Girl in the Arena

by Lise Haines

  —I have some really good news. But I wanted to tell you in person, he says.

  The fluffy hair on the top of his head rises and falls with one complete oscillation.

  —You want something to drink? I’ve made one ton of lemonade for Thad.

  —Lemonade would be great.

  He starts to pull out one of the chairs at the table and manages to knock himself in the knees. It never seems right to say You okay? to a gladiator when he knocks his knees or stubs his toes. So I just set the cold lemonade pitcher and two glasses on the table, but then I realize it would be a mistake to let him pour. We would soon be drowning in spilled lemonade. I laugh to myself.

  —What? he asks.

  —It’s just strange, our sitting here like this, the paparazzi outside, the guards, the quiet house…

  Before he can say anything, I go over to the pantry and set some macaroons out on a plate. I watch his hair rise and fall again.

  He picks up a cookie and considers it.

  —Will this make me smaller or larger? he asks.

  —How about… human scale.

  If there’s any space between my waterlogged thoughts and his sputtering intentions, I realize I’ve sort of missed his company, if that makes any sense at all, which I know it doesn’t but there it is.

  —That’s fine with me. How’s Thad? he asks.

  —He keeps thinking that Allison and Tommy are off on a trip somewhere.

  —I’m sorry, he says.

  —You have some news?

  —I’ve talked Caesar’s into reducing the number of matches I have left to one. I’ll have to do more promotion, but in one match I’ll be a free agent. And then, well… I’ll be a free agent. I fight in about a month and then…

  —You’ll be a free agent, I say, trying to veer around the unstated.

  —Exactly. I really couldn’t believe how easygoing they were about the whole thing. I was actually suspicious but then they told me I’m more valuable to them alive than dead now.

  —Uber, there’s something I need to tell you as well.

  I grab his glass just before his elbow knocks it over.

  —Before you tell me, could I… kiss you?

  I jump up, and now he’s the one who has to grab my chair before it falls. I start to pace.

  —You and I… how can I put this? You and I, you see…

  —Yes? he says, smiling broadly now.

  —I’m your last match.

  —Wow, that’s exactly how I feel.

  It’s like we’ve just wandered into one of those NYT’s Weddings and Celebrations videos by mistake. He starts to get up but I motion for him to stay seated. Then I line the potholders up on the counter, straighten the salt and pepper shakers, consider the rubber band collection in the drawer, all the time with my right hand in the air as if to say: wait.

  —I don’t mean… I’ll start over. You know your last fight, I say.

  —Oh God, don’t worry about that. They have me fighting a rookie. They kept saying they don’t want to lose any more of their heroes. Not that I feel like anyone’s hero, but…

  —You wouldn’t kill your rookie, would you?

  —Nothing that couldn’t be stitched back together. I mean I do have to make it look like I’m trying.

  —Good to know. This rookie… it’s not a guy, Uber.

  Uber stands and comes over to the counter.

  —What are you talking about?

  —I’m the rookie. You’re going to fight me. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.

  His face suddenly busts a gasket and he laughs, —Very funny.

  He wipes a tear from his good eye; then he begins to tuck in his shirt though it looks tightly anchored already. He moves his flattened hand all the way round his waistband, my dowry bracelet rising and falling as he goes.

  —Call Caesar’s if you need to verify it but you and I are fighting each other in Romulus Arena next month. Your last match, my one and only. They’re going to make an announcement.

  —That’s crazy.

  He stops laughing.

  —I know. I know it’s crazy. But the thing is, it’s really okay.

  —It’s okay? What’s okay about that? ’Cause I don’t see anything okay about that. Who told you this?

  I give him the bare bones story including the virtual punch line, about my plan to send my avatar into the arena.

  —You arranged this?

  —I’m not ready to get married. I have things I need to do, a brother to take care of. And I barely know you.

  I want to say something about this feeling I have when I’m with him, the ease despite it all, the attraction I’d rather not think about. But I stop myself.

  —And what if your avatar doesn’t work? he says.

  —Then I guess you’d have to fight me.

