Chapter Thirty-Two
Clark paced back and forth in his bedroom, listening to his mother working downstairs. He felt guilty that he wasn’t helping her with the dishes, but at the moment he didn’t feel like arguing with her — and that was exactly what would happen if he went downstairs now.
The room seemed to be closing in on him. Clenching his fists, Clark stepped up onto the wall, walking about halfway up before remembering that the noise from walking on the walls and ceiling kept his mother awake.
She wasn’t asleep yet, he rationalized, so he kept walking slowly around the room, observing that his frequent pacing was starting to wear a path in the wallpaper. Upon noticing this, he switched to pacing the ceiling, though the marks of being walked on were starting to be visible there, too.
At last, the sounds from downstairs ceased and Clark heard Martha climbing the stairs. He floated back down to the floor, wondering if she would knock on his door, and if so, how he would respond.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he waited, hearing Martha stop outside his door. Clark listened to the quiet sounds of her breathing and heartbeat for a moment before she walked away, heading for her own room.
Not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed at the reprieve from the earlier argument, Clark lay down on his bed, only to jump back up a moment later as drowsiness began to overtake him. He was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to endure the inevitable nightmares.
Clark looked around the room, seeing how empty it was without the furniture. He had moved out the majority of the furniture so he wouldn’t fall on and damage it. Even the floor was showing signs of wear — it was good quality hardwood, but landing on it so many times had chipped and dented it in spots.
Going to the window, Clark stood looking outside. The ground had a thin layer of frost on it and small icicles hung from the eaves. The almost full moon shone down, allowing him to see everything with ease.
Feeling more claustrophobic than ever, Clark lifted the chicken wire frame and opened the window. After making sure no one was watching, he climbed out the window and floated to the ground.
It was cold, but Clark didn’t feel it. Quietly, he turned and made his way toward the backyard, walking lightly over the frosty ground.
The flowers and landscaping were mostly dead or dormant at this time of year, so after checking on the horse, he gave up walking around the yard and let himself out through the back gate to the wide green.
The grass on the green was winter brown, and the trees that dotted it had all lost their leaves. The icy ground was slippery, so slippery that it was only by using his powers that Clark kept his feet from going out from under him several times. Nonetheless, he kept walking, his hands in his pockets and his head down.
Unexpectedly, out of the darkness he heard, “Aren’t you cold?”
Clark had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t realized that Haver was standing at his back fence until the older victor spoke to him. He jumped, startled, almost slipping on the icy grass before he regained his balance.
“Sorry,” Haver told him. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Clark held onto the fence carefully, making it appear that he was using it for balance. “It’s okay.”
“Where’s your coat? It can’t be more than fifteen degrees out.”
“I … ah … I left it behind.” In truth, Clark didn’t have a coat. He’d given the one his mother had made for him two years earlier — now much too small for him — to Becky’s older brother, since even with the financial help Clark was giving the Rasens, there still wasn’t quite enough money for warm clothing for everyone. He hadn’t gotten around to buying a new one — the cold didn’t bother him, though it occurred to him now that going without a coat, especially when he could easily afford one, would make people ask questions.
“I’m okay,” he assured Haver. “I’m used to not having a coat.” Clark was glad Martha hadn’t heard him say that — his parents had always made sure he had warm clothing, even when it became apparent that the cold didn’t affect him.
Haver looked at him skeptically. Clark looked away, reminding himself to be more careful around his mentor. The older victor was more observant than Clark was comfortable with, and it would be entirely too easy for him to put the clues together and realize that Clark was not what he appeared to be.
Haver opened his back gate. “Come in and get warm before you catch your death of cold,” he told Clark.
Clark stared at him, wide-eyed, his mind immediately flashing back to Lois’s death. His hand tightened involuntarily on the fence, tearing away the two boards he was holding onto. One snapped in two, while the other came away fully, the rusted nails easily coming loose from the old, decaying wood.
“Clark!” Haver called softly, trying to pull the young victor out of whatever flashback he was experiencing. Raising his voice slightly, he added, “Clark, remember — real or not real?” He didn’t approach the young man — though Haver didn’t know about Clark’s extraordinary abilities, he knew that he was strong, and at the moment, he was armed with a potentially lethal weapon.
Clark shook his head, trying to dispel the memory of Lois’s face at the moment the cannon had sounded, signaling that he had succeeded in ending her life. “Lois, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You’ll never know how sorry …”
Haver didn’t catch most of what Clark had whispered, though he did pick up on the word Lois and realized that Clark’s distress had something to do with her. “Clark?”
