Girl in the Arena (28 page)

Once we’ve shut down the equipment and she’s back in the box for the night, I say, —You better not be thinking about keeping her around.

—Jealous?

—No, I’m just saying.

*

Uber has not called and the fight is next week. The TV appearances are just starting to crank up. Caesar’s makes sure we’re never in the same room together. Mostly, the crews come and set up in our living room or library.

Where before we had only the paparazzi to consider when we backed out of the driveway, now we have protestors of every stripe. There’s been some buzz that I should lose guardianship of Thad. As far as I’m concerned, this fight can’t get here fast enough.

While Thad takes an afternoon nap, to the syncopated sounds of helicopter blades overhead, I sit down with Sheryl and tell her that the day I fight, she’s to keep Thad away from the Romulus. So far, to the best of my knowledge, he has no idea about the match. Like a post-9/11 parent keeping their children from the horrific details of that day, I don’t watch the evening news, I don’t even discuss it within his earshot.

I mention a long list of activities Sheryl might do with him.

—Where should I tell him you’ll be? she asks, not looking wholly convinced this will work.

—It’s best not to lie to him too much, he’s so intuitive. You can say I’ve gone to the stadium to accept an award for Tommy.

—I’ll do my best.

I tell her she has to do more than that.

*

Julie has us over for a vegetable lasagna dinner two nights before the match. She knows I’m strictly vegetarian now. I imagine it broke her heart to alter her family recipe, but she’s more cheerful than I’ve seen her in a long time.

Over dessert, she starts in.

—I saw the way the two of you looked on that morning program. You can’t buy chemistry like that, she says, referring to the spot Uber and I did from our individual homes at the beginning of the week.

Mark laughs but Lloyd ducks, moving straight into the kitchen to get an early start on the dishes. He asks Thad to keep him company over a scoop of chocolate ice cream, since Thad seems troubled by the tiramisu. I watch my brother as he puts his hand in Lloyd’s, and they head off.

—Maybe she doesn’t 
want 
to marry a gladiator, Mark says, scooping the creamy pastry into his mouth. —Wicked dessert, Mom.

—Maybe she just needs some 
understanding 
of the benefits, Julie says.

—Maybe she’s just a modern woman, he says.

—Maybe, as a man, you don’t have a lot to contribute to this conversation.

Julie throws her napkin down. I’ve never heard her speak to Mark in quite this way, and I can see he’s decided to stop.

—I hope you’ll understand, eventually, I tell her.

—But would your mother understand? Julie says.

—Mom, Mark scolds.

—It’s better that she think about this stuff now, than regret it later.

I wasn’t keeping track, but Mark indicates the empty wine bottle, raising his eyebrows. And now that I think about it, she’s probably on her third or fourth glass.

—Allison couldn’t live with her decisions. With any of them, really, I say.

When Julie breaks down, Lloyd, who must have had his ear to the door, edges out of the kitchen. He sits Thad down at the phone table in the hallway and helps him with his sandals. Then he gets my jacket from the closet.

I want to go over to Julie and try to comfort her but Mark makes it clear that I should wait for another time.

Thad takes my hand now and we slip through the door to the garage. Once he’s in his seat belt, Lloyd puts an arm around my shoulders and says, —Part of the training in a way. Look, you just have to be able to put everything, even tonight, from your mind. I don’t want you doing anything tomorrow but resting up. Watch a funny movie with Thad for a while when you get home and then go straight to bed.

—You’re a funny movie, Thad tells Lloyd.

*

It’s hard to say how many hilarious movies and whacko shows we’ve watched in the last thirty-six hours. Thad and I burned through some Woody Allen and Marx Brothers, and then he just loves that one with Steve Carell and all those animals, and I insisted on 
Stranger Than Fiction.

