Girl in the Arena (24 page)

—The train is more suitable, Julie says, —for a woman of your rank.

—I don’t think I have a rank now.

—But you’re Allison’s daughter, she says.

She tries to pull me into her arms, but I slip free and say, —I’m all right. Really, I’m just fine.

Then I clear my throat and blow my nose and get on with the work at hand.

Lloyd gives Julie a signal so she’ll leave me be. And pretty soon they’re hustling Thad into their Suburban to take him over to their apartment so I can pack my bag. I hug him and kiss him lightly on the cheek. It chokes me up to see his face, the raised and waving hand, Julie’s arm around him in the backseat.

—Give my love to Tommy! Thad calls out.

I’m a little winded by this, much as I understand his confusions.

—I’ll be back soon! I say.

Julie shouts, —We’ve ordered the Funamation station on cable! He’ll have total anime access. Call us when you get there!

As soon as the van’s out of sight, I go back into the house and up to my desk. I dig out that scrap of paper Tommy gave me the day before he died.

LeRoy Gastonguay

New York, New York

If you’re ever in a bad strait, this is the guy.

I tuck his number into my wallet and quickly pack a small duffel.

*

The train is weirdly empty—there were only six other people in my car when I got on at South Station, only a few more now. I have four seats to myself with a table, and I watch the snacks I purchased as they vibrate and move slightly across its surface. Maybe it’s this part of Connecticut, the way the boats shift in the water, the rundown industrial buildings, the over-amped sky, but I pity everything that streams by.

And then I remember the unspoken bylaw: 
Learn how to be an orphan if you’re young; learn how to breed an orphan if you’re of age.

Maybe Caesar’s thinks I’m at that perfect time of life when I can do both at once. Because surely, if they convinced me to marry Uber, they would nudge us to have a child—offering handsome cash incentives, the way they do. We could produce a Super Uber, or in celebrity-magazine parlance, the child of 
Luber
—how horrible would that be? And clearly no one can question my status as an orphan, though I keep thinking Allison is going to pull back the train-car door and drop down in the seat across from me, and start giving me advice on how to talk with Caesar’s.

I lean my head against the window, and see her face streaming across the blurred landscape. She’s the sliver by my side now: the braid of long hair, part of an eyebrow, half an eye, the confused part in her hair. She can’t move fully into the frame anymore or shift completely out of it.

I pull my raincoat up over my head and summon my discipline to be completely still as I cry, not making a sound.

I knew she was unhappy, but I can’t understand why she took her life that night, that particular night. I went out with Uber. I did everything she wanted. Maybe if I could bring myself to read her suicide notes. Someday I’ll be able to do that, I guess.

*

When I jerk awake there’s too much light pouring in from the windows and I realize we’re twenty minutes outside Penn Station, my raincoat down around the floor. I pack up my things and wash up in the bathroom, where I apply a fine layer of makeup. It’s essential that I make a good impression. I’m not a suit person and I don’t want to go insane here, so I’ve settled on unripped jeans, a clean T-shirt, a short jacket, and my best sandals. I run a hand over the quarter inch of hair on my head and look at the stitches in the back using my hand mirror. Though I appreciate her needlework, I really wish Julie hadn’t gotten carried away.

After the train gets in I decide to walk for a while, worried that someone in the crowd at the Penn taxi line will recognize me despite my sunglasses and hat. When I do flag a cab down, I tell the driver he should go AROUND Times Square, NOT THROUGH IT, but it’s possible he doesn’t hear me over the blaring radio that’s trapped between two stations—maybe it’s Senegalese and the traffic report listing places to avoid like Times Square—and now here we are right in the heart of it, gridlocked in midafternoon.

I pay the driver and pry myself out of the cab. You can’t fight everything—even if you feel stalled out, crushed or pick-pocketed, and inundated with bad souvenirs. So I start to look around at the neon, the videos, and think: okay, my heart belongs to 
Blade Runner. 
But when I turn all the way around, I’m looking at a sixteen-story filmic projection of...
UBER.