Clark dropped the pieces of wood he was holding, trying to think of a way to explain why the fence had broken. “S-sorry about your fence,” he stammered.
Haver shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It’s been on the verge of falling down for quite a while. I’ll have the groundskeeper fix it.”
“I can do it,” Clark told him. “I broke it.”
“You don’t have to —“ Haver began, but when he saw the look on Clark’s face, he continued, “— but if you want to fix it, you can.”
Clark nodded. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” He picked up the pieces of wood and leaned them against the fence. “Or I can do it right now.”
Haver shook his head. “It’s dark out — not really a good time for doing repairs.” Looking at the young victor, he said, “Clark, would you like me to call your mom?”
“No!” Clark shook his head. He’d caused her enough distress already without dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night. The vehemence of his tone surprised even himself and he moderated his tone as he finished, “I mean — she’s probably asleep.”
Haver nodded. “Come on.” He held the gate open, wanting to get Clark out of the cold and darkness. He didn’t mention the temperature again, fearing that doing so would trigger whatever unpleasant memories were currently plaguing the young man.
Somewhat reluctantly, Clark followed him. He thought about refusing and just going home, but the thought of his own house, where the walls seemed to close in on him, was enough to make him choose to follow Haver instead.
The inside of Haver’s house smelled strongly of magic grass and was dim and cluttered — Haver often didn’t bother to change the light bulbs when they burned out, and only occasionally took the time to clean. The hearth was cold and probably had been for a long time, but the heater worked and the kitchen was warm when he led Clark inside.
“Have a seat,” Haver told Clark, picking up some dirty dishes and depositing them in the sink. He pulled two shot glasses and a bottle of some clear liquor from the cabinet. Setting the glasses on the table, he filled them both and pushed one in Clark’s direction.
“Drink this,” he told him. “It’ll calm you down.”
Clark looked at his glass suspiciously. “What is it?” The last time he’d ingested something he couldn’t identify, it had turned out to be poison and had confirmed that he was invulnerable.
“Moonshine is what most people here call it,” Haver told him, picking up his own glass and draining it in one swallow. “Some other districts call it white liquor. In the Capitol, they call it White Lightning.”
Since Haver had drunk it, Clark decided that it was probably safe. Lifting his glass, he swallowed it, but felt absolutely nothing.
“Want more?” Haver asked.
Clark shook his head. He wasn’t sure how much of the stuff it would take to make a normal person drunk, so he didn’t want to risk drinking too much and making Haver suspicious at his lack of reaction to it.
Haver poured himself another shot, then set the bottle aside. “Feeling any better?” he asked.
Clark shrugged. “I guess.” He wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Your mom is worried about you,” Haver told him.
Clark stiffened. “I’m fine,” he told Haver, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I didn’t jump out the window!”
Haver raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to ask about that,” he said, “but since you mentioned it …”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Clark told him flatly, turning away. He couldn’t afford for Haver to find out what had really happened that morning.
Haver sighed, picking up his glass. “Your mom told me you’re having a lot of nightmares.”
“Everyone has bad dreams sometimes.”
“Every night?”
“Mom doesn’t need to be talking about me to you.”
“She’s worried about you, and frankly, so am I. You look exhausted.”
“I’m fine!” Clark glared at Haver. “Mom’s been staying with me, but the farm still needs taking care of, so we go there every day. It’s a lot of work.”
Haver looked skeptical, but didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “Have you been working on your talent?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me about my talent?! I don’t have any talents!” Clark scowled. “Did Marcius call you?”
Haver nodded. “He was annoyed that you weren’t answering your phone.”
“This is District 9! Does he really think people here have lives of leisure and can sit and wait for the phone to ring?”
“He thinks you do.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Haver downed his second glass of moonshine. “Victors aren’t supposed to work like regular people. You have plenty of money and a nice house, so you don’t have to.”
“I don’t care. I’ve been working since I was little, and I’m not going to stop just because some idiot from the Capitol thinks I should.”
Haver sighed, looking at the liquor bottle. Reluctantly, he pushed his glass away, then said, “You’re
required to have some sort of talent, Clark — even if you don’t think you’re good at anything. Since you don’t have to work, it’s assumed that you have plenty of time to develop interests outside of your district’s industry.”
“I don’t.”