  —You guess I’d have to fight you? But I’m crazy about you. I don’t want to fight you.

  —Then you’ll go easy on me. You know, nothing that can’t be stitched back together.

  —You can’t do this, he says, practically choking on his own words.

  —I signed a contract with Caesar’s. The house will be returned to us, which is the best thing for Thad. And I’ll have money to take care of him properly while I go to college.

  —I’ll sign up for ten more fights in exchange for this one. I’ll buy the house for you. Just don’t do this.

  —I have to be the one to take care of us, that’s the thing. I’m… sorry.

  Just then, a sound like a bird hitting one of the picture windows. It’s Mark screwing around outside, as if he’s been thrown against the glass. I motion for him to come in. He picks up a cardboard box full of electronic equipment by his feet and joins us. When Mark shakes hands with Uber, there’s that admiration thing all over again.

  —I better head out, Uber says.

  —No, stay, man, Mark says.

  But Uber comes up with some excuse for leaving. Our good-byes are strained, confused. Mark watches us and I notice that deep line he gets between his eyebrows.

  —I’ll call you, Uber says, and heads into the yard.

  Mark wants to know what’s up. I click on the TV. We watch Uber as he moves into the crowd outside the gate.

  —I told him the plan, I say.

  —Dude.

  —He doesn’t like not being able to rescue me.

  —Good man, he says.

  —Don’t start, I say.

  —Shh, listen, Mark says, taking a bag of cookies over to the tube.

  Uber is surrounded by the media now, the fans.

  —I’ve just seen the family, he says. —Lyn is a remarkably strong woman. I hope you will allow her and her brother to have some peace, so they can get through this difficult time.

  —Have you set a date? someone calls from the crowd.

  Microphones press in toward Uber’s face.

  —I have no further comment at this time.

  We watch him battle his way into his car. I don’t know if everyone else understands how troubled he looks.

  Mark turns off the set, stuffs a large cookie into his mouth and says, —The man’s a pro, what can I say?

  —I’ve really screwed up here.

  —But if you pull this off, you’ll be the woman who beats the system. And he’ll be done with competition for good, he says, offering me the cookies, which I turn down.

  —But you’re the guy who’s signing up to fight in the system.

  —I can live with this dichotomy. He smiles.

  I punch Spider-Man emblazoned across his T-shirt. —You’re so strange, I say.

  —That’s why you can’t live without me. Okay, let’s see what we can do.

  *

  I tiptoe upstairs, take a peek at Thad sleeping soundly, and grab my computer. Back in the kitchen, I show Mark my fortified avatar. I’ve glued in one of my face shots.

  —Nice. But you couldn’t get the spear out?

  —Not really.

  —We’ll deal with
that later. I was up all night figuring this out. Where’s the Living machine?

  —I got a couple of the security guards to help me bring it downstairs. I locked it in the weapons room so Thad wouldn’t mess with it.

  —Perfect.

  I unlock the door and I’m almost blinded by the light streaming in through the windows, glinting off the wall where the shields hang. Mark has two computers and a bunch of cords and cables and extra hard drives and God knows what all. He begins to set things up. Within an hour, we have my virtual self standing by one of the sword racks, swaying a little at the hips as if she’s trying to get her balance for the first time. She blinks several times and then tries out a variety of expressions like an actor warming up for a performance.

  —She’s so disconcerting and wonderful, I say.

  —Good outfit, he says, running his palm along his goatee.

  —Hello, she says, in a voice designed to make us feel like complete idiots. —You can talk directly to me, you know.

  But I don’t know where to start.

  —We brought you here for a mission, Mark says, like he’s prepping 007 for his next assignment. He’s just eating this up.

  —I don’t do missions, she says, and takes a seat where Tommy used to fasten his sandals. The spear that goes through her chest comes out the back of the chair.

  —Right, I say. —What Mark is trying to explain is that you’ll be fighting at Romulus Arena, as part of a Gladiator Sports Association event next month. We appreciate your help.

  —I know what the GSA is, but I didn’t realize you wanted me to fight. I’m a pacifist.

