Girl in the Arena (20 page)

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.

The door on the far eastern side opens.

This one I have never seen: an elderly man, he has to be about seventy-five, and his wife, maybe in her late fifties, step timidly into the bright light. The woman carries such a short blade it’s as if she’s looking for a loaf of bread to slice and butter. She’s five feet tall at most and her salt-and-pepper hair is wrapped in a bun at the back of her head. She wears a loose dress and an apron that covers her solid bosom and goes almost to her hem, and fuzzy shoes that make her feet look as if they’re wrapped in small mice. As I look at the monitor, I see how very blue her eyes are, like Uber’s.

Uber stands poised, ready to fight two blurred figures.

The man’s suit is a little rumpled, shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, no tie. He looks particularly feeble. He’s stooped and carries a shield that pulls him farther groundward. They’ve given him a pair of scissors instead of a sword. He goes through a complicated shuffle, trying to wedge the scissors into the same hand that holds his shield, and I feel concern for him, that he’s going to lose his balance and fall. But he frees that hand so he can place it around the woman’s shoulders, and they walk toward Uber. Finally the man, clearly overburdened by his shield, sets it on the ground.

The words 
SPECIAL GUESTS 
flash. Then: 
MEET UBER’S PARENTS.

Romulus Arena goes absolutely silent. There’s an audio announcement as well.

I type, 
He’s supposed to fight his parents? Or are they supposed to fight each other?

Mark doesn’t know what to say any more than I do and just types his favorite swear. There is a close-up of Uber’s face. His eyes express complete bewilderment at events.

—Mother? Father? Uber calls out, squinting. He looks incredulous as he starts walking toward them.

Suddenly the man begins to dance a little jig. His wife tries to get him to stop but he won’t. He calls to Uber, like a child asking to be picked for a turn at a party.

—Kill me! he says. —Kill me!

Tim Burton lives, 
Mark writes.

Uber rushes over to help his mother subdue his father. He places his sword and shield on the ground in front of them and puts a hand on his father’s shoulder. His father, who has started to tear up, stops his dance. Uber holds his hands out for the knife and shears and places them on the ground as well. He embraces his parents and you can see him whispering to them with great emotion.

Maybe this is the moment when my feelings toward Uber shift. Caesar’s wants us to kill everyone we love, if not in body, certainly in spirit. I realize I’m going to have to find another way—that I’m losing my impetus to fight him.

A generic celebrity fills us in on how the parents have been flown all the way from Norway, where they went into retirement a decade ago. We see clips from a recent interview with them. The father was one of the first underground Glads. So Uber 
is
a Born In.

—He was always a good boy, the father says.

It seems clear to me that he has dementia from the way he talks, the disconnected look in his eyes.

—He was a sweet child. A little awkward sometimes, but bighearted, his mother says. Her discomfort at being interviewed is palpable.

—His father, who was in the GSE at the time, wanted him to have an activity that would give him confidence.

They managed, the celebrity tells us, through long hours of work and setting aside their pennies, to get Uber into a Helmet Wearers group after school...

I feel this deep sense of relief that the fighting is done for the night but I guess I’m alone in this as discontentment starts to build in the amphitheater. People jeer and demand a real fight. Uber, face wet with tears, guides his parents toward the door they came through, walking away from his shield and sword—a completely stupid idea—but I can only imagine how seeing his parents this way has screwed him up.

Some people gather their things to beat the rush to the parking lot and the T. They fold their cushions, seal their coolers. We hear a great deal of grumbling, see a lot of disappointed faces. Bad feelings about the Gladiator Sports Association are voiced.

—Let’s get out of here, Mark says.

Just then a second set of doors opens in the arena but no one appears. Uber watches it for a long time, then turns back to his parents. Mark grabs his jacket.

—I’ll have to tell Lloyd, Mark says. —He’s been complaining about the doors. Ever since the layoffs, maintenance has gone to hell.

I stand and start to climb the steps to leave the emperor’s box. But then something compels me to go back to the railing. Uber walks slowly toward his weapons, looking clearly unsettled. Leaning over, I call out.

—Uber. Uber!

What I want him to do is look at that door because I’m certain something is about to spew from its mouth.

—UBER!

The mics pick up my voice now and I’m on every screen in the stadium.

—UBER! my voice booms. —PICK UP YOUR SWORD!

Almost the moment I say this a tiger is sent into the arena. I watch its leg and chest muscles as it moves, the intense fixed look. People fight each other to get back to their seats. There’s a rush of noise and then it quiets.

—
Bengal, Indochinese, Malayan? Can we get a feed on the tiger
, an announcer says on the overhead speakers.

—
One endangered species looks another in the eye.

Glad announcers love to caption. And how many times have we heard that one?

—
I understand their large canines are used for tearing meat off the bone. Let’s ask our resident expert.

But I don’t hear the answer of the resident expert because I’m thinking about the fact that Uber’s shield and sword are closer to the tiger than they are to him—it looks like twenty feet or more to his gear. The cat begins to raise one paw, its shoulders elevated, rear legs hunched as Uber starts to make his way toward his sword, appearing to move as if he’s not moving at all. His parents get through their door in time, and it closes behind them with a noise only those giant doors can make and the sound startles the cat. It runs toward Uber.

