Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [19]
The red PENALTY sign starts to flash. The word blinks on and off like a cursor. PENALTY. TOMMY G.
One of the refs turns on the mic at his hip, makes a gesture with his right hand as if he’s cutting his left arm into sections from his shoulder to his wrist, and says, —Unnecessary small cuts. Provision 187. Loss of rank. Dishonored.
The booing starts.
The crowd throws their plastic water bottles into the arena. Bottles rain down on the officials. The air turns to cylindrical hail. The officials do not look happy, one guy takes a full water bottle right on the nose. They look like ants in a downpour.
I realize this sounds impossible, but the plastic containers form a nearly perfect ring around Tommy, and glisten in the lights.
Allison clutches me hard now. I don’t think she realizes that her fingernails are digging into me, rib by rib. I am practically lifted onto my toes from her pain. Suddenly she backs off and shouts, —Provision 187? What the hell is that?
—I don’t know. I can’t hear anything! I shout back.
But we know what this means: Caesar’s Inc. will, in essence, eliminate his death, his benefits, his place of honor.
—Tommy’s retirement funds, she says, realizing she’ll lose this money now.
I know the whole thing was rigged. It’s always rigged. They never like to pay out to the family. They must have come up with Provision 187 just this morning.
I had often thought when Tommy G. died, I’d cry in a pure way. I’d tear my hair out by the roots. I’d pull out my eyelashes so the tears could run unimpeded. But nothing can express this.
Now the sirens go off, and the horns. And the cars whiz into the center ring, and the tall clowns—the ones dressed like Mercury, a full team of eight—lift Tommy G.’s blood-soaked corpse into the air. His long wavy hair sweeps the ground, touches some of the bottles, as they hoist him into the ambulance.
i can’t think.
Down in the stadium, several sections below us, chairs are being uprooted from their rivets. I can’t see Uber anywhere. A fence comes down and is thrown into the arena. A manic-looking clown with high-arching eyebrows and a tulip in his hat—he’s crushed. Officials, a couple of them go. People rip the wings off the Mercuries. Off their heels, as if they’re insects. The weapon carrier who gave Uber his drink just minutes ago appears to be dead. People cry out, yell, scream. Everyone screams.
I get my jacket off and push Thad’s arms into the sleeves, zip the zipper.
—I’ll meet you at the house! I tell Allison.
Something hits me in the back of the head then, something heavy and dull. When I touch my head, I feel blood.
She wants to fuss with me, but I tell her there’s no time. I tell her I’m getting the bracelet back before anyone knows it’s mine.
—You’ll never get to him, she says.
But she fishes some cash out of her wallet and I throw this in my bag. I give Thad’s meds and Freeway bars to Allison. She gives me a small hairbrush. I almost laugh but I see her need and simply take it. She sees I have one of those Tibetan Buddhist tracts in my bag—something she would normally toss out if she found it in my bedroom—but she doesn’t say anything. I have one of Tommy’s short knives I use for cutting through plastic packaging, cleaning my nails, and stuff. Allison has one of her own, so there’s nothing to exchange there. We work without conversation, trading things back and forth. Her weariness covers me like a hot wool blanket and I feel like I’m going to pass out if I don’t move. Then I see the light on my phone.
—God, my battery’s almost dead. Don’t call me. I’ll reach you as soon as I can, I say.
For years I’ve thrown millions of pixels together in my head, trying to see what it would be like to leave them. It was never this way.
Thad shouts, —Your hands are going to turn red with blood, Lynie!
—I’ll find water, Thad. I’ll wash my hands. Stay with Mom.
I turn back once, to see the way Allison holds his giant, weak head against