  I bite my lower lip and look at Mark.

  —You want me to get all the glitches out in twenty-four hours? he asks.

  —If anything happens to you, we’ll simply put you back together again. So you don’t have to worry about that, Mark says.

  —So it’s okay if I get sliced and diced. Great. And my opponent? she says.

  —We just want you to spar a little. We’re going to try and keep you in the match the whole time, and we’ll do everything we can to protect you, I say.

  But once again I’m feeling queasy about the whole thing; inauthentic… virtual.

  —That doesn’t tell me whom I’m fighting.

  I ask Mark, —Am I always this difficult?

  —You think I’m taking that bait? he laughs, tipping back in his chair.

  —She asked a pretty straightforward question, Lyn says.

  —I have an idea, I say, addressing her. —Why don’t you see if you can pull the spear out of your chest.

  She looks down at the spear. —I think it gives me a certain… I don’t know… it’s like an outer manifestation of my internal wounds.

  —This is definitely not me, I say.

  —I’ll make you a deal, Lyn says. —I’m willing to lose the spear if you give me back my wings. I’m not kidding. I feel naked without them.

  —They’re too… lingerie ad, Mark says. —No one will take you seriously.

  —You think so? she asks, giving this serious consideration.

  —We’re getting off track, I say. —Why don’t we go out to the living room and see if we can spar?

  —Good idea, Mark says. —Lyn?

  —Can I have my pick of swords? she asks, eyeing the racks.

  —Uh no, I say. —Mark and I are going to supply you with a Living sword and shield.

  —Which means I can’t really hurt anyone… which means I’m still a fully-aligned pacifist, which means this is a completely stupid exercise, which leads me to this question: why are we doing this?

  —To save a couple of lives, I say.

  —Oh, well, she says soberly. —Then I guess I’m your woman. I’ve always wanted to save lives.

  Maybe she feels some alignment with superheroes? She puts her hands around the spear, as if she’s gripping a rope for tug-of-war; then she rips the spear from her chest, and lets out this agonized sound.

  I watch the blood ooze from the open wound.

  —It should spurt more when she does that, Mark says. —We can work on that later.

  —Can you get me some paper towels? Lyn asks.

  I direct Lyn out to the living room, where I bring paper towels, which of course absorb nothing since there’s nothing to absorb, and while I’m at it I grab one of the lighter swords with a small shield for myself.

  Mark figures out a way to transport a sword and shield to Lyn, and both of us begin to look the part.

  —We better keep the volume down, I say. —Thad’s sleeping.

  I go off to the library and change into an outfit identical to Lyn’s. The real difference, again, is something in the eyes. That’s what Mark says. I think he’s kind of freaked the way I am, though freaked for Mark is a cool thing.

  As Lyn and I face each other, the blood continues to trickle down her abs and runs down one leg and seems to drip into the carpet, but leaves no mark. We take up our swords.

  i know not what i do.

  —You sure I can’t get hurt? I ask Mark.

  —As sure as I’ll ever be, he says, typing something into one of the computers.

  —That’s reassuring. Um, Lyn, would you mind making a small cut on one of my fingers?

  Lyn draws her sword over my outstretched index finger. The only thing I feel is warm air, as if someone has just blown on my finger. No blood.

  —When I get this right, fake blood will appear where you’ve been cut. So, let’s see you mix it up, he says.

  Before I get my shield up, Lyn whips her sword into the air in a circular motion and slices right through my neck. If she had had a real weapon, and kept it as sharp as Tommy’s blades, I would now be headless.

  —You have to let Lyn have the upper hand, Mark says to my avatar. —And if you have to cut, go easy.

  —I was just kidding, Lyn says. —You should have seen your expression.

  I’m starting to feel queasy, but I know we have to make some progress and get her back in the machine before Thad wakes up.

  —You’re going to be fighting Uber, I say. —He’s left-handed, so you have to be prepared for that. Maybe I should use a left-handed shield and sword so you can get the feel of this.

  Lyn flops down on the couch. —I can’t do this.

  Mark and I give each other a look.

