by Lise Haines
—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 full90 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 papara
zzi 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.
I realize he and I look like members of a wedding. I unwind the train of my dress from around my ankles where it’s bunched again, and take the flowers from Allison’s arms and arrange them in a vase. It’s a lot easier than making small talk or eye contact. She asks Uber to head into the living room, and she says she’ll be right there. Then Allison leans into me and says, —Nothing to worry about, if you were thinking he might be married. He’s not. And he only just turned twenty.
—Look at my face. Do you see any worry here about Uber’s marital status?
—We’re going to get on the other side of this, she says vaguely.
Seeming to think this over, she adds, —I think less cynicism would help to get us there faster.
I tell her, —My bad.
But she has already headed back into the living room and I’m not sure if she even heard me. Much as I want to go upstairs and crawl into bed, I know Allison would get too upset. When the flowers are in place, I stand by the entry and watch the show. The front blinds are drawn but the soft couches and chairs catch the light from the backyard garden. Allison appears to be engaged in a quiet domestic scene. The video camera is on a tripod by the piano. I can’t believe she’s decided to record this meeting. So we are here in the living room and we are there, on the fifty-seven-inch plasma TV, each moment absurdly captured. Allison looks keyed up, hyper.
Uber takes the pair of glasses with those thick lenses out of his pocket and his eyes shrink. He seems to recognize us anew.
—It was kind of you to let me come, Uber begins.
He actually seems happy to be here. I hope he knows I’m not.
I see a signal slip between Uber and Allison now that floats in luminous code across the living room. Though I can’t decipher all of it, I know today’s meeting was arranged while I concussed at Julie’s house. Whether she abhors the man or not, Allison has arrived at a new plateau of survival where all might be forgiven, not just in time but quickly if this will shore us up.
When Allison catches me loitering just outside the living room, she motions for me to come and join them.
—I asked to fight someone else. I don’t know if they told you, Uber is saying.
I watch as she guides him to a chair, where he sinks lower than I remember Tommy sinking. Of course Tommy knew that chair and mostly avoided it. Allison has returned the Virgin bag to Uber and now he sets it on the coffee table with particular care. He looks at me, perhaps waiting for something. A reaction? Should I have one? My fourth father, Truman, used to play a game where he’d place an object like a watch or a toy rolling pin in a plain paper bag and ask me to guess the contents by feeling the outside of the bag. It drove him crazy that I would stare at him blankly, unwilling to play. Now I have this dreadful feeling that Tommy’s hand could be inside the bag.
I look at my bracelet sitting on Uber’s wrist.
—Because you were afraid? I ask.
—I don’t think that Uber… Allison starts but I interrupt.
—You didn’t want to fight Tommy because you were afraid? I ask again.
—We certainly understand the requirements of the GSA, Allison tells Uber, hoping to put an end to my bad behavior. —Though this doesn’t quell our loss, she concludes.
Uber looks a little uncertain about where to go from here, as if he’s forgotten if his brain is right-or left-footed. Maybe he doesn’t know the word quell.
—Tommy was the reason I got started in Glad sport, he says earnestly.
—I wouldn’t tell the paparazzi that. They already think you’re stupid enough, I say.
Allison jumps to her feet. —Lyn!
—It’s okay, he says. —Really, it’s okay.
Allison takes her seat again, slowly, giving me a solid warning look.
When I first learned that Tommy was fighting Uber, I made a point of not reading up on him. It’s easier to be detached that way. But this morning Mark and I sat for an hour or more poring over everything we could get on the guy. Words that came up frequently: idealistic, gullible, ardent. One reviewer said: perhaps a little stupid around the edges. There’s always some romanticism in the way that gladiators are written about.
He looks up now and sees himself on our TV screen. I’m aware of the intense effort this man puts into building his physique. He’s changed little since I saw him in the locker room, though maybe his expression has softened some. I wonder how much this is about living up to Caesar’s expectations, now that they’re interfering in everyone’s personal lives. He looks at me there on the screen. I never get why people think they can stare at you on a monitor when they quickly break their gaze if they’re looking directly at you.
Last time Allison recorded me like this I had blue streaks in my hair that she couldn’t stand. God help her if she ever sees me on Second Life. I have wings there, a short lace-up top, leggings, something like a gladiator skirt, bunny slippers, and a spear through my chest. I know she would question me about the spear ad nauseum, thinking it means something. I have makeup streaming down my face. But the wings, I spent a lot of time on those. The delicate work made me think of building a cathedral. I could feel kind of silly but everyone does stuff like that in virtual reality.
—The new GSA rules are making things pretty tough, he says, trying to shift the conversation.
—There are ways around rules, I say. —Are you sure you want the camera on? I ask my mother.
—We can erase it later, Allison says.
—Isn’t that what Nixon said? I ask.
Uber looks like he doesn’t know whether it’s okay to laugh or not, and coughs into his hand in a choking kind of way. At least he’s aware of history. Allison excuses us and guides me into the foyer, one hand tight around my arm.
—Lyn, please. Tommy…
—Tommy wouldn’t have let him in the house.
—You’re wrong. Tommy would have done whatever was required.
—Whatever you required, I mumble but I guess it’s loud enough for her to hear.
—You’re wearing me thin. Just get to know him a little.
—I’m supposed to sit here and listen to him talk about how much he loved Tommy?
—As soon as he’s gone I’ll take Thad to the park so you can rest.
—You get that there’s no way I’m marrying this guy, right?
Then I follow Allison back to the living room a
nd take a seat on the piano bench, at the opposite end of the room from Uber, so I’m just past the point where the camera can record me. Allison has popped the piano lid for dramatic effect today. I often wonder why we have a grand piano when no one plays it, though sometimes Thad sits on the bench and goes into a state some might call improvisation. I begin to think Uber is an improvisation of Allison’s.
—I’ll get some refreshments, Allison says, looking terrifically awkward as she heads toward the kitchen.
When I get up, Uber says, —I brought something for you.
He reaches for the bag.
—No thanks, I say.
Uber swallows that large nut in his throat. We sit without talking for what seems like five minutes.
—A friend of mine deals in antiquities, he says, and holds the bag out to me.
—Roman, probably, I say.
—Yes. Your mother told me…
Allison pops her head around the entrance with a tray full of ice cream treats in small dishes.
—Uber? I have vanilla and chocolate.
—Actually, nothing for me right now, he says. —Maybe later?
She looks pleased with this response. I guess because it implies he’ll be around for a while.
—Lyn?
I shake my head.
—I’m going up to check on your brother, she says.
Uber remembers the train car and jumps up and hands it to Allison, who says, —Thad will be delighted.
I watch her ascend the staircase with the tray, the train car rolling back and forth between the dishes.
Uber removes a leather case from the bag. Unlatching the clasp, he lifts the lid. There’s a crown of thorns cushioned in velvet. I don’t want to show too much interest but I do move a few feet in his direction. Most of the thorns have been broken off on the outside, and wire has been laced through to hold it together. As I get closer, I see that there are marks that might be insect damage, certainly moisture has taken its toll. It’s quite beautiful, though I doubt anything like this could hold up that long. Tommy would have liked it. He collected birds’ nests as a boy.