Girl in the Arena

by Lise Haines

  *

  A couple of weeks before he died, I was down in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for salad when Tommy walked in. I had just gotten home from work and was starving for something fresh. He pointed out that I was still wearing that dopey paper hat they make us wear.

  After I pulled out the bobby pins and tossed it his way, I realized that Tommy looked pretty keyed up. He had his computer open and he wanted me to see an online encyclopedia page. The subject: the Kali Yuga. He set it down next to the tomatoes to show me.

  —Mark has that game, I think.

  He laughed. —It’s not a game. Yugas are periods of time. See, it says here they’re defined in an ancient astronomical treatise.

  —You’re reading ancient astronomical treatises these days?

  Mostly he liked to read competition magazines and weapons catalogs.

  —No, I just found this in the encyclopedia.

  —You just found it?

  —I’ve decided to read the whole encyclopedia.

  —The good, the bad, and the make-believe?

  —Just expanding my mind a little. So this treatise is how they came up with all the Hindu and Buddhist calendars.

  —O… kay, I said, putting my knife down to give him my full attention. I begin to think this was his second unravel, the first one at that hotel in Rome.

  He explained that the Kali Yuga is one of four stages of development the world goes through, each one lasting about four hundred thousand years.

  —You’re already into the K’s? I asked.

  —I skip around a lot. So it looks like we’re in the Kali Yuga, right now, he said. —The dark age. That’s what they call it, not me.

  —The dark age. Nothing would shock.

  He leaned near my shoulder, eager for me to read the entry aloud so we could talk about it.

  I pushed the finely chopped carrots aside and read to him.

  —Rulers will become unreasonable: they will levy taxes unfairly. Rulers will no longer see it their duty to promote spirituality or to protect their subjects: they will become a danger to the world. Avarice and wrath will be common, men will openly display animosity toward each other. People will have thoughts of murder for no justification, and they will see nothing wrong with that mind-set. Family murders will also occur. People will see those who are helpless as easy targets and remove everything from them. Men with false reputation of learning will teach the Truth and the old will betray the senselessness of the young, and the young will betray the dotage of the old. People will not trust a single person in the world, not even their immediate family. Even husband and wife will find contempt in each other. It is believed that sin will increase exponentially, whilst virtue will fade and cease to flourish. Alongside death and famine being everywhere, men will have lustful thoughts and so will women. People will without reason destroy trees and gardens. There will be no respect for animals, and also meat eating will start. People will become addicted to intoxicating drinks. Men will find their jobs stressful and will go to retreats to escape their work. Teachers will no longer be respected and their students will attempt to injure them.

  —The whole thing’s kind of spooky, isn’t it? I said.

  —Maybe we should stop eating meat.

  —You better talk with Allison, I said. —The freezer is half cow.

  —We could give it away.

  —Before she gets home? I joked.

  He got another knife out of the drawer and began to cut up the tomatoes.

  —Sure, why not? he said earnestly.

  I had this picture of the two of us carrying armloads of wrapped meats out to the sidewalk. Cutlets and ribs, sirloin and rump. Setting up a table and a couple of chairs like a lemonade stand. Handing out everything to passersby. As if we could give away our whole violent culture. Allison would pull up to the house from her shopping trip and scold us fiercely, dying a thousand deaths of humiliation as the neighbors looked on. As he handed a shank to someone, Tommy would try to explain by saying we’re in a bad Yuga.

  —She’s at the store buying pork chops for tonight. You might disorient her, I said.

  Never being one who wanted to disorient Allison, or even trouble her as far as I could tell, Tommy stopped pursuing this line of thinking.

  —You ever wonder if this whole thing, this business… he began.

  —What?

  —Gladiator sport…

  I knew what was coming next. I had seen my fifth father, Larry, go through this—the Vietnam vet. He had had that sudden gaping doubt about what he was doing, about the very nature of Glad sport, Glad culture. I was younger then and probably didn’t understand that he was going through a breakdown. I do remember, however, the way Allison talked him down and kept him going long enough for him to die a flawless death in the arena. I don’t mean she wanted him to die, just the opposite. She was worn out from losing husbands by then. But she always held out hope that they would serve out their time and be released to her.

