Girl in the Arena (11 page)

—And then Truman...  I say, referencing her fourth husband.

—What on Earth did Truman do?

So I began to tell her that one day in fourth grade, I was pig piled in the girls’ locker room.

—You aren’t serious, she says.

—Um, that’s what they do to Glad girls.

—Then I must have gone in and talked to the principal, she says, looking nervous.

I explain that the girls were careful and hit my torso and upper thighs only. So you couldn’t tell there were bruises under my school clothes.

—God, who would do that to you?

—Monica and her friends.

—But Tommy got Monica’s parents a discount on season tickets to the amphitheater, what, three or four years running? I’m going to call them right now.

—This was in fourth grade.

She starts to rise and I motion for her to keep her seat.

—Truman took me over to the Ludus Magnus Americus and he had this woman train me so I could stand up for myself.

Allison tilts her head to one side and I look to see if her brains will spill out, because there doesn’t appear to be much holding them in place now.

—Go on.

—Truman gave me this safety-orange tunic, and a fiberglass shield about half my height. Then he matched me up with a wooden sword and shield from the equipment racks. There was a young trainer named Leona who worked there.

—You’re scaring me.

I didn’t say that Leona had a tattoo of Nero on one arm.

—Leona set up a dummy for me.

In its first incarnation, early in the sport, the Glad dummy was a scarecrow to the slaughter. Just a couple of crossed wooden poles held together by leather straps, a shirt, and sometimes a hat stuck on top, to indicate the approximate location of the head. Later it looked more like a seamstress’s form with chest armor and helmet. But I had the current generation, like a padded crash test model with all the gear. It had mechanical arms that flailed about to mimic some kind of crazed in-battle motion. Once Leona had set it up, she and Truman gave me a few basic instructions.

Then a bell sounded.

This particular dummy needed work. It sounded like a cat in heat each time it raised its left arm. And maybe eliminating this sound was on my mind more than anything when I went after it. And maybe, I mean it’s even possible, I saw myself doing battle with the girls at school who had signed me up for this whole business. But mainly I wanted to try and do a quick, neat job and avoid embarrassing myself in front of the attendants who had all pretty much stopped their work to watch the gladiator’s daughter. 
Stab, don’t slice, and get out, 
I thought. I knew about joints, I knew about weak spots. I brought my sword down hard enough to knock the right arm out of its socket. I watched it fly a good fifteen feet as the crew cheered. I delivered a second blow and the left arm flew.

Leona slapped her six-pack abs, and told me to go for the gut—the one area that’s never protected. Then she reattached the dummy’s arms and repadded the chest. She turned the speed up a little, adjusting several controls. I wasn’t a pacifist then as I am now, and I meant that innocent dummy no harm, but when the bell rang again, I suddenly had the whole crazy life up on the register, all the things kids had said to me about being the daughter of savages. I don’t tell any of this to my mother, of course.

—The weird thing is, I turned out to be really good at it, I say.

—Good at fighting a dummy?

—Yes, I was.

With the short sword, I peeled back the dummy’s shield and went up under the ribs and into the heart, which popped out of its chest like a biscuit flying off a Teflon pan. The trainees who watched joked around, some gave me kudos. I felt a heat gather in my bones. A bead of sweat ran down the outside corner of one eye. Taking over, Truman said I should try the net and trident this time. Something Mouse hadn’t taught me, and I thought: Good, I’ll make a complete clown out of myself. Then Truman will be happy to head for the car, and we’ll be done.

But once I took a stance, I felt the weight of the chain in my hands, the balance of the trident. I whipped the net out, like snapping a dishtowel, and in one shot I detached the chest armor. Then I plunged the trident into the guts.

Of course I don’t burden Allison with these details either.

—There is such a thing as beginner’s luck, she says.

That’s what Truman claimed all the way home in the car. He had the kind of bruise that settles into the ego.

—But what if it’s hardwired in my circuits? I’ve actually thought about that sometimes, I say.

—Are you thinking of becoming a 
regular 
gladiator or a 
nonviolent 
gladiator?

—I’m thinking I didn’t ask for any of this.

