Chapter Twenty-One
It was dark by the time Marcius, the Kents, and the camera crew reached Victor’s Village, which was located about half a mile outside of town. There were twelve large houses, three on each side of the village green. Only two of the houses had ever been inhabited — one by the first District 9 victor and his wife and children and later by Matilda and her husband, and the house next to it by Haver.
Clark’s house was next to Haver’s. All of the empty houses and their yards, plus the green, were maintained by a groundskeeper and a maintenance worker who were paid by the Capitol. The occupied houses could also be maintained by the same people, but all of the victors had chosen to keep as much privacy as possible and only allowed the maintenance worker in for major repairs.
Haver’s house was easy to identify by the smell — thirty-five years of magic grass smoke had permeated the walls. It had a somewhat rundown, abandoned appearance to it, despite being lived in. Obviously, maintaining his home was not high on Haver’s list of priorities.
Matilda’s house was in better repair, largely due to the efforts of her husband, Sid, who repainted it every few years and took care of the yard. Matilda made occasional stabs at housekeeping, but was frequently distracted by morphling, which she could easily afford to buy from the town’s only pharmacist.
Much to Clark’s surprise, all of the lights were on in his house when they arrived. The electricity didn’t always work on the farm — the only time it could be relied upon was during mandatory viewing of the Games.
Marcius unlocked the front door, then handed Clark the keys. “Don’t lose them,” he told Clark. “There’s no telling how long it will take to get new ones in a place like this.”
This was another surprise for Clark — there were no locks on the doors on the farm. When he had been in the Capitol, the concept of locking his bedroom door had been strange to him, allowing Marcius and his prep team to walk in on him unexpectedly several times. It was only after the Games that Clark had thought to lock the door, wanting whatever privacy he could get.
Marcius led the Kents inside. The camera crew followed them, spreading out to film each room. Only one cameraman stayed to film the Kents and Marcius.
Clark walked around, looking at the large rooms and the expensive furnishings. The Kents’ entire farmhouse could have fit into the living room, and any one of the pieces of furniture probably cost more than Clark’s parents saw in a good year. The kitchen was stocked with dishes and flatware with the Capitol seal on them, and the stove was electric, rather than coal-burning. There was a refrigerator and a freezer, both filled with food, and a pantry off the kitchen was fully stocked with non-perishable goods. Both hot and cold water flowed from the taps, and there were controls that allowed the house to be heated or air conditioned as desired — luxuries very few people in District 9 had access to.
There was a total of eight rooms in the house, not counting the two indoor bathrooms — something else the Kent farm didn’t have. There were four bedrooms upstairs, plus one of the bathrooms. Downstairs, there was a living room with a fireplace, the kitchen, a dining room, and a study with a desk and a bookcase full of Capitol-approved reading material.
Clark was silent as he walked around, looking at everything. He climbed the ladder at the end of the upstairs hallway, looking around the small, rough-looking attic. Then he went down to the basement, which was equally rough-looking but considerably cooler. He looked curiously at some machinery in the basement while Marcius shook his head in exasperation and explained how a washing machine and dryer worked — something Clark had never learned on the farm, as laundry there was washed by hand and dried on the clothesline or hung on lines inside the main room of the house when it was too cold or rainy to dry outside.
Jonathan and Martha followed Clark, looking around their son’s new home. They had expected that he would be leaving sometime after his last Reaping and moving into a place of his own, probably with a wife, but they hadn’t expected him to have a house in Victor’s Village. Though not as elaborate as some of the Capitol houses shown on television, it was still fancier than anything either of them could ever have aspired to. For the Kents, making sure the roof didn’t leak and the dust and vermin were cleaned out of the house was the best they could do.
A quick walk through the dark backyard revealed a storm cellar against the back wall of the house and a wide expanse of lawn and shade trees. Marcius narrowed his eyes at Clark as they walked along.
“A great deal of work went into landscaping the yard. I hope you don’t plan to ruin the landscapers’ hard work.”
“I’m not interested in growing magic grass, if that’s what you’re saying,” Clark replied. He had never tried smoking the herb, but was reasonably certain it would have no effect on him anyway.
Marcius nodded, looking pleased, then scowled when Clark went on, “I may trying planting a vegetable garden in the spring, though, and maybe putting some fruit trees in the front yard.”
“I don’t know why the Capitol even bothers with doing so much for you outer district barbarians,” Marcius mumbled. Clark heard him clearly, but said nothing.
