Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [38]
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