Girl in the Arena

by Lise Haines

  She gets up and pulls the trundle out now. When Thad slides down onto the little bed, he has those big eyes going and I know he might be in this expressive state—staring at me—for hours. She kisses him several times in that gentle way he likes, and she says good night.

  When Allison’s heels recede down the hall, I tune in to the sounds of the media outside. They call my name in the thick summer air like a pack of cicadas, asking me questions, asking me what I’m going to do.

  *

  When I think about what I’m going to do, it’s hard not to think about the way she did things. Of course Allison had no idea what she was getting into when she met my first father, Frank. That was before the GSA existed. Frank was a podiatrist who had the respect of his community and a strong desire to find a second wife, as his first had died young of a malignant tumor. And Allison was a new patient with a deeply embedded ingrown toenail. He was, it turned out, the head of his local GSE chapter, something Allison found out several months after they married, when I was well on my way. There was a large collection of booties and onesies stacked in my nursery, waiting, when he sprung this on her. I think her fear of being a single parent allowed her to accept the news of his secret life with anguished calm.

  Frank went out on a Thursday night to Glad—that loose transitive verb that never adequately describes those first bloody competitions—and his body was found that Friday morning outside the local cemetery, as if his spirit had walked for some distance and had waited for the morning guard to come along for a proper burial. Someone must have dumped him there the way people will take a dog and throw it out of their cars by the side of the road, expecting whoever lives nearby to take it in.

  A week later a man and woman showed up at my mother’s door. No doubt I was clutched in her arms, pulling hard at her hair. She thought they were missionaries and intended to send them away, then FBI agents when they showed her Frank’s photograph. But they were official GSE comforters. The woman had lost her own spouse to the competitions, and she explained that the other families had put money into a helmet for Allison.

  Reluctantly, Allison let the man and woman in and fed them cherry coffee cake—one of Frank’s favorite boxed recipes—and listened to what they had to say. They showed her a short soundless film of her husband dressed in a homemade outfit, which made him look like a field-hockey gladiator. Then they presented her with an envelope full of cash. Mouse, the male half of the comforters, had only been in the sport six months. He had a compassionate disposition, spoke to her tenderly, and before he left he asked if he might stop by again, unofficially. He always arrived with armloads of groceries, bags of disposable diapers, hammer and nails to make any household repairs Allison could use, and a level of tenderness she had a hard time resisting.

  When Allison married Mouse, of course, there was no secret about his activities. Shortly after their honeymoon in Atlanta, he was sent to the Boston area to start a new branch, and Allison, not one to tolerate being alone for more than a few hours, accepted his love and a copy of the gladiator laws and bylaws. The organization was changing, and she was asked to sign a paper saying she understood her commitment to her second husband and his society, which she confessed to me she never even read. Then she settled into a life, taking me to see the Swan Boats on Sunday afternoons, the Freedom Trail, the Charles River, in every way attempting to express normalcy and optimism.

  CHAPTER 17

  Thad’s snoring cracks the air, and I give him a little nudge and he rolls over and quiets. Then his legs push against the covers of the trundle as if he’s running down the street. He never leaves the house without one of us so I’m curious to know where he’s headed. I think about that often, where I’d go if I were Thad and had my freedom.

  My guess is he’ll become a professional psychic one day. I don’t mean the kind that keeps a crystal ball in the front window of a shop or burns your credit card with generalized sympathy over the phone, but the real thing, an oracle. That’s what I picture every time Thad tells me about being this famous person he imagines himself to be—that he’ll have his own following. His hedge-fund clients will make great killings off his predictions, and God knows how many romantic liaisons and births and deaths he’ll spawn by opening his mouth.

  Of course the thing that kept me up all night was trying to figure out how I’m going to make a killing now without losing my head.