“Marcius is going to insist — and he has to report to the media and President Snow what your talent is, so you’d better come up with something.”
“And if I don’t?”
Haver looked at Clark seriously. “Do you really want to find out the answer to that question?”
Clark looked away, knowing that defying Snow would only make things worse for himself and those he cared about.
Haver nodded knowingly. “I didn’t think so. Look, Clark, if you’re really having trouble coming up with something, ask Marcius for his advice. He knows what the Capitolites want to see. Even if the ‘talent’ you choose doesn’t really interest you, it’s mostly a matter of appearances. Pretend that you’re working on something, that great success at your talent is just around the corner, and they’ll believe it. It doesn’t even have to be something on the list Marcius gave you.”
“How do you know about the list?”
“Every escort has a copy of it, and every mentor knows what’s on it. The suggested list of talents is the same for all victors, but choosing something from it isn’t required. My talent was prizefighting — and you won’t find that on the list.”
“My mother thinks I should try writing.”
“Are you good at writing?”
Clark shrugged. “My teachers thought so.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you should give it a try … unless you have another idea.”
“I don’t see why they have to keep bothering me. I played their game and I survived … why can’t they leave me alone?”
“Because that’s not how it works. The Games don’t end when Claudius Templesmith announces who the victor is — you have to keep playing. It doesn’t end. Clark, I know you don’t like Marcius —“
“He sends kids to their deaths and thinks it’s an honor! And all the while, he looks down his nose at us, calling us barbarians and acting like we should be grateful for everything the Capitol does!”
“I know he can be hard to deal with, but believe it or not, he does have his better moments.” When Clark looked at him disbelievingly, Haver went on, “He tried to find sponsors for Becky, in spite of her low training score.”
“And did he find any?” Clark’s voice was harsh.
Haver shook his head. “No … not quite, though he did try. He did manage to convince a couple of people to donate money to the District 9 fund, which was to sponsor both of you. No one thought Becky had the slightest chance, but some people who had seen you interact with her wanted to help you take care of her.”
“I didn’t do it for the sponsors.”
“I know that, Clark, but had she survived the bloodbath, there may have been gifts to help her in her final hours.”
Clark looked down, realizing that if Becky hadn’t died before the gong sounded, it was very likely that both of them would have died in the bloodbath. In spite of the Kryptonite exposure, he would have tried to help her, and both of them would probably have been caught in the melee and killed within minutes.
“There’s something else you should know, Clark.” Haver waited until Clark looked up to continue. “After Becky died, Templesmith remarked that hers was one body that wouldn’t be removed from the arena. Marcius immediately called the Gamemakers to find out if it was true, or if Templesmith was just running his mouth. As it turned out, the Gamemakers had quickly decided that, because of the explosion, it would be too difficult to remove Becky’s remains, especially since the inevitable struggle at the bloodbath would most likely make collecting what remained of her even more challenging.”
At Clark’s horrified expression, Haver continued, “Marcius called in a number of favors to make sure that as much of her body as possible was removed from the arena and sent home to her family.” Haver gave Clark a few seconds to digest this information before he continued, “For the people involved in the Games, there’s a complex system of favors that affect power, promotions, and even survival — yes, escorts, stylists, prep teams, and even Gamemakers can be made into Avoxes or even executed if things go wrong or there’s some hint of rebellion. For Marcius, calling in those favors meant that his chances of being promoted to escort of a more high-status district became very slim, perhaps even nonexistent — and he very much wanted that promotion. Think about that before you judge him too harshly — he gave up something that meant a great deal to him so that Becky’s family could have closure.”
Clark stared at Haver, mouth agape. It had never occurred to him that there was more to Marcius than the shallow, celebrity-obsessed tribute escort who thought it was an honor to take part in the Hunger Games and didn’t have the faintest understanding of the lives and struggles of the people of the district he visited each year. Clark had never wished Marcius any harm, but neither had he had the slightest respect for the man.
Now he was being forced to revise his opinion.
“I … had no idea,” he told Haver, shaking his head.
“I was going to tell you, but you were so upset about Becky when you came out of the arena that I thought it was best not to add any more fuel to that fire. Later … I just didn’t get around to it until now. Yes, Marcius can be rude and judgmental, and he believes that it’s an honor to participate in the Games, but he’ll also put his neck on the line for the tributes if necessary. And as far as choosing a talent goes … if you can’t decide what to do, ask him for his advice. Tell him you’re having trouble making up your mind, and he’ll go over the different possibilities with you and help you find something suitable.”
