by Neil Gaiman
I asked, “That the chain-link?” “That’s the chain-link.” Daddy licked his lips as he surveyed the deep end. “Check out that grate.”
I dropped to my knees, grabbed the lip of the pool and hopped in, landing on my feet. The grate Dad had seen was a rusty square a half-meter on each side, covering the ancient water filtration system. The metal was so hot from the sun that I recoiled from my first touch, but I swallowed my pain, slipped my fingers through the holes in the mesh, and pulled it loose. It weighed maybe thirty pounds. The drain beneath it narrowed and curved out of sight, marked only by more sand and the skeletal remains of a mouse.
“Nothing hidden there?” Daddy asked. “Nothing,” I said.
It had been worth checking out. There could have been anything in that little well. A knife. A gun. Even a big rock. Any number of possible hidden weapons.
“Better get up here, then.” “All right.” I didn’t replace the grate, but instead used it to scrape the dead bird from the bottom of the pool, and hurl it over the side and into the desert. Not that I’m all that squeamish about having dead things around, but I prefer not to smell them when I don’t have to. After a moment’s further thought, I tossed the grate itself onto the patio, a safe distance from my father. “It’s pretty solid. It probably qualifies as a weapon.”
“It shouldn’t be an issue,” Daddy said. “Neither one of you will have arms free.” “You know. In case.” “Not saying it’s a bad idea, hon. Besides, it’s done.”
I grabbed the edge of the pool with my fingers and climbed back up. The temperature was well over a hundred on the patio, but even that was a relief after the sizzling conditions in the oven down below; my t-shirt was already so saturated with sweat that the cloth had gone transparent over my breasts. I peeled the material off my belly and fanned myself with it, once or twice, just to get some cooler air in there, but it didn’t help.
Daddy kneaded my shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Jen?” “I guess I have to be.”
Wrong answer. “Are you ready for this, Jen?” “Yes. Yes, Daddy, I’m ready.” “You’re not scared?” “Maybe a little.” “Good. It helps to be scared. Fear is a survival trait. I wouldn’t let this go any further if you weren’t scared. But you’re also ready?”
“Yes.” “Are you sure? There’s no room for any doubt here.” “I’m sure. I know why this is important.”
He really was proud of me. That was the main thing, which had carried us through all the years of hard work. He had invested everything he had in me, and I had invested everything in living up to what he wanted. I was still feeling a glow when his hand moved to the side of my head, and tugged at a braid. “What about this? Now or later.”
“Later’s fine,” I said. “We can do it last thing.” “Okey-Dokey,” he said.
A few minutes later Ethan and the Bitch came around, and we set to work on the arena. The chain-link was a high-quality, thick mesh, lighter than it looked but still a bitch to work with at the quantities we needed:. It took all four of us, working in grim concert, more than an hour to unroll it from its resting place over the desert sand, past a section of patio, and over the pool itself, until it covered the basin entirely. Pronouncing the effects good, Ethan then went away and came back with the aluminum braces and steel bolts necessary to secure it against the patio. By the time we had finished lashing it down, our shared mother and father had exhausted themselves and had retreated to their opposing lifeguard stations, eyeing each other over the construction with the resigned air of nations that had always been, and would always be, at war.
By then, of course, I knew that turning down the day of truce had been a good idea, not only because our parents wouldn’t have ever gotten this job finished, but because all this time working with Ethan had provided me an excellent opportunity to gauge his strength, his speed, his endurance, his dexterity, and most of all, his eagerness to begin.
Like me, he was hungry for this.
He might have dreaded it once, but his years of training had, like my own, worn away any of his own dreams and ambitions, and left him eager for nothing but the moment that we’d enter the pool together.