  It’s five a.m. and I place one of my old stuffed animals next to Thad in case he wakes early. Putting on my robe, I move around the ladders of light along the floor from the half-tilted blinds, then I wash up in the bathroom. I tiptoe past Allison’s room and head downstairs to make coffee and grab a couple of donuts from the freezer. Allison likes to place last bits of food in freezer containers, marking each item with its contents and freeze date. Last night she marked them with little more than: funeral food. Even though the light is burned out, by the look of things we’ll be eating funeral food for a few years. I can barely get the freezer lid closed. Then I realize the lid is no longer ours and other people will plunder our larder, so no worries.

  While I gently nuke a couple of donuts, there’s a tapping at the front door. At first I ignore it, thinking it’s just the paparazzi, but then an envelope appears under the door. I recognize Caesar’s logo in the return address box and peek through the curtains to see a courier heading back to his truck. I put the envelope in my robe pocket and carry the tray out to the yard. Standing in the cool shade, I survey the garden, amazed at Allison’s ability to provide abundant life when she wants to. I look at the number and variety of pansies and violets, and I almost expect to hear them singing like the flowers in the animated Alice in Wonderland.

  I feel that distinct vibration in my feet and that low sound and realize: the pump is running. The pump that keeps the hot tub hot and the warm tub warm. I freak, thinking Tommy is loose again. But when I enter the bathhouse, I find Mark soaking inside. His chin rests on his crossed arms spread out on the rim, his face glowing, eyes closed, legs stretched out behind him.

  —What are you doing? I ask.

  —Wow, I must have nodded off.

  —You came over to soak?

  —My dad thought we should be over here in shifts for a while to keep an eye on things. I got the first shift, of course.

  —And you’re already falling asleep on the job?

  He pushes away from the side. I see the tiger tattoo on his chest and then I realize he’s trunkless and look away.

  —Get in, he teases.

  —Maybe later.

  —Donuts. Look at that. Just what I was dreaming about.

  I put the tray down on a bench and I take a seat. It’s low enough, and the rim of the tub high enough, so all I can see are his head and arms now. This is completely unlike him, this getting up early. I can imagine the scene: Lloyd rousting him for duty, pulling him out of his bed by his feet until he lands squarely on the floor. The pan full of cold water thrown at his face when that doesn’t work. He’s even worse than I am about mornings.

  —You okay? he asks.

  Ever since Tommy’s death Mark has been trying to convey something that he can’t exactly express to me. Mostly it comes out in this kind of vague question.

  —I’m fine, I say and sip my hot coffee.

  —You know, I come with complete mood recognition. I read body language, speech patterns, facial expressions. I can read the heat patterns in your skin, your moisture levels. Your tongue is particularly dry right now. So maybe not entirely fine? I suggest rehydration.

  —Stop, I say, and toss him a donut. —So Allison definitely wants me to marry Uber.

  Mark sticks the donut in his mouth so it’s out of the way, cups his hands together and pushes at the water, causing a small wave to rise over the lip of the tub and spill to the floor, running toward the drain.

  Taking the donut out, he answers, —Like I said, you can’t marry Uber.

  —I know. But I’m not sure what to do yet.

  —Yo
u’ll think of something.

  —I just got a letter from Caesar’s. Shall we see what they’re up to now?

  I take the envelope out of my robe pocket and tear the end off, pulling the letter out.

  —Ah. They want to know how many bridesmaids I want. They recommend eight.

  —Eight is a very harmonizing number.

  —Right. They encourage the color lilac for the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  —Encourage black.

  —There’s an address in Boston where fittings will be held once I send them my list. Blah, blah, blah. They SAY the entire wedding will be shown by satellite television. Oh, you’ll love this. They’re going to cover the pre-wedding activities, including but not limited to, my dressing for the BIG EVENT with my closest girlfriends present.

  —There’s no way you’re doing this.

  —They suggest I buff up a little for the lingerie shots.

  —Discreet cameras tucked artfully in your wedding suite? What the hell has happened to Caesar’s? Even Lloyd—loyal Lloyd, company man—complains about them all the time now.

  —They say, once I launch my wedding plans, I will need a solid base of operations, so… so they’re prepared to help with that.

  —And that would be what?

  —Aka: our home. They can, once I sign on to marry Uber, restore our Brattle Street residence to our full and ongoing use with… six pages of stipulations.