When I couldn’t sleep, and I haven’t slept since that lasagna dinner, not really, I began to surf stations that know how to wring the last bit of dopiness out of a day. Candid footage of people hurting themselves and their relatives (but not 
seriously
, the disclaimer says) is always good for a late-night belly laugh; talk show hosts that can’t stop mining the beaches of dysfunction and stupidity in the celeb world; the cheesiest stars from the worst reality shows back to savage each other. Unsuspecting people who think they’ve lost their cars, their wallets, their dignity, 
ha, ha, you’ve been punked!
 will get you through a full two hours. Or those people who dress horribly and they’re told why, in excruciating detail, as they stand in front of a thousand mirrors, or the one where parents try to pawn off their ugly daughter on some new guy because her current boyfriend is chronically calling her mother a whore. And people worry about the impact of television.

This morning—the morning of our competition—I wake up and quickly feel just how suffocating the air is. The AC churns so slowly I realize we’re in a brownout and the LED display on the clock is blinking so I know we’ve lost power at least once during the night.

I call Sheryl to make sure she’s awake. She plans to come over while it’s still dark out. As soon as I get her on the phone, she complains heavily about the sudden heat wave. At least she’s there so I can slip out of the house before Thad gets up. She knows to keep him fully occupied, and far away from the stations that carry the match, or anything on popular culture. She knows to call Julie if there are any problems she can’t handle.

Mark and Lloyd retrieve me from the media circus so we can travel over to the bread and circus. Lloyd has rented a fancy car for the occasion. I’m running on raw nerves, no sleep, and strobe lights everywhere. If the seats are plush or scratchy, the ride smooth or rough, I can’t feel a thing.

CHAPTER 31

I shift about now, my feet cold on the damp stone floor. I’m aware of the thunder of people overhead as the last of them enter the stadium, find their seats, and purchase their food and souvenirs for the big match.

I’ve been here all day, checking my weapons, getting a massage, doing limbering exercises. I had a quiet lunch with Lloyd.

Mark is up in the emperor’s box. He’s hiding behind the curtains with his computers. Once the horns sound, he’ll put down his burger and fries and Rock Star, and activate 
Lyn.
 She will suddenly appear next to me, identical to me, eager to be me in the dark passage leading into the arena. I wait behind an iron gate, breathing, hardly breathing, considering my sins, my digressions, my lineage, my reasons for fighting, where I’m going, and how insane is this?

There’s something about Mark being planted up there that makes me think of assassination attempts, only this assassination is about my identity, and even though he’s turning the dials, I made it clear to him that I’m the one squeezing the trigger.

Last night, in between all that funny stuff, I drifted down to the library for a while. There 
The Bhaghavad Gita 
jumped out at me, the way books often do in our library. You can look at the same shelf a thousand times and suddenly a title pops out. It’s not like I know Sanskrit—ours is an English translation—but as I read I was thinking about this guy Arjuna who had to go into battle. As he wrestles with the moral implications of what he’s about to do, he talks with this god—this 
real 
avatar—who helps him understand his destiny.

There are certain people I could talk to in my head who might try to convince me that I should or shouldn’t fight today and that this avatar idea is frantic or clever or chickenhearted or right. I could reach out to Tommy’s spirit, I could wrestle with Allison’s, but that’s just battling myself in a way. And I have to stop doing that and get a clear mind. And I have to accept that even if I pull this off, people, a whole lot of people—maybe tabloid-reading millions?—will have opinions about me, most of them pretty whacked.

*

I can see most everything through the gate, except for the stadium seats above and behind me of course. The night sky is overly dark and with the lights, it’s impossible to find the moon or stars. The air is muggy. I know from being in the seats that no one can see me in my corridor waiting for this gate to lift. Standing here, I’m thinking passages of birth and death, water bottles and alter egos, the screwed-up life I’ve lead—when someone grips my shoulder from behind. I quickly spin round and grab my heart to stop the pressure. Uber’s in gear, in his part.

—Don’t creep up on me like that, I say.

—I have to talk fast, he whispers. —I know you’ve gone to a million matches, but it’s a little different when you’re in the arena. You’ve got to be ready for anything.

The one eye is still covered by a patch, gauze visible around its edges. He touches my arm and his hand is warm. I’m aware that he’s taking a huge risk being here. There are rules about opponents conferring before a match. There are 
rules.

—They could send a lion out, another warrior. Watch the gates, he says.

—But the contract states...