At about four o’clock, the sweat pouring down our bodies in waves, my brother and I used a pair of wire cutters to peel a three-sided flap away from a section over the steps leading to the shallow end. Descending, we explored the territory in the wader’s area on hands and knees, testing the feel of the concrete against our bare skin, determining just how close we could come to standing before chain-link scraped against our backs or the tops of our heads. My smaller size and greater flexibility gave me an advantage here. I could run about in a doubled-over crouch that still gave me several inches of clearance, in places where Ethan could only struggle along in a hunchbacked, half-crippled lurch confined by the low ceiling. That advantage vanished as we both moved on to the Deep End. In the Deep End, where we could both stand fully upright, unimpeded by any low ceiling, the advantage of weight and strength was entirely his own. The gaping hole left by the removal of the grating presented the only equalizer. Either one of us could stumble into that one without warning, if not breaking bones, then at least crippling us long enough to cede advantage to the other.
We circled that hole together, thinking the same thoughts, then parted.
After several minutes of contemplative silence, we addressed each other with our backs against opposite walls.
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. “You do good work.” “Thanks. You too.” “I’m sorry you didn’t want to come with me today. There’s some great rock formations about twenty miles from here. I figured we could do some climbing and have ourselves a little picnic on the summit.”
“That might have been fun,” I allowed. “Yeah.” He kicked at the dust with the toe of one boot. “Would have been nice to have some fun. I don’t even remember what it’s like anymore.”
“Boo fucking hoo.” “Yeah. I guess you know what it’s like.” “And then some.”
He seemed to hoard his next question before letting it go, all in a rush. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask this. Did he ever fuck you?”
“Who?” “The Bastard.”
Even then, it took me a second to figure out who he meant. “You mean, Daddy? Christ, no!”
“Did he ever make you blow him?”
If he didn’t stop this, I was going to break his neck right here and now. “Is that what she told you?”
He relaxed. “Don’t take it the wrong way or anything. I’m just saying, you never know. Not considering the kind of shit he used to do to her.”
“He never did anything to her but take what she dished out.” “According to him.”
If he was trying to anger me, he was doing an awfully good job. “I don’t know what fucked-up stories she told you, but she’s lying. She was the bad one.”
“How do you know?” he countered. “Were you there?”
I thought of all the things Daddy had told me about her, from all the dreams she’d denied him, and all the petty betrayals she’d used to wound him, to all the words she’d used to castrate him. “What about you? Did you ever fuck the Bitch?”
He didn’t object to me calling her that. “She offered once. About four years ago. I was thirteen, and half out of my head from jerking off fourteen times a day. She was already working five nights a week at the Horny Jackal, putting away enough cash for my training, so helping me out too wouldn’t have meant all that much more. When I said I’d rather not, she didn’t push it. Instead she got one of her co-workers to pay me a visit every couple of weeks.”
“Ewww,” I said. “It wasn’t too bad. But then she finally saved enough money to support us out here, and all that stopped.”
“What do you do now?” “Nothing. I think those shots have done something to my balls. I don’t even think about it anymore.” He drew another line in the dirt. “You could just give up, you know. That’s what the rules say. Say you can’t beat me and we won’t have to do this. We can just g
o rock-climbing tomorrow instead of today.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that to Daddy. Unless you want to give up instead?” “Can’t do that,” he said. “Not all by myself. Not and miss the whole point of being born in the first place.”
“Yeah, well.” I shook my head, pushed myself away from the wall, and met him at the pool’s deepest point.
We clasped hands.
He said, “Nice meeting you, Jen.”
I said, “I’m gonna kill you, Ethan.”
Would you believe he looked hurt?
Why did he have to go ahead and make me feel shitty like that?
Daddy and I went back to the cabin so he could shave my head.