  —They’re trying to turn you into Lady Diana.

  —Pre-or post-crash?

  —Definitely post. Wow, helicopters, he says, and looks up to the skylights.

  Two TV station choppers are visible in the panes of glass now, the noise crowding us. Suddenly Mark stands to his complete height, water streaming off his naked body. He has a beautiful body but I’m not looking until he gets a towel on. I can’t help wonder if they get a clear shot through the skylights. Mark comes over in his towel and sits down on the bench, radiating heat, steam rising off his arms and shoulders.

  —Okay, so maybe I do have an idea. Are you ready for this? I’m thinking I might just petition Caesar’s so I can fight Uber.

  —Are you crazy? he says, his mouth full of chocolate glaze.

  —Look, they’re out for blood one way or another, I say.

  —Try money and publicity.

  —Exactly. Blood, money, and lots of publicity. And what better way to supply all three than to send the daughter of seven gladiators into the arena to win her freedom?

  —So you’re suggesting you die in the arena because… ? he asks.

  It’s not often I see Mark this rattled. He tends to go along, to find paths of least resistance. Maybe he gets that from working on computers. He likes to do twisted things with graphics and programming and that takes a lot of patience, as far as I’m concerned.

  —Not die. I don’t want to die. Uber would go easy on me—he doesn’t want to fight me.

  —I wouldn’t count on that.

  —But I’m Tommy’s daughter and he revered Tommy—I told you that.

  —All that reverence didn’t keep Tommy alive.

  —He was under contract. If Lloyd was still fighting and they asked him to fight his mother, he’d do that.

  —Well… Grandma’s dead. And that’s exactly what you’d be doing with Uber, fighting under contract. But this isn’t… oh, man, you like this guy, don’t you?

  I can feel my skin warm. But I don’t think I should have to explain. The truth is, I feel kind of sorry for Uber. And Mark gets jealous sometimes, I know that. So I decide it’s best to circumnavigate.

  —Maybe all I’d have to do is maim him enough to end the match, I say. —Or ask for one of those timed matches. Ten minutes, no more…

  —Jesus, Lyn. I’ll marry you, I told you that.

  —Thanks for the huge favor.

  —I don’t mean it that way, he says, nudging closer to me, the glaze shining on his lips, his goatee still wet from the bath.

  —I could lose something small. Like a toe. That might be enough for them. We’re just talking toes here. Not major commitments. Not death and dismemberment. No one sacrificing herself on the altar of marriage.

  —Technically, that’s dismemberment.

  —Okay, so he could collect on that. I’ve got ten. I can give one up. And then this whole thing would be over. He only has a fight or two left before retirement.

  —So there’s nothing you want from me? Mark asks.

  I can see he’s stopped joking. His straight hair goes halfway down his neck and it’s dripping water on his shoulders now, like dark icicles melting. Mark’s always been there for me.

  But he’s making me nervous now and I stand up and pace a little. He jumps the moment and stands as well. He grips my upper arms, squeezes a little, like he’s about to kiss me or make some kind of declaration. He’s making overwrought eye contact now—those long lashes of his. I’m straining my neck to watch his face change. I begin to feel like I’m in some weird romance vehicle where all the men wear towels and drip with emotion. I love Mark. I really do. And I do have certain thoughts about him sometimes, but I’d never risk losing him as a friend. You can’t lose everyone. I’m looking at his feet now, water tapping onto his feet. A million hours of friendship shifting into weird silence. Usually, I can talk with Mark about anything. He’s the only one who knows what happened in Rome last year. But I can’t have a conversation about us, not now. He finally lets me go like he’s read everything.

  —I want you and Lloyd to train me on the sly, I say. —To see if I could pull this off. There’s a gutted storefront in Davis Square. It was a dance studio once. Still has mirrors and a bar. Windows taped with newspapers—entry onto the alley. All we’d have to do is get some lights in there.

  —You know Lloyd, he laughs. —He’s always up for shit.

  —So you’re in?

  —As long as you don’t take my nose off. I love my nose.

