Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [69]
—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.
—I appreciate that you took the time. Maybe when you’re on your feet we could go for coffee or something, I say.
—My doc says I shouldn’t be long at the hospital. And my parents go back to Norway day after tomorrow.
—Oh, well, then, that’s soon . . . that we could have coffee.
I nod to Mark now, to say it’s time to go. Then I make a small effort and take Uber’s hand just for a moment and I’m struck by how warm it feels. When you’re in the stadium seats, the competitors are often bigger than life, even cartoonlike. It’s easy to imagine that their hands and faces, the waxy glow of their skin, that they’re somehow made of different material than normal people. You sometimes feel they’re going to leap into the air and fly around the city after a competition instead of just driving home, going over to their clubs, or stopping at the store for bread. You can even feel that about your own father at times. I can’t help but wonder what things would have been like if Uber and I had met in a different place in time.
Mark doesn’t seem to care if the fans follow us or not tonight, and pretty soon we’re riding along Memorial Drive in a fleet. The air just right, the light on the Charles, the slick sound of the wheels because the street washers have gone through. He turns the radio to a random station and I put my feet up on the dash and slink down in my seat so I don’t have to think about the paparazzi as they try to keep up.
—So Friday let’s do something, Mark says.
He names this expensive restaurant that has all these Buddhas and tiny vases with things not entirely flowers, cool lights at the bar, water sheeting down one wall.
—Are you asking me out on a date?
—Why not?
—Because we’re friends.
—Could be more.
—Sometimes I think you only get interested if someone else is interested.
—Are you accusing me of human nature?
—Yes.
—Girls like me, you know. He smiles.
—Of course girls like you.
And they do. Next year he’s supposed to sign a contract with the GSA and I already know that lots of girls want to cage Mark—I’ve heard some of them talking. And in time he will make the perfect Glad husband. Julie’s seen to that.
—I need to get my head clear right now, I say.
—You like me, don’t you?
—Stop.
—Just let me know if anything changes.
—I’ll let you know.
Allison gets over her peevishness about not being invited to the stadium that night when she learns I have plans to see Uber again. Though the ownership of the house is still as undetermined as the number of moods in her day, she goes out and buys flats and flats of new plants for the garden and has all the windows of the house washed, even the ones in the basement, which is her way of saying she can waste money again. She calls her tile man to get him started on the front steps, which already look perfectly fine to me. There are ceramic samples clustered around the house and out in the yard. I try to ignore this industry and work a little on A History of the Gladiator Sports Association. Thad is happy to have us both around no matter what we’re doing.
On Saturday night, Thad and I