His muscles giant-sized, baby smooth, highly moisturized, ready for action. Yet the poor guy looks miserable. He’s a thousand feet tall, looking right at me. And I find myself engaged in a mute conversation with him, listening to the cadence of his voice, listening to my own voice as I apologize for what I’m about to do to him. Because everything has changed, now that Allison’s gone.

I start jostling people and nudging and shoving until I twist my way out of the square. Then, as I brush past a group of young preppy teenagers, they start shooting me with their phones.

They don’t say anything, certainly don’t ask permission, just keep laughing and shooting. Once I turn the corner onto Fifth Avenue, I start running and they start running after me, and they’re still taking my picture, and I can imagine the captions, depending on the rag:

Lyn Flees Marriage 
or 
Glad Girl Mad with Grief in NYC 
or 
How Lyn Keeps So Slim.

Then I stop long enough to say, —Look, I’ve just lost my mother and you should go figure out something else to do.

But they probably just switch to video mode and I have to keep running.

For blocks the duffel hammers against one hip until I shift it so it hits the other, and eventually I’m looking up at the Flatiron Building, sore and breathing hard, and I just have to stop and put my hands on my knees, looking for air. When I turn back, I see they’ve finally dropped off. I grab another taxi and head over to NoHo and the driver lets me out in front of this Revivalist building where Caesar’s Inc. is located, and it’s all kind of weird because it looks, except for its particular architecture, more or less like any other building in New York, and I don’t know what I expected—a statue of Caligula out front?

I enter the doormanless entry and note that the whole operation takes up four floors, starting on the tenth. I take the elevator. The reception area for the Caesar’s suites is all about gold and black walls and busts of rulers past: Pompey, Julius Caesar, Augustus... . I want to jump over the desk and move their heads about on their pedestals to put them in proper sequence, but I know that’s my obsession with history, and Caesar’s is strictly about business, not allegiances.

I look at the woman on the phone in her trim summer dress and tiny sweater, her head shaved more or less like mine. She’s busy, busy talking, and she barely looks up at me, and she’s chattering away, maybe talking with a friend, something about the new Glad Club Med down in the Bahamas, when she suddenly gets it, gets me. That I’m there, not some stream on YouTube.

—Wow, she says, leaping to her feet.

—I’m here to see Mr. Gastonguay.

She starts to tell me how much she loves my hair, then catches herself and asks me to wait right there and walks down the hall at a clip in six-inch erroneously called gladiator heels—it’s amazing to watch the angle of her. She ducks into a large black door and I walk around an odd assortment of almost Roman chairs—no one ever gets the shape right—and trim leather couches and on the tables small crops of grass, which I nervously run my hands over and back.

—Right this way, she says, suddenly looming into view again.

As I follow her down a long hall, hoisting my duffel, I realize that she has a 
T 
tattooed in the back of her head as well, and I want to say something. But what do you say other than 
I think you’re out of your mind
? I do have to wonder if this is getting her in trouble around the office, now that Tommy’s reputation has been so eliminated—or if this is somehow cool because this is how I’m branded, and I am a unique entity now, not my fathers’ daughter, not my mother’s child.

We go past a long row of offices and cubicles, windows and water coolers, the sounds of corporate work, people churning away at unknown tasks, and I’m glad that this is not my life. 
So glad.

Mr. Gastonguay has one of the larger offices with an impressive view of the neighborhood. He is a short, slender man with a thick head of hair, I’d guess early thirties. As he springs from his chair behind his desk he rushes over to shake my hand, and I realize he’s bowlegged.

—I was so sorry to hear about your mother, he says.

Then the receptionist distracts us with beverages while he offers me a seat on the couch. He takes a chair across from me.

—Your father and I lived in the same neighborhood growing up. There was no one like Tommy. He was a standout from the beginning. Really the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet.

When I realize I’m rubbing my wrist back and forth where my dowry bracelet used to be, I stop.

—But you know this more than anyone. And you’ve come all the way from Boston. How can I be of help?

—Well, Mr. Gastonguay...

—Please call me LeRoy.

—I’m aware that Caesar’s is banking on a marriage... LeRoy.

—Should I offer my congratulations? he asks.