CHAPTER 12

She smooths out the wrinkles in her skirt and goes over to the large aching desk. We have lived in this house for ten years, and I have never seen her use this desk, not once.

She sits in the swivel chair. —I probably shouldn’t tell you this so soon, but we’ve pretty much lost everything.

Now she shows me the face I’m helpless to defend against. Oftentimes that face cycles through and the enormity of her situation hits and then I see the trapped person, the woman who is starting to go mad from anxiety for herself and her kids. For all the stuff we go through, Allison and I have always been tight and quick to anticipate each other’s moves. At one point we did everything together. The distance between us was like a one-second filmstrip, so brief you couldn’t replay it or the machine might jam. And though I could rail on her for all of her stupid choices—and God knows I’ve done that more than once—I heard the master-bedroom arguments when each one of the fathers, except Tommy, accused her of putting Thad and me first.

So I want to say, okay, well, go a little mad. Just don’t go too mad.

A couple of times she’s had what you could call 
faux deaths. 
They’re faux because she always makes sure she’s rescued in time. She has checked herself into a hotel or used a friend’s house to get into this ritual kind of death. I didn’t know most of this until Tommy filled me in about a year ago. And he didn’t realize I didn’t know and then he felt horrible for bringing it up. Allison often puts such a good face on things. I had no idea she had thought about leaving this world.

—We’ve got the books—we can sell them as a collection, I say, looking around the library shelves. —And we don’t really need all this furniture.

She starts as if I’d said she didn’t need her children.

—The helmets alone would bring in enough to support us for a year, and I’m going to be working...

—Take a breath, dear, she says, which is her way of saying 
STOP
. Looking me straight in the eyes now she pulls a hand-delivered letter out of the top desk drawer. She hands me the sheet of official Caesar’s Inc. letterhead.

—Read it aloud, she says.

—”In celebration of your new life.” What does 
that 
mean?

—Go on, she says.

—”In celebration of your new life, we’re lighting all the candles and making plenty of wishes.” Someone seriously wrote this?

—It gets better.

—”You, Allison G., noble widow of seven gladiators, six fully meritorious, are the first woman in recorded GSA history to achieve the status of 
Uxor Totus
”?

—
Uxor
, wife. 
Totus, 
complete. Finished. A finished wife, she says.

—”We hope you will seize the many opportunities ahead to support Caesar’s Inc. and our mission of offering assistance to GSA Wives and Widows worldwide.” Blah, blah, blah. A donation envelope? They want a 
donation
? These are their condolences?

We are both aware that Caesar’s Inc. has gone through dramatic changes over the last couple of years. It began with a hostile takeover, then two hundred administrators and thirteen hundred arena workers lost their jobs. There were times when Tommy lost heart over some of the new requirements—they suddenly had him fighting three extra fights than originally agreed to—otherwise he would have been out six months ago. I know he felt superstitious about the whole thing, and even called it a bad omen. He said they were acting like the military in wartime, only he wasn’t a soldier. He talked about going underground, and considered the idea of fleeing the country. Allison was the one who kept faith, who convinced him to hang in, to work out his contract and be done. One thing they shared in common was the dream of what life would be like when he had wrapped things up with Caesar’s. 
Viva la vida. 
They would have the house, the yard, there were trips to plan, possibly a full-time assistant for Thad. They talked of building an apartment for me over the garage.

I’m about to express my rage at Caesar’s when she hands me a second letter.

We’ve lost the house.

She has been hit with a new bylaw. A lobotomy of a bylaw.

low, low these bylaws
.

It has to do with Allison being a GSAW landowner. Caesar’s handled the loan and now they’re saying her down payment has been revoked and she’s defaulted on her loan. 
Out of their generosity and compassion, 
Caesar’s Inc. is granting us a full
90 days 
to find shelter. 
AND 
they encourage her to get a small tattoo in a discreet portion of her body—which probably means just above her C-section scar—with the words 
Uxor Totus 
in bold colors.