Clark still didn’t want to show off for the Capitolites, but he only nodded, then said, “Haver, you said that your talent was prizefighting, but you don’t do that anymore. What’s your talent now?”
“I’ve been around long enough that few people care about whether I have a talent or not, but on the rare occasions that anyone asks, I tell them that I make liquor.” He shrugged. “I grew up working in the brewery — it wasn’t much of a stretch to learn to make other alcoholic beverages.”
Clark looked at the bottle of moonshine. “Did you make that?”
Haver shook his head. “No … I bought that from a farmer in the western village on the last Parcel Day. I don’t get out there often, but when I do, I’ll buy a few bottles.”
Clark looked away, remembering why Haver had accompanied him to the outer villages of District 9 — after his display of temper at the photographer, the older victor hadn’t let Clark out of his sight for the rest of the day, fearing that he would get himself into more trouble.
Not wanting to dwell on it, Clark asked, “What’s Matilda’s talent?” He couldn’t imagine her staying sober long enough to work on much of anything.
“Dancing,” Haver responded. “She really didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“I … ah … I saw her Games,” Clark told him. “They were on television one night …”
“What did you think?” Haver asked.
“Well … if I didn’t know how she is now, I might have … ah …”
“Been interested?”
“Well … um …” Clark turned red.
“You and almost every other man in Panem. She performed that striptease in hopes of getting sponsors, and it worked, but she’s always regretted it.”
“Is that why she’s the way she is now?” Clark asked.
“In part.” Haver looked uncomfortable. “Has she told you anything about her life after the Games?”
“Not much,” Clark admitted. “She’s said that there are worse things than being dead, and that it never gets easier.”
“Those were the last things you needed to hear. You’re the first victor she’s had, but she should still know better.”
Clark frowned. “On the day I was flogged, she mentioned that Snow did something to her and Sid when she tried to stop playing his games. Then she told me that I should do what I have to do to survive, but that I shouldn’t let Snow break me, because someday things might get better.”
“
Matilda said that?” It was Haver’s turn to look astonished.
Clark nodded.
“Well, that’s different. I never would have thought …” Haver shook his head. “Maybe she’s got more hope for you than for herself.”
“Maybe.” Clark looked down at his empty glass, then back at Haver. “Haver, what was she talking about? What did Snow do to her and Sid?”
Haver started to respond, then hesitated. “It’s a long story, and it starts long before the incident in question.”
“What happened?”
Haver reached for his glass and the bottle of moonshine. Pouring another shot, he gulped it down, then said, “Don’t repeat this to Matilda, and if she tells you anything, pretend that you’ve never heard it before.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Matilda doesn’t like to discuss it, but since you’re a victor, and you’ll almost certainly be dealing with the aftermath — it’s never ended for her — I think you have a right to know.”
Now that Haver was about to tell him Matilda’s story, Clark wasn’t so sure that he wanted to know, but he only nodded.
“First,” Haver began, “you should know that Matilda and her brother were orphaned when they were teenagers — younger than you. There was an epidemic of diphtheria in 51 at the time of the Games — one of the Capitolites who came for the Reaping was sick, and with everyone crowded into town, the disease spread like wildfire. I don’t know if you can remember it …”
“Vaguely,” Clark told him. “My family came through it okay.” He had been three years old at the time. He knew that both of his parents had gotten sick, though he had not, aside from a mildly runny nose. His maternal grandmother had come to take care of his parents and him, but what he remembered most was that his harried grandmother had been so busy taking care of his parents and the farm that she hadn’t supervised him nearly as closely as his parents did, allowing him the freedom to do things he would not have ordinarily been able to do — like climbing the apple tree in pursuit of one of the not-quite-ripe fruits. He’d gotten about twenty feet up before slipping and falling out of the tree. Amazingly, he’d only broken his arm, and it had healed in only two weeks. Years later, his father had told him that, in retrospect, it was the first sign of how different he was — broken bones in small children often healed quickly, but not usually that fast.
“Matilda’s family, the Wards, didn’t do so well. Her father died from diphtheria, leaving Matilda, her mother, and her younger brother to run their farm. They couldn’t keep it going, so they were evicted and had to go to work in one of the factories. Lorinda Ward, Matilda’s mother, had been weakened by her bout with diphtheria and couldn’t adjust to the conditions in the factory. She died that winter, and Matilda and her brother, Sam, were sent to the community home.”