A Peacekeeper from town and an Avox from the train were in the house when the group came back in. The Peacekeeper hefted a bag of coins and put it on the kitchen table, while the Avox set a suitcase containing the clothes Rosaline had designed for Clark on a chair.
“Your first month’s winnings,” the Peacekeeper explained to Clark.
Clark looked at the amount printed on the bag. It was more than his parents had earned in their best year of farming. “First
month’s?” he asked, a bit confused. He knew that victors received a lot of money, but that was far more than he’d ever seen at once.
“Yes,” Marcius explained. “Every month for as long as you live, you’ll receive another bag of coins containing the same amount. The Capitol is generous with its victors.”
Clark shook his head. “It’s too much.”
“It’s the amount you’re entitled to!” Marcius snapped, not understanding Clark’s attitude. “I know there isn’t much to buy here, but if you want something you can’t get in District 9, you can look it up in the catalog in the study and call an order in to the Capitol. You use a telephone for that,” he added. “Do you need me to show you how it works?”
“I know how a telephone works!” Clark snapped back. The Kents had never had a telephone, but most of the factories and other businesses in town had them, as did the mayor, the Peacekeepers, and the offices at the Justice Building. District 9 kids were taught to use them in school, since most of them had no telephone at home.
Marcius gave him an annoyed look, then pointed to the bag of coins. “That contains coins from the smallest denomination to the largest. It would be easier if you outer district people would use paper money, but it doesn’t seem to meet your approval.”
“A few people do use paper money in District 9, but most people don’t have enough money for it to matter. Besides, paper money wears out fast. Coins can be used for decades.” Clark returned Marcius’s annoyed look.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “This is an interesting debate, but it’s after nine and your mother and I have to be up early. We need to get going.”
Clark gave them a shocked look. “What?! Aren’t you staying? I mean … there’s plenty of space!”
“Clark, it’s three miles from here to the farm. We have to be up early to take care of the animals — and it’s harvest season. We can’t stay here.”
“But …” Clark stared at them, not sure what to say. “Well, then … I’ll come with you.”
Marcius shook his head. “You have to live here. They can come live with you, but you have to stay here.”
“Why?”
“That’s the rule. This is your house. You have to live in it.”
“But …” Clark turned to his parents. “So … after the harvest, you’ll be moving here, won’t you? This house is so much bigger than yours …”
Jonathan shook his head. “Clark, we have a farm to run. We can’t do that from here. We’ll come to visit as often as we can, but this is your home now. Besides, you won’t want us around for long. You’ll want to get married and start a family soon enough … Rachel may be upset with you now, but she’ll come around.”
“Dad!” Clark turned red. “It’s not … I mean …” He turned to his mother. “What about you, Mom? Wouldn’t you like to live in a house that’s not drafty and … and …”
“Clark.” Martha put her arms around her son. “We’re just glad you came home. We knew you had a chance, but we couldn’t be sure you’d come back. Your life is going to be different now, but you’re going to be okay. We’d stay with you for a while if we could, but it just isn’t practical to walk to and from here every day to work on the farm — especially during harvest season. Maybe in the winter, though, we can come here for a while — if you still want us to. The animals will still need care, but it’ll be less work than in the summer.”
“Of course I’ll still want you to!” Clark took a deep breath, suppressing his disappointment. When he’d imagined coming home, he hadn’t thought he’d suddenly be living alone in a strange house. Once he would have jumped at the chance to be on his own, but right now he wanted the comforting presence of his parents. After the horrors of the Games and President Snow’s threats, Clark had come to a greater understanding of how precious those he cared about were. “I’ll see you in the morning, then — I’ll come and help with the chores.” He turned and looked at Marcius. “Does that meet with your approval?” he asked sarcastically.
“You can do what you want … just remember that there’s a banquet at twelve for you at the mayor’s house. The guest list is already set, so don’t invite anyone, and don’t be late. Tomorrow evening there’ll be a dinner for the whole district, spread out through the town square and the streets. There’ll be entertainers from the Capitol, too. You need to be there, as well. It’s not mandatory for everyone in District 9 to show up, but not many people will want to miss it. The next day will be Parcel Day. Every family will get bags of grain, cans of oil, and lots of other foods. This will go on every month for a year. It’s customary for victors to help with Parcel Day.”
Clark vaguely remembered the last Victory dinner in District 9. He’d been five years old when Matilda had won, old enough to enjoy the show put on for the children, but not old enough to really comprehend what it was for. He mostly remembered the plates heaped high with food, enough that they’d been able to fill their stomachs and take the leftovers home for lunch the next day.