The technicians turn the strobes on so that when the tiger springs, as it does, it moves in what appears to be slow motion. Uber jumps into the air simultaneously. He kicks the tiger in the chest and they both fall backward, their movements split into ribbons of action. Both flip around quickly to avoid landing on their backs. Uber grabs the scissors before the tiger leaps a second time. He drives them into the tiger’s chest just as the tiger claws his face.

The animal drops, landing on its side. It lifts its head for a moment, and dies. Its tongue hangs from its mouth and blood pours from its chest into the sand.

The crowd cheers with sweet enthusiasm. The medics rush out and huddle around Uber. I’ve never felt sick to my stomach like this at a match before.

In the great volume of noise, Mark and I can talk aloud.

—He had some moves, he says. —I’ll give him that.

—His face looks really bad.

—Come on, I’ll walk you down to the locker room.

—I thought you didn’t like the guy, I say.

—Those scars are going to be beautiful.

—So he’s cool now?

Mark touches the place on his T-shirt over his tiger tattoo in solidarity.

—I hope Lloyd recorded it. I loved the thing with the scissors. And the little old man, he says. —You look kind of bloodless. You okay?

—I have to sit down.

Mark offers me some water and when I take the bottle my hand shakes.

—I think you drank too much Fire Eater, he says.

—I think I’ve had too much circus.

CHAPTER 24

We make our way toward the locker rooms, the paparazzi hooding us with light, eager to kidnap us if they can. I push against their vests and cameras, determined to get through, Mark in tow. As one guy rushes toward me and another pushes him out of his way, one of their cameras strikes me in the chest.

—Hey! I shout, thrusting a hand in the air for everything to stop. Catching my reflection in the glass pane of the next door, I remind myself never to look like I’m about to raise the dead in front of the media again. I take a deep breath and try to slip into press conference mode.

—I know you have a lot of questions. But at this time I can’t tell you anything more about Uber’s condition than you already know. I’m paying a short visit and I’ll be returning his helmet to him. So I wouldn’t call this a romantic visit unless you consider surgery romantic.

There’s a short spell of laughter and then questions are turned on me like a fire hose. Two Glads who were in tonight’s competition have posted themselves at the door. The tall one has buttery dark skin with a tattoo on his chest of a victorious gladiator, his foot resting on his slain opponent. He helps us get inside the locker room. He tells me the ambulance will be here soon, and that Uber is going for professional stitching, so keep it short.

—Nice tattoo, man, Mark says.

We find Uber flat on his back on a massage table, his breastplate off, and a large bag of ice against the right side of his face. I walk over and stand close to him so he can see me with his visible eye. Mark hangs back for now.

—Thanks for coming, Uber says, wincing as he tries to smile.

He takes the ice pack away and I see that someone has used an ointment over his wounds, and there are enough butterfly bandages to set off a small migration. The eye is shut, the lid badly swollen and cut. I set the helmet down on a table and put the ice back in place. I’m standing in a half inch of water. There are bloody rags in a bucket near my feet, coolers of ice, a table with first-aid gear spread out along the top.

—Are your parents here? I ask.

—They’ve gone back to their hotel room to lie down. My father gets confused about things. Alzheimer’s. My mother will bring him over to the hospital later.

Then he speaks so softly I have to lean in close to hear. The smell of blood and ointment fills my nostrils.

—Thanks for the warning.

—That was terrible, what they did to your folks.

—The worst.

I’m aware of Mark standing by the door, straining to hear, and I gesture for him to come over.

—This is my friend Mark. I think you met his father, Lloyd, of the Ludus Magnus Americus.

—Hey.

—Fine work with the scissors. You knew right where to strike.

—I picked that up from one of your father’s videos, actually.

—
The Panther
.

—That’s the one.

—I’ll let him know.

It’s clear that Uber is tired.

—Hope you don’t mind. There’s something I have to tell Lyn before they cart me out of here.

Now the awkwardness between them surfaces. Mark bobs his head and says to me, —Call me when you’re ready to go. I’ll... check out the urinals.

Mark wanders into the room where I first met Uber. He slumps down on a bench and looks at me with an expression I haven’t seen before. If I had to make a guess I’d say Mark wishes I was moving my bald head close to his mouth to listen to his every word.

—I know this woman in Legal at Caesar’s. I called her this afternoon, Uber says.

He pauses to swallow.

—I asked her if I could write a letter releasing you from the obligation to marry me. She was nervous talking to me, he says.

Uber tries to smile again but he produces that same unnatural expression.

—She read me the articles in my contract. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry—I mean for you. If I can think of anything else...

I’m sure he understands that on my end it’s less straightforward but binds just the same. The daughter of a gladiator doesn’t have a contract per se but if I don’t follow a rule this large, this intrinsic, my family will be shunned. Allison will be shunned. And this would be more than she could hold. Her heart would bleed perpetually and I’d spend my days stocking gauze and medical tape.