  —Some people say Uber’s heart is as dark as iron, I said.

  I had no idea really. But I was trying to think of something, some way for Tommy to get his nobility back. Tommy stood there for a long time, his knife poised, slit halfway into a tomato, the juice and seeds on his cutting board and fingers.

  —There’s a lot to consider, he said vaguely, ready to drop the subject.

  He was nervous about the match—I finally got that. This whole business about time, his sudden obsession with civilization, he was trying to distract himself from thinking about the fight with Uber. I got a pencil out of the drawer and after I put a fine point on it, I wrote on the grocery list: Vegetarian foods ONLY for Tommy while in training.

  —We’ll tell Allison your trainer wants you eating this supercharged Indian diet. We’ll buy lots of cilantro and chutney and chickpeas, I said.

  Then he seemed to relax a little and lit up a cigarette.

  —Thanks for getting it, he said.

  I laughed.

  —What? he asked.

  —After your next fight, you and Allison should retreat to Paris. Maybe there’s less Kali Yuga going on in Paris these days. And, I understand they’ve banned smoking in their restaurants.

  Tommy smirked, took a last drag on his cigarette, and put it out. I brought the salad over to the breakfast nook with two smaller bowls. There we could look out at Allison’s orange poppies and white irises. While I shook up the dressing, he asked if I was doing any secret dating, if I had a new boyfriend. He understood that it’s necessary, with Allison, to go underground if the guy isn’t Glad culture.

  I sat down across from him and opened my napkin.

  —Did she ask you to spy?

  —Well… yeah, he said, stabbing a strip of red bell pepper. —But you know she’ll never get anything off me.

  I didn’t want to go into the whole thing about Giancarlo. I said, —I think I just need to be alone for a while. I’m trying to sort some things out, you know?

  —Such as?

  —You really want to hear this?

  —I really do.

  I drizzled dressing over the salad, tossed it, and filled our bowls. Then I sat there so long, my fork in midair, he probably thought I had become a living statue.

  —You’re not going to like it, I said.

  —That’s okay.

  —You know, neo-Glad culture is your life. It’s Allison’s. It’s what you do. And I’d die if I lost the people I love, but I… I think Joe Byers won’t talk to anyone because he can’t live with himself. Or the rest of us, for that matter. And I’d like to be able to live with myself before I get old like him.

  Tommy just nodded, like he got it. Then we both got pretty quiet. I think that’s as far as he could take it—and I honestly don’t think he minded my trying to express the things he couldn’t or wouldn’t.

  A couple of months ago Mark and I saw Hamlet on TV, an old one. And I kept wondering why Hamlet was pushing Ophelia so hard to go mad. And then I realized he had to get
her to hold his madness for him, because as much as he needed to go stark raving lunatic, he had to keep one foot in the game in order to exact revenge. I sometimes wonder who Allison is holding for. But I didn’t say anything about this to Tommy. I might have eventually if he had lived.

  Tommy and I ate our salads and looked out at the garden because it really is a place of tranquility. When we were done, I went upstairs to see what Thad was up to and Tommy and I just kind of went about our day and neither of us brought the subject up again. That was just two weeks before he fought Uber.

  CHAPTER 23

  Benefit matches are held at night and that’s when you see the best advertising. People come just to watch the way the ads glow above the stadium, every fifth image about the contentments of the Glad life. They look more and more like they’ve been ripped off from Marine recruitment ads.

  Uber gets full use of the emperor’s box for a couple of months now that he’s champ. He asked if I’d be willing to use the box tonight in his honor in that overly polite way he has with me. There’s red silk drapery on all sides except the one facing center stage and the couches are Roman style. Grapes—you get those if you tell the waiter that’s what you want—but thank God there’s no one standing around peeling them for you.

