Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [53]
I have no idea what I’m talking about, maybe I just want a vacation. Thad seems to take this in and give it serious consideration. He tilts his head and his eyes get huge as if he’s finally understood something.
Then he cups his hands around my ear and whispers, —We’re going to the end of Mom’s rope.
Just then, a photographer on a motorcycle inches past us on the left like the witch peddling past Dorothy’s house, holding her camera out with one hand, shooting rapid fire as Allison moves us across the city.
Allison is looking a little trapped, definitely wobbly.
—I should have put my hair up, she says, popping open the mirror embedded in the visor and spreading out the wisps of her bangs along her forehead as she drives.
—Allison! I say to snap her attention back to the road.
Just then a Hummer—the model they make in case you have to take out three family cars at once instead of the usual one or two—slowly pulls up on our right. Inside, a gang of photographers lean from the windows, whistling and calling to us. Allison gets distracted by their snarking.
—I can’t believe how many are keeping up! she says over her shoulder in an almost buoyant voice. —Look at them. This is all about you, Lynie.
And I’m certain I hear a sense of loss under the elation, a regret that this isn’t all about her. Then I see where we’re headed.
—THE WALL! I scream.
She swings away, narrowly missing the underpass and almost hits the Hummer.
—Woo! Did you see that? she laughs, her manic side in full bloom.
I’d offer to take the wheel, I’d insist, but there’s no place to pull over. Besides, I don’t think she’d let me, she seems so empowered. She cuts the Hummer off when she shifts lanes suddenly. The horn on that thing has the power of a paint stripper.
When it gets blocked in by a slow-moving taxi, Allison pulls ahead and things get quiet for a little while and we listen to the sound of the tires bumping over the steel bands in the road, the rhythm working like a prayer on my scattered thoughts.
Emerging from the tunnel suddenly, we bear a quick left and then U-turn in traffic—completely ignoring the recalculations of the GPS—and I realize we’re driving to Tommy’s athletic club. We’re in the palm of the city, as she calls it. That place where gold freely changes hands. Allison loves Newbury Street. She pulls into the parking structure and swipes Tommy’s card. The gate goes up and we pull in without the paparazzi. We drive up a couple of levels, circling, circling, and she drops us at the entry on the third level.
—I’ll get a parking spot. You take Thad inside, she says.
I’ve only been to the club a couple of times. It has that postmodern suffocating-to-death-in-affluence-and-status feel to it. Lots of blue glass and steel, and in the women’s room the faucet handles are embedded in the mirror and the sinks look like delicate bowls ready to shatter if you drop a bottle of makeup the wrong way.
Caesar’s likes its top players to join this kind of club, invitation only, of course. So Tommy went along, though he was more comfortable in a Quonset hut with a bunch of iron pumpers—nothing but free weights—no music, no towels, water fountain busted, just a steady flow of sweat, the occasional grunt or life-affirming oof. But the good thing was he brought Thad down here a couple of times a week to build a little strength with a personal trainer, have a light massage and some lunch. Thad is crazy for all the televisions—the way they’re lined up, the images dancing together.
It seems our mother intends to carry on the tradition, at least until Caesar’s yanks the plug. I’m relieved when she walks through the entry. Not that I actually thought she’d drive away and leave us exactly. As she approaches, she wipes her fingers under her eyes to remove her melted eyeliner but she’s not quite getting it. I never know if I point this kind of thing out, if she’ll be grateful. So I let her go ahead and check in at the desk.