  —I’ve always said that: you have a great nose. Let’s go inside. I’ll make you a real breakfast.

  CHAPTER 18

  Last year I went to Rome with my family. Goddamn Rome.

  Tommy’s GSA ranking got us into the Colosseum at night, after the public had moved past the vomitorium and left by the gates. The horrible Victor Emmanuel monument lit up in the distance, the ruins, sitting in a café late at night, the airflow against your skin from the Vespas—you had to love Rome.

  They even let us walk around the lowest level of the Colosseum. Flashlights in hand, we entered the grassy walkways of the underground rooms where the exotic animals had once been housed and carefully underfed. I watched Tommy as he moved past the dark cages.

  I began to think about my legion of fathers—the ones before Tommy. I don’t mean I saw their specters. No spirits stepped from behind broken walls to try and set some record straight with me, to confess or apologize about anything, to claim love—it was, after all, their love of the sport that fueled them. These were not, strictly speaking, family men.

  My thoughts moved one and then another around the arena. They had all been in Rome at different times and I gather they had left thirsty and dry eyed from taking it in. I don’t think any of them thought much about being fathers, and probably not a lot about romantic love, except for Mouse—he was crazy about Allison. But most of it was about being neo-Glad in the world’s top league, the constant effort to stay in the game. And Allison was the high-water mark in the world of Glad wives. These guys were strategists, survivalists for as long as they could be. Some people say that’s the way to go: young and strong. But that’s fascism. I don’t want anyone stamping me out early.

  There was one moment, when we were in the uppermost tier of the stadium. Tommy had stopped climbing and surveying and he just leaned against the warm stone and went into something like a trance. We had walked miles that day, but I don’t think it was fatigue. I looked at his jaws as they tensed and relaxed, his gaze far away, and I felt certain he knew what it had been like to be in the arena in an
cient culture. I felt I did. When we finally broke from our mental flight we looked over at each other and smiled, as if to say something. And maybe he looked a little embarrassed after that because he had shown me too much, peeled the tough skin all the way back.

  Of course no one knew what to expect from Thad in Rome. On the plane I heard Allison tell Tommy she thought it was a bad idea to bring him. But Tommy had insisted he come. He was the one who had the most optimism about Thad’s future. Not that he wanted him to be a gladiator—Tommy wasn’t that crazy—but there are GSA jobs that require little training and almost no attention to detail. Water-keepers turn on the sprinklers and sometimes they give the crowd a jolt with the fire hose. Junior Camera Operators have monitoring equipment embedded in their baseball caps and move around the stadium so we get constant chaotic views of the arenas on various Web sites. Lockers lock and unlock the gates and train increasingly in the concept of the lockdown. But a bunch of those solid citizen jobs have been downsized, and there’s no way Thad could handle any of those tasks for even five minutes. I loved Tommy’s faith though, and how he took to Thad from the first.

  We were surprised to find that Thad was quieter, more settled than normal while in Rome. Tommy and Allison bought him a full gladiatorial outfit—and not the plastic and polyester kind, but a beautiful thing in leather. The helmet and sword and shield were of balsa wood and he loved that. Sometimes he said his feet were on fire and he asked for water to cool them off, though we were in Italy in late April, and his feet felt only mildly warm to the touch when I’d help him pull his shoes off. In the outdoor cafés, he would reach underneath the table and pour glasses full of flat water or water with gas (sparkling water) on his sandaled feet.

  For two weeks we didn’t hear a word from Thad about the future until I took him to the Piazza del Popolo, where we found a spot on some steps one afternoon. There he sputtered out predictions to anyone who passed by. A large American woman solidly lodged in a Roma Roma T-shirt cornered him and asked about a variety of friends and relatives of hers and I just didn’t have the heart to pull him away, he seemed so pleased to talk with her. Although there was some variety in his oracular responses—mostly about her family members who worked together in a recycling plant—he kept saying that this friend or that would die at sea. Finally she stopped him, held on to his arm tighter than I know he liked, and said, —We’re taking a cruise ship back to the States and you’ve just… named all of my friends on the ship.