  Tonight’s benefit has been promoted as a novelty night, so no one knows what to expect. Neither Mark nor I remember seeing a novelty night before, so we think this is something new Caesar’s has gotten up to. We have seen a dozen stall acts so far and we’ve listened to soft-soap commentary from Glad analysts. Now it’s ten at night and Mark is growing impatient. He’s got his hands up underneath his T-shirt, punching his fists around, looking bored. The tattoos on his arms flex with each jab. I’m aware, though it’s not visible, that he has a tiger on his chest that moves when his pecs move. Of course he doesn’t want to feel used, who does, so I was clear over the phone when I invited him that I was meeting Uber after the match.

  —I can’t tell if you’re going to marry the guy or fight him, he said.

  I knew he was busy gaming as we spoke. Mark is always gaming. I explained that I was going down to New York in a few days, to talk with Caesar’s about setting up the match. Lloyd thought I was ready. Meanwhile, I had to keep Allison on track.

  But Mark didn’t get it.

  —Meeting Uber after a night match is called surrender, not figuring things out. Of course we can always hope he eats it.

  Suddenly Julie’s voice was in the background. Julie is always ready to promote a good Glad alliance and I knew how worried she was about Allison. She was quite verbal about this idea, that a marriage to Uber would get the log out of the saw’s way. So I heard her through the phone when she told Mark to chill. Not a word from Lloyd, who is strictly a corporeal man and stays out of his wife’s pursuits.

  In the emperor’s box now I watch the bloody sand on the arena floor as it’s raked for the next event. Mark and I are each sipping a Fire Eater, a nonalcoholic beverage distributed free to the crowd. It does things to the lining of your stomach if you drink too much, so I always try to stop at slow burn. Mostly it makes you incredibly thirsty so you buy bottles and bottles of water afterward and that’s how the concessionaires make their money, and the stuff’s pretty addictive if you ask me.

  Mark brought his computer so he can be on Second Life between acts. He’s trying to get his alter ego, Cron, into New Rome without getting offed. The place is so well guarded Cron could get incinerated the minute he’s spotted by the guards. Mark wouldn’t mind except it takes days to build a character if you want to get the skin right, the hair, the clothing—especially the boots if you add things like knives to them, otherwise you’ve got the generic characters everyone comes in with and you’re marked as a noob.

  Mark opens his phone and starts texting me. It’s the only way to have a conversation in the amphitheater without worrying about someone eavesdropping. He writes: I hate the New Romans.

  I nod in agreement.

  The GSA hasn’t said a word about Children’s Hospital tonight, I write back.

  Weird.

  Whereas my BLACK DRESS has been captured on the monitors from every angle except the floor up.

  We’ll see those inner thighs on late-night television, no doubt.

  He razzes me each time my fashion ratings are thrown up on the screens—updated every twenty minutes or so with comparative stats against a running list of young actresses and models and their wardrobes—and it’s possible I begin to see why Allison built such a fire under this dress. Like she says, if they’re going to make a statement, better it be yours, not theirs. The only thing is, I don’t think it’s mine.

  I have to be more my own person, I write.

  Mark doesn’t mind when I get random.

  That’s what I’ve been saying. You can’t be dating Uber. Come on, let’s destroy the moment and go over to Harvard Square.

  Just then on one of the jumbo screens a photo montage begins—a sequence showing me from the time I was born up to this nanosecond. No mercy here. We have my naked bum at six months, braces complete with head gear, acne, squinting, too-thin dress showing off my figure in the sunlight, exposed breast as I came up from a rough dive in a municipal pool, the stupid things I posted on the Internet in high school, and of course plenty of shots with my ever-molting family. A lot of the pictures look Photoshopped and I don’t even remember half the images. I am shown with guys, the caption Early Romance across their bellies, though most are friends like Mark or just acquaintances. And there’s a pet monkey I never had, sitting on my shoulder in one shot. That would be okay except it makes my shoulder look as big as Lloyd’s.

  A pet monkey? I write.

  Mark’s fingers fly and I read his energized scrawl.

  Who’s that guy sitting on your front steps?

  I look up at a man in a plain gray suit, a small valise by his side.

  Maybe he was selling magazine subscriptions?

  So you’re telling me there’s something a little unreal about this version of your life?

  I’m telling you.