On top of this, we have lost all of the furnishings—something about their being purchased with the intention of enhancing the value of the house; the china and silver—this to offset certain auditor expenses; the entire collection of gladiator books, which will aid in establishing a staff to manage the distribution of the contents of the home, including her ceremonial gowns, and yes, all the helmets and weapons, the heavy and light trophies, the new and antique shields. Even Thad’s anime collection and the tiny milk cans that are loaded and unloaded on the Lionel system. No mention is made of her jewelry—a glaring oversight—though she only has the one necklace of any value: the emerald. In this same letter is a notice of increase to her insurance rates, including but not limited to: health, life, disability, and something unique to Glad culture: divorce insurance. And then this, in bold, at the bottom of the letter: 
You have our every assurance, that once Lyn G. agrees to marry Uber, as stipulated in the GSA Bylaws, we would be able to restore said properties...

If ever there were a moment to neatly and cleanly lose one’s head this would be it. I have to say something to her and I don’t know where to start. But the front doorbell rings suddenly and Allison touches my face and seems to brighten.

—Hold on a minute, Kitten.

She walks into the foyer, her heels clicking purposefully on the wood floor. I decide I’d better follow her.

—You’re letting the reporters in? I call.

When she turns round I already know what she’s going to say.

—I expect you to be dignified for Tommy’s sake.

Then she pulls the front door open.

UBER 
has come to call.

CHAPTER 13

I glare at Allison.

UBER 
stands on the other side of the threshold with the media at his heels. They hurl questions. Camera lights pelt me, soak my skin.

I’m reminded of just how tall Uber is, and wide as a freezer unit through the chest and shoulders, the man I hate. He smiles dumbly at me. In the crook of his right arm he cradles two dozen black and blue roses and a new Lionel car for Thad. Laced in his fingers are the handles of a Virgin Records bag.

Though he is standing just three feet away, Allison calls, —Come in, Uber. You are welcome.

Allison’s pretty good at doing an Imperial Rome impression. She has a way of throwing her voice so the last meager reporter on the sidewalk can hear. But at the moment they’re all in a crush, pushing toward the door, shouting questions.

—
How do you feel about Lyn marrying Uber?

—
Will they live here with you?

All Allison will give them is a pale smile until she’s ready for the full interview. She looks at Uber and asks him to help with the door. He hands Allison his Virgin bag.

—
Lyn, Lyn, what do you think of Uber?

—
Any honeymoon plans yet?

—
Allison! What would Tommy say about this alliance?

There’s some kind of commotion in the crowd, though I can’t really see what’s going on from my angle, and the media rush the door hard now. Uber draws a switchblade from his pocket. The roses still tucked under his arm appear to bloom from his chest though not as perfectly as they did with that actress in 
American Beauty
. When he touches the button his blade telescopes into a sword—you can buy these knives everywhere in Tokyo now—and the paparazzi love this gesture. They try harder to blind him with their flash equipment as Uber pushes against the door to shut it. He has it nearly closed only to realize a man’s hand is pinned between the door and the jamb. The guy screams, —
I LOVE YOU, LYN! 
and Uber, putting his sword up, opens the door wide enough to push the guy in the chest, sending him back against the photographers. A roar of laughter rises as Uber bolts the door.

—They’re pretty bold today, Allison says. —Come the back way next time.

—Next time? I ask.

They turn to look at me but no one says anything. Allison coughs politely. Uber weaves around the buckets of hyacinths and gladiolas, the vases overcrowded with bird of paradise and mums, in order to stand near me.

—We’ve been a little overwhelmed with tributes, Allison says.

—Of course, Uber says.

—Of course? I say.

—I spoke out of turn, he says, looking toward the rug.

He begins to hand the roses to me, perhaps to put things on better footing. But seeing my reaction, he looks confused or guilty or both, and lays them in Allison’s arms. She rocks back on one heel from this small attention and thanks him.

Uber is wearing traditional courting clothes, which look like a tuxedo with vertical razor cuts down the length of the jacket and matching tunic, and sandals that lace up to his knees. I guess he always has a slight imprint of his helmet on his face. Either that or he got up early to work out in full gear. I look at the slices Tommy made in his legs, each one about an inch apart. Like ladders they travel up Uber’s calves and thighs, and I hope the sandal straps are rubbing the man raw.