He shakes his head.

—Caesar’s doesn’t care. Just assume that anything that enters the arena is there to take you, or your avatar, out. I never wear glasses in the arena, but I’m great with shapes. If I see something coming your way, I’ll signal. I’ve told Mark if that happens, he has to be quick and aggressive. There’s no time to stop and think.

—No time to think, I say, suddenly aware that I am trying to memorize his face. The marks in his face. If I had a mirror, I would memorize my own. We are fleeting at best.

—If you end up in the arena, he says, and hands me a small vial.

—Poison? You want me to take poison?

—Rub it on your arms and legs. It’s an anesthetic. It will numb your skin, but it won’t last long.

I feel pinpricks in my feet now, as if they’re going asleep.

He leans in and kisses me on one temple, like I’m his sister or his girlfriend. And I go with this momentary impulse and grab him by the armor and hug him briefly, kiss his unscarred cheek.

—It’ll be over soon, he says.

I almost say, 
That’s what worries me
, but just then 
Lyn 
walks up behind Uber, pats him on the back, though he can’t feel this, I know. But he can see I’m staring at something, and he turns.

—Wish me luck too? she asks.

He looks from one to the other of us. I should have asked her to wear the sunglasses. Her eyes still have that unreal quality and she’s a little too bright in the corridor.

—I’ll try to go easy on you, she says to Uber.

But Uber appears to have lost his sense of humor. —I hope you know what you’re doing, he tells me.

—Probably best if you don’t say anything in the arena, I tell her.

She just laughs. —But this is my big moment.

—Please, I say. —For Thad.

for thad.

Uber gives me a concerned look and says, —I have to go.

He takes off at a run through the passageways.

*

It’s hard to express how completely disconcerting her look is, especially since it’s almost my look. It’s like standing in front of a mirror, only the mirror walks and talks and goes into battle for you.

—We’re just sparring, right? 
Lyn 
asks.

How can I feel remorse over what I’m doing to her?

—That’s the idea, I say. —Take your time. Pace yourself.

Just then the horns ring out. We see Uber step into the arena from a gate opposite ours. The crowd goes manic. Popcorn and crazy hats are tossed into the air, banners unfurled, everything airborne.

—
UBER, UBER, UBER
.

I realize in this moment that they’re just as much in love with Uber as they ever were with Tommy, maybe more. The boards are lit with all manner of photos of Uber and me from childhood on. Romance played up, enhanced, expanded, and enlarged. Commentators speculate, dissect, scramble, talk Shakespeare’s 
R and J 
in that prepackaged commodity way, consider our horoscopes, our statistical chances, what our colors mean, and so forth. My legs are numb. My teeth.

I watch 
Lyn 
intently as she stretches her arms out in front of her, then behind. She moves her head from side to side, cracks the vertebrae in her neck, adjusts her armor, then looks at me again.

I think she’s finally lost her comic self.

She reaches out now to take my hand in hers, which is only that sensation of moist cool air.

—Don’t let me die, she says.

Before I can find anything to say the gate lifts and she only waits until it’s halfway up before she ducks under it and enters the arena to cheers that eclipse even Uber’s. And then I see it, the odd way she walks, the hip action—it’s only slightly better than before, and my stomach seizes up.

Uber and 
Lyn 
move into the center of the arena.

I have this sensation of being very small and very large all at once. There’s a moment of silence as they stare at each other. Then Uber secures his helmet and takes a stance.

Lyn 
suddenly swings her sword over her head and with a sound that seems to push out of her throat, she drives the sword toward his stomach. It’s met by his shield. The first sound of metal on metal resounds in the stadium.

I have to give 
Lyn 
credit for the beauty of this first move, the exact articulation. For one second, Uber glances over to where I hide and then he lifts his sword and they begin to fight, which is unlike fencing because the swords are too heavy, but one blow seems to match another. As she dodges and strikes, I realize there’s something too syncopated, her actions are too repetitive. And maybe this is what seems to be making the crowd so restless. Suddenly she leaps into the air, higher than one can leap, really, and I am reminded of those movies like 
Crouching Tiger
.