Clark grimaced at the thought. Children who were orphaned, or whose parents couldn’t care for them, were sent to the community home. The people who ran it were overwhelmed and there was never quite enough food. Children who lived there were frequently abused, both by the staff and by each other. Kids who managed to survive until they were sixteen frequently married quickly just to get away. All of the children over the age of twelve had to take tesserae, and they worked long hours in the factories, after which their meager wages were confiscated in order to keep the home running. Few babies or toddlers who went there survived — it was a hostile place even for older children, and the youngest ones often died from neglect. Had Jonathan and Martha Kent not picked Clark up after finding him in the rocket, he would most likely have been placed in the community home or brought to the Capitol for experimentation. He had been extraordinarily lucky.
“Matilda and Sam lived in the community home for a few months before the young couple who had moved onto the Ward farm offered to give them a home in exchange for their help — orphaned farm kids can occasionally be placed on farms instead of left in the home. Matilda jumped at the chance and promised to keep an eye on Sam, who had just turned twelve. They went to live with Joseph Teig and his wife, Sunflower, and Joseph’s brother, Sid.
“The arrangement lasted about a year before Matilda was Reaped into the 53rd Hunger Games. No one expected her to come back, but she was strong from years of work and had grown tough and good at defending herself and her brother in the community home. She escaped the bloodbath with some food and a knife, and disappeared into the streets.
“Matilda’s arena was an unusual one — it was an abandoned resort town high in the mountains, and it had elements of both an urban arena and a wilderness one. It was fortunate that Matilda had lived both in town and on the farm, because it gave her some idea of how to survive in both elements.
“She did okay until the avalanche that killed Titus, the tribute who liked to eat the people he killed. He’d been stalking her when the avalanche started, and although she managed to escape and it saved her from him, it also wiped out her supplies. By that time, there were only five tributes left — Matilda and four Careers, who wanted to hunt her down before turning on each other. With no supplies and no weapons, and no sponsors to send her anything, the odds were not in her favor.
“That was when Matilda decided to perform her striptease. She’d found a room with a still-intact mirror, which gave her the idea. Within minutes of her finishing her dance, she had three sponsorship gifts — one of food, one of a scythe, and one of a deadly poison that she could put on the blade of the scythe, ensuring that even if someone survived being cut, the poison would soon kill them.
“It worked … Matilda led the Careers into a trap and wiped out three of them. The fourth escaped, bursting through a window at her late that afternoon. Without the poison, Matilda probably would have been killed — she was badly injured by her opponent, who was twice her size — but the poison on the scythe gave her an advantage, and the last Career died from a shallow cut to his leg.
“It wasn’t long after she recovered that the real trouble started. Everyone in Panem had seen Matilda’s dance, and she wasn’t allowed to forget it. In District 9, a lot of people shunned her — or thought that it meant that she was easy. Matilda soon made it clear that she wasn’t … available — though she almost stabbed one man before he figured out what ‘no’ meant.
“Matilda found it hard to deal with being shunned and rejected by so many people — even her brother refused to speak to her after she came home. She started spending a lot of time in the bar, drinking way too much — and then she’d get into fights, break things, and go staggering around town drunk. I don’t remember how many times the Peacekeepers called me to come get her out of the town jail after she’d spent a night there sleeping off her latest overindulgence.
“When it was time for her Victory Tour, Matilda managed to cut back her alcohol intake — she wanted to make a good impression. When we were in the Capitol, though, Snow called her away to talk to her, making it clear that certain things were required of her if she wanted to keep her brother and the Teigs alive, and avoid consequences for her district.” Haver looked at Clark. “You can probably guess what he wanted her to do.”
Clark remembered what Haver had told him about Snow’s demands of victors. “He wanted her to prostitute herself.”
“Yes — and not to clients of her choosing, either. Snow decided who would have the ‘pleasure’ of her company — starting with the man who had sent her the scythe, an item that had been extremely expensive. There were many others, too, over the years … and she had to use her ‘talent’ at dancing to entertain anyone who had the money for one of her performances — which were largely repeats of the striptease she did in the arena, rather than the sort of dancing that might have brought her fame in the more widely seen sort of theater or in movies or television.