I can’t say I wasn’t bothered. I owed my hair a lot. For all too long, sitting in school among soft boys with flabby necks and skinny girls with toothpick wrists, all of whom indulged their pretend adolescent cruelties without assets enabling them to last thirty seconds against a genuine real-world enemy, I’d had to pretend that I didn’t hear the whispers. I heard them pointing out the crewcut and the enlarged jaw and my tree-trunk biceps and the nose flattened by a punch in the years before I’d learned to see an attack coming. Before Daddy relented and let me grow my hair long—always with the understanding that I’d have to cut it again for my match with Ethan—I’d heard them wonder just what the hell was I supposed to be anyway. The long blonde hair helped, as if I wore it right, it placed me within shouting distance of pretty. There’d even been a boy once and sweaty gropings on the couch in his parent’s basement. It had been fun enough, though that had ended, painfully, the one time he put a hand on me without warning. Unfortunately, that incident happened on school property. Daddy had apologized and paid for the Emergency Room visit. I took the one-week suspension knowing that the lesson would not need to be taught again.
The hair was a loss. But I had always known I wouldn’t be wearing it long, around my brother. Long hair was dangerous. It could get in my eyes and blind me at a crucial moment. Maybe I’d have a chance to grow it back and maybe not.
Daddy sat me down on the bed, used a pair of scissors to cut my hair short, the electric shears to reduce what was left to stubble, and a straight razor with medicated shaving cream to make my scalp baby-smooth. By the time he was done the mattress was itchy from liberated blonde. Then, surprising me, he opened up the suitcase and showed me a big floppy white hat.
“For afterward,” he explained. “I think you’ll look pretty in it.”
My eyes welled. I hid it well, batting my eyes at him, in the manner of any Southern belle.
By six we were still so far from sunset that the sky hadn’t even faded to a darker shade of blue. But more than half of the pool bottom was already in long shadow, the other half a surreal fresco of diamond-shapes cast by the fencing. Ethan and I had both consumed our last food and water and both taken our final opportunities for a civilized bathroom break. Daddy had given me my final instructions, which mostly consisted of strategies I already knew: to exhaust Ethan’s wind by keeping him on the move, to retreat to the shallow end whenever I needed a breather myself, to be careful around that gaping hole in the deep end and to lure him into it, if I could. I was kind enough to react to all of these suggestions as if they were new and exciting ideas.
When he was done he gave me yet another hug, told me that I was his special girl, and promised me that things would be different once this was over. He said I could have anything I wanted. He made the mistake of asking me to name the first thing I’d want for myself when we were done, and for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything. My life had never been about anything other than today and the idea of wanting something afterward was so ridiculous that it might have been spoken in another language entirely. When he pressed the point I couldn’t speak the first answer that came to mind, which was that chance to go rock-climbing with Ethan. That was just stupid. By definition, there’d be no Ethan. So I just said, “Maybe we’ll go shopping.”
He kissed me on the forehead and said, “Sure.”
By half past six, Ethan and I were stripped, greased, and in the process of being fitted with our respective hobbles.
Our parents had recognized, while Ethan and I were both still toddlers, that even with equal training he would probably still emerge with a substantial edge in brute strength. That appraisal had turned out to be an accurate one, but Daddy had pointed out that even Ethan wouldn’t be able to end the fight with a single punch, or crushing bear hug, if unable to use his arms. Mom had agreed to taking corrective measures on the single condition that I was prevented from fighting dirty, by which she meant the use of teeth or nails.
Our gags, which buckled tightly around the backs of our shaved heads, were steel bits sheathed in layer of rubber thick enough for us to sink our teeth into. Our arms were cuffed behind our backs and held in place with canvas sheaths laced to the shoulders and fastened around our necks to prevent either one of us from curling into a ball to pass the cuffs under bent legs. The getup was confining, but I’d practiced in it for hours and could still high-kick without losing balance or strangling myself. Nor would it affect my stamina. Just six months ago I’d run the equivalent of a marathon with both arms tightly strapped behind my back.
I hadn’t ever worn the getup against a similarly-hobbled opponent tasked to kill me, but that was all right. By now, this felt far more natural to me than that sun bonnet. Ethan, standing at attention while the Bitch tugged at the laces binding the sheath to his arms, looked like he felt the same way. He even managed to wink at me, though I don’t know just what the hell he thought he was communicating.