His attitude seems more about genuine curiosity than the promotion of a concept.

—He didn’t realize he was picking up 
my 
bracelet, though I get the rule. But you should know I have no plans of marrying him, or anyone else for that matter—not now or in the immediate future.

LeRoy seems to take this in slowly. He pushes his lower lip out, nods his head up and down.

—I’m sure you’ve given this a good deal of thought, he says.

—But I 
will 
fight him.

He suddenly lists in his chair, as if he’s about to pitchpole.

—What? he says softly.

—Uber. I’m willing to fight Uber. I’m aware that a marriage could be a large moneymaker for Caesar’s, but...

—Go back to the beginning.

—When I fight Uber, when the daughter of seven gladiators steps into the arena, I say, sitting up straighter now. —I will be there to gain my freedom. I will be there to help my brother, Thad; to win back my family home; to retain our possessions. I will be fighting for all of this and a guaranteed tax-free award of three million dollars from Caesar’s, with no future contractual obligations.

—You’re serious, aren’t you? He almost laughs.

—Can you imagine what you’re going to be able to charge for a one-minute advertising spot on your station during our match if we fight to the death?

I start to rifle through the papers in my duffel.

—I will do a month of promotion leading up to the match, of course, including TV, radio, print, and blog, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my training schedule.

I give him some credit that he isn’t already on the phone to someone, either to push the idea or have me carted from the building.

—Do you think Tommy would want you to put yourself in that kind of jeopardy? I know with my own fifteen-year-old daughter...

—If I survive, Caesar’s pays out directly to me, immediately upon leaving the match. If I die, the payment will go to my brother’s estate within twenty-four hours. I’ll have an account set up in advance to take care of that possibility.

—Uber grew up fighting trained gladiators. The 
best 
trained gladiators. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.

—I’ve been training for a while now, and I’m willing to take the risk.

I don’t tell him it’s only been a couple of months.

—I know Uber’s weak spots, I say. —And I think Tommy would want me to take care of Thad in any way I see fit. He was very concerned about Thad before he went into his last match.

—You’ve been training?

—If you have a sword lying around, I’d be happy to demonstrate.

—Ah, no, he says. —That won’t be necessary.

—Then I’ll leave a DVD.

I dig this from my duffel and hand over a twenty-minute training session I did last week. LeRoy takes this and locks it in his top desk drawer. Then he goes over to one of his large picture windows, so I’m looking at only one side of him as he thinks things over. Maybe we’re both aware that this could mean a significant promotion for him.

—But if you lose, what about Thad? he asks.

—Lloyd, the head of the Ludus Magnus Americus...

—I know Lloyd and his wife, Julie.

—They’ll take care of him.

I pull out the document I’ve spent the last week creating, going through my fathers’ old contracts, borrowing legalese with impunity. I even had it vetted by the family attorney, though he was opposed to the idea, and angrily said there would be no charge when he handed it back to me with his corrections.

—I’m going to sign and date these, I say, putting three copies of the contract squarely on the coffee table, accepting the pen he reluctantly pulls from his suit jacket.

—The contract is nonnegotiable. If Caesar’s won’t sign the contract in this exact form, my brother and I will essentially disappear. As you know, I’m not under any contractual agreement at this point since I am now of age and haven’t married into the GSA, and have no living parents in the GSA. The rules no longer apply to me. If Caesar’s decides to sign, I’ll need a copy right away. You can send it by courier to the house.

He takes one of the framed photos lining his desk and hands it to me.

—My oldest daughter, Alesha.

Alesha has a pretty tennis look, her teeth whalebone white (whoever started that trend?—and why don’t we go for blue teeth, crimson, emerald green?—it’s like the days when all linens were white, all underwear), each strand of her hair in place. A girl who has arrived, I guess. I have no idea who Mr. Gastonguay is, really, but I have Tommy’s endorsement. I imagine he’s trying to convey... a fatherly concern.

—She married a Glad just last year. They’re expecting their first child in the fall. The thing is, Lyn, you would be a rich woman if you married Uber. You could hire a full-time caregiver to help with your brother. Have you considered making it easy on yourself?