“Matilda hated it, but she submitted to it for the sake of the people she cared about. Even though Sam had rejected her after her Games, he was still her little brother and she wanted to protect him. She dealt with it by drinking too much, which some of her ‘clients’ encouraged. Some tried to make themselves feel better about using her by giving her money and jewels — none of which she wanted, and most of which wound up being thrown out the windows of the trains on her trips to and from the Capitol.
“In District 9, people eventually started to forget about what she’d done in the Games — there were more important things to worry about. People didn’t shun her as much, which helped, though to this day Sam has never been quite able to look her in the eye or accept that she did what she had to do to survive. Matilda and Sid had been friends even before the Games, and he hadn’t pushed her away, but instead stood by her. He eventually moved in with her, keeping an eye on her while she was in District 9 and encouraging her to take better care of herself.
“Sid and Matilda were married in 56. Snow was furious, because she was less valuable as a means of keeping power over other Capitolites — quite a number of them refused the favors of a married woman. Matilda was delighted to have fewer clients, but Snow was livid.”
“I’m surprised Sid put up with it,” Clark commented. Adultery was taken very seriously in District 9.
“Sid didn’t have a choice in the matter. If he wanted to be with Matilda, he had to tolerate her life in the Capitol. There was no escaping it.” Haver looked at Clark seriously. “Don’t judge Matilda, either. She didn’t really have a choice. She could have said no — but it would have meant the deaths of her loved ones, and she wasn’t willing to make that sacrifice. She did what she had to in order to keep them alive.
“Newer, younger victors came along, and Matilda wasn’t as popular as she once was. By about four years ago, she had only a few regular ‘clients’ left, plus the occasional patron who was interested in her as a novelty. She’s always hated what she was forced to do, and finally decided that she’d had enough. She wanted a normal life — as normal as any victor’s life can be.
“Matilda and Sid decided to have a baby, and once she was pregnant, she informed Snow that she was done sleeping with any man but her husband. He seemed to accept it — as I said, she wasn’t as valuable as she once was — and she and Sid had about six months of peace.”
“But … didn’t she know that victors’ children are almost guaranteed to be Reaped?” Clark asked, frowning. He wondered what had happened to the baby — he knew that the Teigs had no children now.
“She knew,” Haver told him, “but she thought that if she raised the child like a Career, they would have a chance of surviving.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“Just before the baby was due, some Peacekeepers from the Capitol came and took Matilda away. Sid wasn’t allowed to go with her, and was locked in the jail until the train had left when he tried to insist he accompany her. The official explanation was that there were some complications with the pregnancy that could only be treated in the Capitol, but neither Adra nor Dr. Greenlaw had the faintest idea what complications those might be.
“At any rate, the birth took place in the Capitol, and Matilda was told that the baby was stillborn — though she swears that she heard it cry. After that, the Capitol doctors performed some procedure on Matilda that ensured that she would never be able to get pregnant again. I’m not sure if you know what I’m referring to …”
“I think I do,” Clark said. After his mother had nearly died giving birth to her sixth stillborn baby, Adra had performed some sort of procedure on her that kept her from getting pregnant again. Clark wasn’t sure exactly what it was — such information was seldom shared with any male except a woman’s husband, and his parents hadn’t told him anything except his mother wouldn’t be having any more babies. Still, he knew that such procedures existed, if not quite how they worked.
Haver nodded and went on. “Matilda is sure her baby was born alive, but she doesn’t know what happened to it after that, or even if she had a boy or a girl. She thinks it was given to someone in the Capitol to raise — or at least that’s what she desperately hopes.”
“You … think Snow might have had her baby killed?” Clark was horrified at the idea. What sort of a monster would steal a newborn baby from its mother and kill it? Was Snow truly that evil?
Haver shifted uncomfortably. “Matilda wants to believe her baby is alive somewhere in the Capitol, being raised by people who wanted a victor’s child, or even just a child at all. The thing is, the Capitolites love celebrities, and it’s unlikely someone who was given a victor’s child to raise would keep quiet about it, since it would raise their status immensely. If the baby had been adopted, the news would almost certainly have been all over the Capitol, if not all of Panem, in a very short time. There’s never been any word about the baby, though, so most likely …”
“… most likely the baby was killed,” Clark finished. “Or it really was stillborn.” He had to wonder about that, though — had the baby died, or had it been sent away like he had? He knew that he was different, that he was most likely the result of a Capitol experiment, but he was also certain that he had been born, rather than raised in a laboratory. Had he been torn from his mother’s arms against her will and sent away to punish her — or had he been sent away to protect him? What would have become of him if he hadn’t wound up in a field in District 9?