  I see Mark’s mouth moving now though I can’t hear anything because sixty thousand people have started to cheer. Uber has entered the arena, in one of those short Roman skirts and full sterling chest plates expressing his contours—which is a style more about high-ranking soldiers than gladiators—but he looks buoyant and the outfit suits him. He takes a mic from one of the officials and shouts, —FOR CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL!

  Fans stand on the benches and begin to stomp. And if you can’t taste iron at a moment like this you never will, because Uber looks ready to go after the fair and the brave for the kids. It’s rare that a fight is taken to the death in benefit matches, so you get a particular kind of crowd ready for fun, willing to stop at solid injury. Uber walks over to the emperor’s box until he’s standing directly below us, some twenty or thirty feet down, in his lace-up high-tops and leather gloves to his elbows that cover everything except his fingers. For all his gear, he looks exposed somehow, his expression somewhere between tough and shy, but I think it’s probably confusion as he tries to read my face without his glasses. I finally had to ask and he told me his eyes swell up so badly he can’t wear contacts.

  The stadium quiets as he unsnaps his helmet and lifts it from his head.

  —He’s going to fight without his helmet? I say aloud, completely forgetting myself.

  It’s not like me to forget about the cameras and mics. There, up on instant replay on all the big screens, my worried little self repeats the same words over and over. —He’s going to fight without his helmet?

  The shaved head, the saucer eyes, I’ve become strictly mug shot. —He’s going to fight without his helmet?

  It’s a rather benign question, but it expresses too much interest coming from me. And in this moment I’m someone else’s daughter, not Allison’s, because I know she’s dying watching the match at home in bed, Thad curled around her feet. She wanted to come tonight and we go
t into it and I finally had to say, —I can’t take all of this on right now, and left. You’d think it was enough that I was going, that I was dragging Mark along so she wouldn’t worry. She’s been driving me insane ever since Tommy died. So I get it, but she’s still driving me insane.

  Uber turns and watches one of the screens where I keep saying the same thing. And when I’ve finally grown quiet on the monitors, he swings round and throws his helmet up to where I’m seated.

  I lean out over the rail and catch it before it tumbles back. Fans start to hoot and cheer.

  This isn’t bullfighting, Mark taps hastily once I’m seated again. He’s dedicating the fight to you. Shit.

  All I can do is shrug. Then Mark gets up and stands in that blind spot just behind my left shoulder. It feels odd that he doesn’t put an arm around me as he often does when things are nuts, but I don’t think either of us is prepared to answer for a small action that would become large news.

  I place the helmet on the ledge in front of me and I can feel how annoyed Mark has gotten. Now he’s up on the monitors, his unshaved face just behind my newly shaved head. The media speculations stream about Lloyd’s scowling son, the very eligible bachelor who is training under his father. My whole body is full of heat now, a thousand pinpricks.

  Thank God the horns sound.

  Everyone watches the doors and gates that open into the arena.

  Uber reaches up to adjust his helmet, smiles to himself realizing there’s nothing there, and gets his sword and shield ready. He moves into the center of the arena and slowly pivots, his eyes tracking all the doors.

  I have seen men fight in twos and threes and clusters. There were twenty-five at once one Christmas Eve down in Florida and I think that’s the biggest match I’ve personally witnessed and I hope I never have to see anything like that again, live or otherwise. That was the first time I told Allison I wouldn’t be coming to the arena as much. I’ve seen dwarfs engage dwarfs, two sets of conjoined twins fight each other, jungle and savannah cats, brown and black bears, pit bulls and roosters. The women’s leagues seldom fight to the death, but many would prefer death to the way the human body can be maimed and scarred under torchlight by incarnate Amazons. For some, perhaps too many now, Glad sport has become strictly entertainment, just so much adrenaline and blood, the fighters a cash crop. But Tommy said people like that don’t get it. They miss the larger mythology, the moments of Greek tragedy, the skill. He talked about repentance and loss and got me all the way to transformation. The way the psyche can know a match so that it becomes something beyond the physical. I wish I could weave it all together the way he did. I doubt it all added up—I tend to think it doesn’t anymore—but you could see his passion.