Girl in the Arena (12 page)

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 and 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.

—I can’t accept it.

—You don’t have to decide now, he says, looking a little fragile at the corners of his mouth.

—I’ve decided, I say, returning to my seat. —That’s the way I am. When there’s a decision to be made.

We both sit quietly for a few more awkward minutes. I don’t check to see if he’s looking at me on the monitor. I’m not. I’m not doing that.

—I was thinking of going skeet shooting tomorrow, he says.

I’d laugh but I don’t know if he’s saying this straight up, and honestly, I don’t care.

—Maybe you’d like to come?

Allison must have told him I used to shoot with my sixth father, Diesel.

—You just don’t get it, do you? I say, poised to leave.

—This morning, Uber starts to say, —there were pictures of you and me on all the news stations, a close-up of the bracelet, the text of the bylaw.

I have the feeling he’s worked this speech into a familiar groove in his head.

—The press was saying our situation would become a cause for debate around the globe, he says. —I can only imagine what you’re going through.

—You’re serious, aren’t you? Unbelievable.

—I’m sorry. About everything. But not about meeting you.

—Jesus Christ.

Now he’s off on sap rap.

—What?

—Words can’t express it, I say.

He looks wounded. He’d make a lousy poker player.

But enough about Uber. Because I’m suddenly aware of this series of familiar sounds coming from the kitchen—the sounds Tommy typically made when he came home from work, when he put his sword and shield up and threw his keys and lunch box on the kitchen table.

—The Science Museum has offered to open the museum up one weeknight so we can visit. You know, so we can look around and people won’t be there to gawk at us, Uber presses.

Allison must have coached him on this one as well, hoping I’d say, 
Gee, Thad would love that!

—Gawk. Right. Excuse me, I say. —I’ll be back in a few minutes.

I push through the swinging door and find Tommy standing at the long kitchen counter in his jeans and a fresh tee, making up a plate of food for himself. He has both of his hands, all of his stomach, and I assume that bulge is his kneecap. Seeing him there, I slump to the linoleum floor, grazing my head on the mega freezer on the way down.

—You okay? he asks, his mouth stuffed with pineapple cubes.

Looking at the spread, he says, —What’s the occasion?

Tommy always did love to eat. I don’t know what to say as he heaps his plate with finger sandwiches and fruit salad, pull-apart rolls and smoked salmon, cheeses and rhubarb crumble, those neighborly foods that start at one end of the kitchen counter and go all the way to the other—the spillover on the kitchen island and table—lined up to make a thousand meals for the afterlife.

CHAPTER 14

—She must have left the Living machine on, I say aloud.

—Thad bumped into the on switch, Tommy says, taking a bite of cheese and cracker.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, I feel around at the back of my head. No sign of fresh blood, just a dull ache from hitting the freezer. The pain coils around my temples and slowly settles behind my eyes.

—Did he see you? I ask.

—I don’t think so. I was programmed to appear in the yard.

—Allison? She must have seen you.

—Nope. I’ve been out taking a tub in the bathhouse. You all right?

I feel truly dumb talking to him this way.

—You should try the Brie, it’s really good, he says.

There’s something about sitting here, watching him move about the kitchen with his 
I’m So Glad 
T-shirt, the slap of his bare feet on the linoleum. When he bites into the crackers, the crumbs that break free seem to drift down to the floor in slow motion. Like a rain that makes you aware of each individual drop and no rush to the pavement. He’s very filmic, this 
Tommy. 
More motion picture than video.

—I’ve lost my appetite, I say.

—What’s wrong?

He finds an open spot around the casserole dishes, sets his plate down, comes over and crouches in front of me the way he would sometimes, to console, to talk earnestly. Tommy could be in the middle of any number of things and he’d stop and pay attention to what I had to say or what I couldn’t say at all.

—
You’re 
wrong, I tell him.

If it’s crazy to talk like this, the craziness is in finding something nearly comforting here. He reaches over as if he’s going to adjust the scarf at my neck, I’m certain he wants to, but then he seems to change his mind. And that’s the way Tommy often was with me, reaching out and then slipping back a notch, because he understood natural boundaries and respected them. I think we all did, the family.

—I guess you’d know. You are Lyn, aren’t you?

He tilts his head, scans my features. Maybe he’s concerned that his recognition system is on the fritz. Well... not that comforting.

—You look like Lyn.

—That’s me.

—The one who loves me the most, he says matter-of-factly.

That particular smile, that’s pure Tommy.

—God, I hope you didn’t tell Allison that.

He appears to think this over.

—It’s not as if she doesn’t know.

—Who programs you? I ask.

—We welcome all inquiries.

—Okay, okay.

It’s easy to get caught up, I guess, thinking something, someone is other than it, than they appear. And when I stop to think about it, I have no idea about his inner workings. How he swallows that food and where it goes. In all the Living visitations, I’ve never seen any of them use the bathroom or get sick to their stomachs, nor have I seen the food enter the mouth only to drop through them like an object down a transparent elevator shaft. I know that having a solid take on physics would probably be an aid to understanding this particular form of virtual reality, and I admit my limitations on that subject. I’ve always been better at history.