Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [8]
He rubs the scar that divides the apple of his right cheek into two half spheres, the horizontal line where the pigmentation disappears into an equator. There’s a drop of pink on his chin.
—You know, your mother’s been kind to me. Good. Kind, he says, as if he has to stumble for the right word.
It sounds like one of those random comments he’ll land on. I’m used to letting those declarations hang in the air. Sometimes I wonder if all they have is a marriage of convenience. Nothing would shock. I point to his chin and he wipes it clean.
—We should talk about a couple of things, he says.
His voice hits that low register that makes my intestines bunch up.
—Let’s go for a walk. We have time, he says, looking at his watch. —Bring the History along.
So I stuff my computer in my backpack and we head out. We live just off Brattle Street in Cambridge, where wealthy people loyal to the crown once lived before the Revolutionary War. There are placards on fences and brickwork, stating who lived in various homes, along with titles, significant activities, that kind of thing. Wood frame, lots of shutters, sweeping lawns, unending shade trees—everything Allison wanted. You hear about occasional vandalism, but I haven’t seen a week when the garbage built up around here.
We walk awhile before he opens up.
—Look, I don’t want to make too big a deal out of this but Uber’s on the fast track and so far he hasn’t left any of his opponents standing. If I go down in the arena tomorrow . . .
—You’re not going down, I say.
—But if I do, he says.
—You’re going to knock Uber’s head off in the first two minutes.
You say that kind of knowing stuff when you’re the daughter of a gladiator. You grow up saying knowing things the way your mother does. It doesn’t matter what you know or don’t know. Or if your mother spends her whole existence telling lies and you’re just reproducing them.
Always lend ineffable confidence to the gladiator, Bylaw 29.
I’ve read the fifty-seven Gladiator Conduct Regulations to Tommy, more than once, so he could work on his memorization. Gladiators have to be prepared for frequent pop quizzes. The GSA loves that kind of thing. A hearty fine goes to the Glad who fails a pop quiz. You can lose your transportation, your whetstone, everything.
—I guess I just want to make sure someone’s going to be there for Thad, he says.
—He’s good with us, I say. —Don’t worry.
As if I’m worry-free.
—I’ve been watching the tapes of Uber’s last six matches, Tommy says. —The fact that he’s a lefty doesn’t help.
—But if you know that, you’ll be prepared.
He doesn’t say anything.
Tommy and I have this way of keeping pace when we walk. Though I’m the taller one, his stride is quicker. I have a hard time walking with Allison even though I’m only two inches taller than she is. She likes to start and stop and comment on everything. She’s obsessed with each yard and who’s planting what. And Thad, well, he takes you on a moonwalk you have to gear up for.
As we near the park, I slide my bracelet off my wrist.
—For good luck, I say, pushing it his way. —Not that you’ll need it, of course.
—Your dowry bracelet?
—This girl in San Francisco, they say her dowry bracelet saved her father’s life. I read it online last week.
The steel band was made for my first father by a famous sword maker in Japan. It’s in the man’s style and it’s always been large for me. And Tommy’s a little guy, only five seven, so even though he has thick hands it slips easily onto his wrist. He says something about wearing it proudly, he’s even a little choked up, so I don’t get all the words.
He reaches into a pocket in his jeans and holds out a scrap of paper to me.
—I wrote down a name and number for you, he says.
—LeRoy Gastonguay? New York? And he would be?
We head down a short street where we usually turn. In the middle of the block is a park. A single-family lot given to the neighborhood by a wealthy family. There are two benches and a small fountain. The trees offer shade on a hot day. We take a seat.
—He works for Caesar