He couldn’t tell Haver about how his parents had found him, though, so he said nothing. Instead, he listened as Haver continued, “It was the surgery to prevent further pregnancies that introduced Matilda to morphling — she was given morphling for the physical pain, and she found that it also eased the pain of losing her baby. When she came back to District 9, she kept taking it, and no amount of pleading on Sid’s part has ever been able to keep her off it for long.
“After that,” Haver concluded, “she gave up. Snow has all the power, and he can take everything from her if she defies him.”
Clark sat quietly, thinking about what Haver had just told him. “No wonder Matilda’s so bitter,” he finally whispered. “To go through so much, and then try to build a normal life and family and have it taken away … no wonder she drinks so much and uses morphling.”
“It’s addictive,” Haver agreed, “especially when it’s used to ease more than physical pain. A lot of victors are morphling addicts or alcoholics. After surviving the Games … and what comes after them … it’s very tempting to find a way to ease the pain.”
“Is that why you smoke magic grass?” The minute he asked the question, Clark wished he could take it back — sometimes he spoke before thinking.
Haver glanced at the ashtray at the end of the table. “Magic grass isn’t as dangerous as excessive alcohol or morphling.”
Clark looked at him skeptically. He’d never tried smoking magic grass — not only would it most likely have had no effect on him, but he was pretty sure his parents would have been upset with him if he’d come home smelling of it.
“It’s just a way to relax,” Haver told him a little defensively. “Being a mentor is stressful. Enjoying a little liquor and a little magic grass takes the edge off.”
Clark wondered if three glasses of moonshine was considered “a little,” but didn’t comment. What did he know about it? Alcohol had no effect on him, and he’d never seen his parents have more than a single glass of beer after the Reaping or a small cup of dandelion wine after the harvest was done. In spite of his invulnerability, they’d warned him against drinking more than a cup of wine after finishing the harvest that year, the first time they’d permitted him to have alcohol. He hadn’t told them about the beer he’d drunk at the end-of-school dance — or mentioned that his friends had drunk it, too — nor had he told them about the wine and champagne that he’d had in the Capitol.
“You aren’t still using morphling, are you?” Haver asked him, looking concerned.
Clark shook his head. “No,” he told Haver, “not since the day after I was flogged.” His back had still hurt then, but it had healed enough that strong painkillers weren’t necessary. “I didn’t want to end up like Matilda.”
Especially since morphling wouldn’t have any effect on me once I recovered from the Kryptonite. “I’m never having children, either,” he added. “No wife, no children — I won’t make more victims for the Capitol, and I won’t put any woman through the pain of watching her children die in the arena to entertain the Capitolites or be taken from her at birth to punish me.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Haver told him, “though you may change your mind at some point — you’re still young.”
Clark shook his head. “No. Never. You don’t have any children,” he pointed out to Haver.
“None that I know of,” Haver agreed.
“None that you
know of?”
“I’ve never married,” Haver said, “but there have been women in my life. To my knowledge, none ever had a child by me.” At Clark’s shocked look, he added, “You don’t have to be married, you know.”
“I know that, but … but what would you have done if there had been a child?”
“It would have depended on the situation. I’m well aware of what happens to victors’ children in the districts, and sometimes even if one of their parents is a Capitolite. But as far as I know, I have no children, and if any exist, I’ve never been told about it.”
Clark shook his head. If he had a child, he would love them and cherish them just as his parents had him — which was precisely why he had no intention of ever fathering a child. He wouldn’t be able to bear to watch them suffer.
A clock in Haver’s living room struck midnight. Clark listened to it chime twelve times, then said, “It’s getting late, and I need to get up early to help Mom with the chores.” He didn’t know if he’d be able to sleep at all after what he’d learned about Matilda and Becky, but he wanted to be alone for a while. “Thanks for the moonshine.”
“You’re welcome.” Haver stood and walked Clark in the direction of the front door. “Clark, get some rest,” he told him seriously. “It’s not good to let yourself get so exhausted.”
“I’m okay.”
“If you want any magic grass or liquor, just ask. I have more magic grass than I can use, and I bottled a goodly amount of dandelion wine and barma this summer. Too much isn’t good for you, but a little can help you relax and get some rest.”
It won’t help me, Clark thought, but he only nodded and told Haver, “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
With that, he opened the door and disappeared into the frosty night.
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