Daddy announced that it was a quarter to seven. The sky was definitely a darker shade of blue now. The sunlight was just a thin slice of brighter concrete, beveled with distorted diamond-shapes, on the eastern edge of the pool. The Bitch led Ethan in through the cutaway flap above the Shallow End steps, escorted him all the way to the pool’s deepest point, kissed him on the top of the head, then withdrew. Daddy helped me down the same steps, sat me down in the Shallow End, told me that whatever happened I would always be his daughter and that he would always believe in me no matter what, then abandoned me as Ethan had been abandoned.
Neither one of us could see the other. It was, after all, a kidney-shaped pool, which meant that as long as we stayed at opposite ends we were hidden from one another by the curvature of the walls. Apart, neither one of us would be able to tell how the other was doing. The only way to tell was to risk meeting in the middle.
Above us, Daddy and the Bitch got to work repairing the flap so that neither of us would be able to use it to escape. It wasn’t a fancy patch. They just looped wire through the links, sewing the loose edges together. The two of them worked side by side, not speaking, not deigning to look at each other, but working as a unit just the same. Both their faces seemed shadowed, given the fading brightness of the sky. I wished I could see if Daddy was looking at me, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I didn’t think he was. Sweat stung my eyes and I had to look away.
Not long after that, our parents stood together and tugged at the flap. The fresh seal held. They turned their backs on each other and disappeared from my sky. A few seconds later, Daddy appeared again, this time sitting high on the lifeguard chair on the convex side of the pool. The Bitch took her own position on the lifeguard chair opposite him. I shifted position, got my feet under me, rose to a half-crouch, and waited.
Daddy said, “All right, kids. Make us proud.”
Ethan did not disappoint me.
He was too smart to come at a run. He came around the bend at a fast walk, his eyes dark as he searched for me, half-hoping I’d meet him halfway.
I remained where Daddy had left me, waiting.
Ethan was neither disappointed at my lack of initiative nor contemptuous of my cautious start. He slowed and stopped at the midway point separating the Shallow and Deep ends of the pool. He paced that invisible line between us, his muscles tensing, his shoulders co
rding from what must have been a hideous effort to wrest himself free of the sheath binding his arms. The sheath held, as he’d probably known that it would. He grimaced through his gag, mumbled a word his mouth was not able to properly form, then advanced another step uphill. Another two. His eyes rolled toward the sky, as he felt the space between the top of his head and the wire link narrow to inches. He bent his knees and advanced still further, still testing our battlefield, painfully aware that I would not just allow him to march up and put me out of my misery.
I still didn’t move.
Ethan advanced further. Now he had to crouch—not all the way, not so much he couldn’t keep both eyes firmly focused on me, but enough to unbalance him, enough that he could feel his advantage of height and weight diminishing with every step he took. I could see sweat cutting through the sheen at what would have been his hairline. He paused again, braced himself for the inevitable moment when I charged, and tried to persuade me with a look that hanging back was no good, because he was ready for any attack I could muster.
I didn’t move.
He advanced some more.
I saw his balls. I knew what balls looked like; I’d seen them close up, on that boy whose name I couldn’t even remember. These looked tiny and purple. The steroids had shrunken them to a fraction of their natural size.
Had I been able to talk, I would have mocked him for being a dickless wonder. It might have upset him, made him sloppy.
He took another step, reminding me that it was a waste of time to contemplate strategies I couldn’t use.
Another step.
I faked to the right.
He recognized my move as a feint, and anticipated a move in the other direction. Another fake and I actually went right. A heartbeat before we collided I saw him brace for impact, but he expected me to hit him mid-body, at his center of gravity, where his superior weight allowed him to compensate. So instead I hurled myself at the ground and swept his legs with my own.