“I’ll be ready,” he told Marcius. Turning away from the man, he hugged his parents. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow,” he told them. “Hold on a minute …” Clark hurried down to the basement and took a flashlight from a shelf. He brought it back to the kitchen and gave it to his parents. “Take this. It’ll make it safer to walk back to the house.” Clark had never had any trouble wandering District 9 at night, but his parents couldn’t see as well at night as he could, and they couldn’t move nearly as fast as him, either.
After the elder Kents left, the camera crew started packing up their equipment. Clark leaned against the counter, watching them, until they left, taking Marcius, the Peacekeeper, and the Avox with them.
It felt strange to be alone. Clark had never had an entire house to himself at night before. Even at the Training Center, with its semi-soundproofed rooms, he’d known that there were other people around. It was quiet — so quiet that he used his superhearing to listen for what was happening outside, then quickly stopped, his face turning red, as he realized he’d overheard an intimate moment between Matilda and Sid.
It was strange to live so close to his neighbors. The Kent farm was more than three miles from town, and their nearest neighbors, the Irigs, were a mile from them. District 9 was large and sprawling, and only Clark’s superspeed had allowed him to explore all of it.
Slowly, Clark went upstairs, looking into each of the bedrooms and trying to decide which one he wanted to sleep in. All of them were furnished, the beds made up with the finest linens and warm blankets and bedspreads. None had the comfortable familiarity of his small bedroom on the farm with its narrow bed, worn blankets and linens, and homemade quilt.
Finally, he selected the second-largest bedroom, leaving the largest for his parents if they came to stay in the winter. It was as big as four of his bedrooms on the farm and contained a queen-sized bed — he decided that since he had these things, he might as well enjoy them.
It was a long time before Clark fell asleep, though. He was home, but as he’d feared, nothing was like it had been before.
*****
The next morning, Clark arrived at the farm just before dawn. When he didn’t find his parents in the house, he set down the sack of food he had brought and walked towards the barn.
Long before he reached it, Clark heard the sound of angry voices. He stopped, listening more closely, then wished he hadn’t as he realized that they were arguing about him.
“Jonathan, our son needs us! Didn’t you see the look on his face when you said we had to get home?”
“He can take care of himself, Martha! He wouldn’t be alive if he couldn’t. The animals can’t take care of themselves, and neither can the crops. It’s harvest time! You know that!”
“Yes, he can take care of himself — physically, anyway! He’s hurting, though. You saw his face when he killed that boy — our son isn’t a killer! I don’t know what would have happened if that girl hadn’t been there for him. And his face after she died and he was declared victor — I’ve never seen anyone look so sad and resigned.”
“He
is a killer — the Games left him no choice. That’s what the Games do, Martha … they kill twenty-three kids and destroy the one who survives.”
“All the more reason we should be there for him!”
“We will be there for him — but we also have a farm to run! Clark knows that!”
“He could get us here and back in a flash!”
“And he’d be in danger of being found out, which would jeopardize not only his life, but our lives, his friends’ lives — hell, it would endanger everyone in District 9!”
Clark didn’t wait to hear more. Hurrying forward, he stepped into the barn. “Mom? Dad?”
“Clark!” Martha turned to her son. “When did you get here?”
“A couple of minutes ago.”
“So you heard —“ Jonathan began.
“I heard you talking,” Clark said. “Dad, it’s okay. I understand why you have to stay here. I’ll come out to help every day during the harvest, and I’ll help with the chores in the morning and evening. I’m only required to sleep in my house — what I do the rest of the time is my own business.”
Clark looked at his mother. “Mom, I’ll be fine. My Games are over. I never have to return to the arena … I’ll never have to … to kill anyone again.” Even as he said the words, Clark wondered if they were true. What did Snow have in mind for him and his powers? What would he have to do keep those he cared about safe? He wanted to tell his parents about Snow’s threats, discuss with them how he should handle it — but he was afraid that it would cost them their lives.
“If you want to stay with me in the winter, though, I’d like you to. I’ll come out here to take care of the animals — the cold doesn’t bother me, and the snow doesn’t get in my way. Now …” He changed the subject. “… the animals are hungry and the cows need milking. Also, I brought some potatoes, onions, bacon, and flour from the house — I thought we could have breakfast before I leave. I’ve got a lot to do today, but I still have time to eat with you … if you want me to …”
“Of course we do!” Jonathan clapped his son on the shoulder.
Martha nodded, though she still looked upset. “I’ll go start breakfast, then.”
