kind of her to think of us, he thought, remembering the P.S. on Peeta's post card. Though he highly doubted Effie wanted to dress her kids up in someone else's hand-me-downs. Without him here, hitting the brakes, she would have stockpiled little kiddie's clothes sky-high.
Sighing he willed himself to focus on nothing but the music. The next note, the next verse.
But today was a day of distractions.
More than anything else there was one thought that kept nagging at him. Like a rodent nibbling on the fingertips of a dying man in an alleyway, too powerless to evade it.
If Effie wouldn't move to Twelve or any of the other districts – and he'd be damned if Amy and Ian would spend the rest of their childhood being lugged back and forth across the country.
What choices did that leave him?
It took no genius to figure it out.
I move here.
He considered this a moment. This latter life. Take up housing with Effie and the kids. Become a roommate of sorts. Sell the geese off or hand them over to Katniss and Peeta. Visit Twelve only for Christmas and birthdays and a week here and there.
Dealing with the likes of Quinlan and Plutarch Heavensbee for parent-teacher meetings and ice skating classes and whose turn it was to bring cupcakes to the playground.
Being neighborly and keep the peace with people who would love nothing better than to take a wipe and erase his kids off the city's slate.
A life in the place where his nightmare first began. Bad memories lurking at every corner.
Make the Capitol his home.
Not a minute into this future, even an imagined one, he was wheezing for breath. His throat lazed up like when wearing those awful jumpsuits back in Thirteen.
He wasn't playing no more. Instead he tugged at the floppy collar of his undershirt, gasping for air and still not getting nearly enough oxygen.
I can't live here! Not for always!
It was one thing visiting every once in a while because of Effie. Like a maddening side-effect you must learn how to cope with because the medicine was too important.
But he couldn't stay here indefinitely! He'd sooner jump off The Capitolium.
But what other choices were there? No good ones, at any rate.
Eyes squeezed shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Red darkness rolled in on him like waves.
He may not know what he was doing half of the times but he knew one thing.
He wanted to be in their lives. In a real way.
With an almighty heave he pulled himself up. He would have played but his mind was all blank. Couldn't remember a single song. Old or new.
His legs felt like they were filled with led but by some miracle they carried him all the way to Effie's room.
He didn't know where else to go. The bottles were dry. Not a drop left.
He peeked at her through the crack in the door.
She lay on her side, cooped up in the U-shaped pregnancy pillow - their latest find. He didn't even know those were a thing. If anything it reminded him of Flavius's boyfriend arm, only much bigger, hugging her on all sides.
A ray of sunshine played in her hair, still damp from the bath. It was in moments like these that you could really appreciate how reddish her hair was.
Wonder where she gets it from.
She had told him once, one time or another.
Her grandmother? Great grandmother?
Maybe in a few weeks she'd surprise him with a couple of gingers.
He pushed inside. Not even sure if he wanted the door to creak her awake or not.
What was he even doing here? He should let her rest.
Effie mumbled something in her sleep. Always a talker, even when she was out cold. Her eyes fluttered behind closed eyelids.
He plucked the empty cup off the nightstand, like it'd been his motive for going here all along.
He lingered at her side, indecisive, chest aching for more than one reason.
Finally, he leaned in and brushed his lips against her tummy. The usual double kiss.
"I'm sorry I yelled at your mama, little 'uns," he murmured. "Shouldn't have done that, I know."
He waited for the kick in response but this time there was nothing. He sniffed, his nose suddenly congested. He kissed them again and turned away, taking the cup with him.
Should've known it was all a nightmare, he thought back in the kitchen, washing it under a jet of hot water.
No way Effie could've made hot cocoa without causing a colossal mess.
He knew something else too. Even with the air so baking hot you melted away like an ice cream he would not stand as second more in this picture-perfect house in this picture-perfect neighborhood.
Not now.
Effie's purse still sat on the hall table where he left it. He opened it and got out the shopping list.
Might as well get her those boogie bulbs and what not.
He found the wallet in his jacket and peeked inside, frowning. Reached for Effie's wallet too and emptied the interest of Trinket money mishmashed with his own Games winnings.
After a moment's pause, he shouldered in to a relatively clean shirt and buttoned up.
He already changed the soaked sweatpants but if he showed up wearing this flimsy undershirt, yellowed from overuse and so threadbare it was practically see-through they wouldn't let him in.
For a fleeting second his gaze fell on the bread crate but then he swept it from his mind.
I'll take care of that later.
Wallet bumping against his thigh and with Mrs. Bitch's eyes following him behind the curtain, no doubt, he left the house far behind.
He was in luck too. Further down the neighborhood he had no sooner turned a corner before the bus rolled up. He waved at it, jogging toward the stop. The driver accelerated and hit the brakes, then accelerated again, as if unsure whether to pick him up or not.
Finally it halted to a stop with a whooshing sound. The man eyed him suspiciously but Haymitch swung himself up through the door and the monster of a vehicle resumed its course, heading for town.
Slouched in a warm seat Haymitch stared out the dust-speckled window as the rose bushes and lollipop trees rolled by, giving way for bicycle racks and dragon-shaped fire hydrants.
Forgetful of the fact he never left Effie a note.