  —I have feelings for Uber, Lyn says. —Though I know I shouldn’t, because of Tommy and all.

  —You programmed her to have feelings for Uber? I ask.

  —Don’t you? Mark asks, tucking his hands up under his T-shirt.

  They both stare at me, waiting for an answer. I can’t believe Mark is doing this.

  —He’s actually a decent guy. It’s just… well, you know.

  Mark gives me this look.

  —Stop, I say. —Look, Lyn, if Uber and you fight, and don’t really hurt each other, it will be his last fight and you’ll never have to fight again, and we’re doing all of this for Thad. So you see, you want to fight but not fight.

  —I’d do anything for Thad, she says. —Wow, I’m getting such a bad headache.

  —Maybe your armor is too tight around your neck, I say.

  —Just try working with your shields for a while, Mark nudges.

  So Lyn and I stand again, and we make an effort at shield strategy. Only the strange thing is, there’s no sound when her shield hits mine.

  —This is too weird, Lyn says. —It’s so noiseless.

  —But you look great. I’ll get the audio portion going, Mark says.

  Just then, I hear Thad call out.

  —Mom! he shouts down the stairs. —Mom, I’m hungry!

  *

  Two days later Caesar’s spokeswoman, Sappho, appears on a round of talk and interview shows starting with Jon Stewart to let the world know Uber and I will be squaring off in the Romulus Arena in a little less than a month. She says that we are both in training and will not give official interviews until a few days before the match. She emphasizes the choice
of combat over marriage. She goes on at length about Thad, his special needs, and his sister’s desire to take care of him at any cost.

  Jon says, —Sounds like Juliet is turning on Romeo.

  —Well, Jon, it is a fight to the death.

  —But didn’t Juliet fake her own death? Jon points out.

  —Maybe we’re taking the metaphor too far, she says with a smile. —Glad fans aren’t looking for irony. They’re looking for a fair fight, they’re looking for skill in the arena.

  —Both of your opponents are eighteen or older, that’s right, isn’t it?

  —Yes, Jon. If you can join the military, you can fight for the GSA.

  —So you have two young, fit, and I assume, bright people—though some question their smarts in entering this competition—who have their whole lives before them, and your organization, Caesar’s Inc., thinks it’s acceptable for one of them to die, maybe the other to be crippled for life.

  —I don’t need to tell you that gladiator sport is deeply embedded in our culture as an acceptable form of competition. But you might not recall that the founders hoped it would someday replace military combat. We still hold out this hope for the future.

  —The pundits I’m hearing from say this will be more watched than the Olympics. But it’s also the most contested fight Caesar’s has ever presented. You’ve stirred up activist groups around the world. It could mean, ultimately, the end of gladiator sport. I quote this from the Los Angeles Times: “This may well be the maiden voyage of Caesar’s very own Titanic.”

  —Great way to sell a newspaper, don’t you think, Jon?

  —So you believe this statement is more about hype than reality?

  —You know what’s real for most people, Jon? That we have steadily rising unemployment, people are losing their homes, and some say we’re in an economic depression, and now some excitable types want to take away their right to see legalized entertainment.

  —But is it fair? We now turn to…

  I can’t imagine a worse feeding frenzy. If Thad were to go into a supermarket with me, he would find himself on all sorts of magazine covers. If I’d let him watch the general fare on TV, he’d realize that everyone knows, or thinks they know, a young boy named Thad G., Tommy and Allison’s son—the world’s new orphan.

  Along with the guards the Ludus sends over and the two bodyguards Caesar’s posted a while back, Caesar’s threatens to provide even more personal bodyguards, but I decline, worried that they’ll make it their business to spy on us as much as protect us. I try to leave the house as little as possible now. I hire a nanny named Sheryl to help with Thad. She seems like a perfectly nice woman in her early thirties, slim and poised, though her tweed skirts annoy me. After a day, I realize she’s constantly chipper and chronically making suggestions about changing Thad’s schedule, what he eats, how much exercise he gets. She tells me she had a cousin with special needs growing up, so she knows.