After Martha left, Clark looked at his father uneasily. “Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. Your mother is worried about you after what you went through … and so am I. You’ve always wanted to help people, not hurt them. When you were Reaped, we worried about what the Games would do to you — if you survived. You’re one of the least violent victors the Games have ever had … only one kill, and that looked to be an accident.” Jonathan turned and reached for a pitchfork, then turned back to his son. “Was it an accident, son?”
“Yes,” Clark replied quietly. “It didn’t occur to me that shoving him could kill him. I didn’t think about where he’d land if he fell, and I didn’t think to use my X-ray vision to make sure it was safe.”
“You didn’t have a choice, you know … if you hadn’t shoved him away, he would have killed the girl … Lois. You’re just lucky you didn’t have to kill her in the end.”
Clark turned away, floating in the direction of the hayloft. “Yeah … lucky.”
They worked in silence after that, though they’d often talked while doing the chores before. Jonathan had questions, but wasn’t sure how to ask them, and Clark didn’t really want to talk about the Games. He was beginning to understand what Haver meant about only a victor being able to understand another victor, and he hated the rift he felt growing between him and his parents.
When they went to the house after the chores were done, Martha had prepared a large breakfast — much larger than they usually had. When the two men stopped to stare at the full platters, Martha excused herself for cooking so much.
“Clark did bring food, Jonathan, and what we don’t eat now we can eat tomorrow.”
“I just hope we can afford this,” Jonathan replied, though he looked hungrily at the platters.
“It’s our boy’s first day home. He needs a good meal.”
“Don’t worry about the cost,” Clark interjected. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins. “This should be enough to feed you for a month, plus tomorrow is Parcel Day and it’s harvest time. Also, there should be plenty of food at the banquet today and at the Victory dinner.”
“Clark, we can’t take your money.” Jonathan shook his head.
“I want you to have it. I’ll give you more next month. I’d give you more now, but … last night I went through the bag of money and set aside just enough for my living expenses for this month and enough for you to buy food. I’m giving the rest to the Rasens. There were eleven people in the family — ten, now that Becky’s gone — and they never had enough to eat. Becky was only thirteen, but she had her name in the Reaping bowl twenty-four times — eleven times each year for tesserae to feed her family, along with the two times her name would have been in it anyway.
“The odds were never in her favor, but I can make things easier for her siblings — if I give them a month’s winnings each year, they should have enough food that the older ones won’t have to take out any more tesserae, and the younger ones will never have to take it at all. This isn’t a full month’s winnings, but with Parcel Day each month, they should have enough.”
Martha smiled and embraced her son. “Jonathan, we raised a good boy.”
“That we did, Martha.” Jonathan hugged them both.
“It won’t make up for losing Becky, or for the fact that I failed to protect her,” Clark said, “but it might help keep them from losing another child to the Games, and they’ll have enough to eat.”
“Failed to protect her?” Jonathan shook his head. “Clark, you couldn’t have saved her. She was very ill — we went to see her family after she died, and though they were heartbroken, they weren’t surprised. They just wished she could have passed away peacefully at home, rather than in the arena.”
“Clark, you made her last days better than they would have been otherwise,” Martha added. “Everyone saw how you made her the center of attention during the tribute parade — she looked happy then. And when you tried to help her during the interviews, people were shocked, but we knew you couldn’t sit back and watch her suffer.”
“I wasn’t with her when she died,” Clark whispered.
“You couldn’t have been, Clark. You know that. If you’d stepped off your launch plate, you would have died, and it wouldn’t have helped her in the slightest.” Martha hugged him tighter. “We were terrified when we saw the girl with the Kryptonite jewelry, especially when she went after you. If Lois hadn’t come to your defense …”
“I know. I would have been killed.” Clark didn’t want to talk about Lois. Changing the subject, he said, “Mom, you’ve made this great breakfast — we should eat it before it gets cold.”
Recognizing that Clark didn’t want to talk about the Games anymore, Martha let him go and went to serve the food. Before Clark sat down, he reached into another pocket and pulled out his token.
“I managed to hold onto it in the arena, Dad, so you can have it back.” He handed the photo to Jonathan.
Jonathan shook his head. “It’s yours now, Clark.” He pressed it back into his son’s hand. “You carried it all through the Games and brought it home. If you’d died, we would have taken it back to remember you by, but since you survived and kept it safe, that makes it yours.”
“No, Dad. You carried it for luck all those years …”
“And it was lucky … for you. You’re still alive. You keep it, Clark. We had that portrait taken when you were twelve — maybe, after the harvest is done, we can get a new one taken.”
Clark looked at the small, framed photo in his hand and slowly put it back in his pocket. “Sure, Dad. That would be nice.”
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