Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [34]
—I don’t think my being a girl, or a gladiator’s daughter, even occurred to him. If he had played ice hockey, he would have slapped blades on my feet and pushed me onto a rink.
—He was just having a little fun with you. Mouse could be a great kidder, dear.
But my memory is vivid here. While we trained in the backyard Allison stood by the kitchen window, her hair thinning and dropping to the linoleum like needles off a Christmas tree. She did her best to go along with Mouse, however, to hold on to her second husband as long as she could. I explained that he padded my sword arm with a manicae, that he told me repeatedly that I was to stab, not slice, if I planned to take out my opponents’ organs, if I intended to win.
—He used to shout, Don’t decorate your opponent! ELIMINATE her!
—He got a little carried away sometimes, I know.
But at that age, with nothing more than the pole of the basketball hoop to strike, the sound clanging in my head, it didn’t feel like he was just getting carried away. Right now, all I can do is look at her.
—Now I remember. I gave that set away to one of the boys down the street after Mouse died. Funny, the things you forget. I know you were spending a lot of time in the library then.
It’s true that I became more content to study weapons than play with them, to learn about Caesars and slaves, the meaning of bread and circus, the Forum . . .
—And then Truman . . . , I say, referencing her fourth husband.
—What on Earth did Truman do?
So I began to tell her that one day in fourth grade, I was pig piled in the girls’ locker room.
—You aren’t serious, she says.
—Um, that’s what they do to Glad girls.
—Then I must have gone in and talked to the principal, she says, looking nervous.
I explain that the girls were careful and hit my torso and upper thighs only. So you couldn’t tell there were bruises under my school clothes.
—God, who would do that to you?
—Monica and her friends.
—But Tommy got Monica’s parents a discount on season tickets to the amphitheater, what, three or four years running? I’m going to call them right now.
—This was in fourth grade.
She starts to rise and I motion for her to keep her seat.
—Truman took me over to the Ludus Magnus Americus and he had this woman train me so I could stand up for myself.
Allison tilts her head to one side and I look to see if her brains will spill out, because there doesn’t appear to be much holding them in place now.
—Go on.
—Truman gave me this safety-orange tunic, and a fiberglass shield about half my height. Then he matched me up with a wooden sword and shield from the equipment racks. There was a young trainer named Leona who worked there.
—You’re scaring me.
I didn’t say that Leona had a tattoo of Nero on one arm.
—Leona set up a dummy for me.
In its first incarnation, early in the sport, the Glad dummy was a scarecrow to the slaughter. Just a couple of crossed wooden poles held together by leather straps, a shirt, and sometimes a hat stuck on top, to indicate the approximate location of the head. Later it looked more like a seamstress’s form with chest armor and helmet. But I had the current generation, like a padded crash test model with all the gear. It had mechanical arms that flailed about to mimic some kind of crazed in-battle motion. Once Leona had set it up, she and Truman gave me a few basic instructions.
Then a bell sounded.
This particular dummy needed work. It sounded like a cat in heat each time it raised its left arm. And maybe eliminating this sound was on my mind more than anything when I went after it. And maybe, I mean it’s even possible, I saw myself doing battle with the girls at school who had signed me up for this whole business. But mainly I wanted to try and do a quick, neat job and avoid embarrassing myself in front of the attendants who had all pretty much stopped their work to watch the gladiator’s daughter. Stab, don’t slice, and get out, I thought. I knew about joints, I knew about weak spots. I brought my sword down hard enough to knock the right arm out of its socket.