Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [85]
—Why don’t they just brand us at birth? I say.
—Right on the frontal lobe, where my sense of humor is, Mark says.
During the conversation Thad has picked up the uncapped maple syrup bottle. He holds it in front of his right eye at a slight angle until his T-shirt is spattered syrup. I realize how much he loves the amber view but I know in time he’ll drop the bottle. I gently nudge it away from him, saying, —My turn.
Then I look through the glass at him and say, —You’re my favorite person, Thad.
He watches Julie set his starkly happy pancake on his placemat, and I know he’s hungry. But when I get up to wash my sticky hands at the sink, he jumps up and moves to the floor next to my legs, as if he’s there to catch the tiny drops of water that splash against the stainless steel. He hums to himself while I wet some paper towels and crouch next to him, washing the syrup off his hands and face and T-shirt.
—I’m sorry I had to go to New York, I say. —I missed you.
—Let’s go home and see Mom now, Thad says.
Lloyd gives me a sympathetic look.
—Julie would feel very sad if you didn’t eat your pancake. And I have to talk with Mark a little. Then we’ll go home.
I signal Mark to meet me in his bedroom, then I lead Thad back to the table, where I cut up his pancake for him. He watches, tapping his index fingers against his thumbs as if one hand is talking to the other hand. Once he starts eating, Julie tells me to go on.
Sometimes Mark’s room is barricaded, but rarely on purpose. It’s just that the dirty clothes and dishes and cereal boxes and things end up by the door like he’s planning on taking this stuff out to the kitchen eventually. But he gets caught up with the computer a lot and he trains every day, and I don’t think he realizes he’s creating burial mounds. I have to lean my weight against the door to gain entry. Once I do, I slump down at the bench press, close to Mark’s desk, where he’s already signed on.
He offers me a Coke out of his mini fridge but as I told Julie, I’m just not thirsty, not really hungry. He forces it into my hand, saying I look too thin.
—He doesn’t understand that Allison’s dead, I say. —And he still hasn’t figured out what happened to Tommy and he was right there in the stadium when he died. He saw everything, but nothing sunk in.
—Maybe it’s better if he can’t remember?
—Maybe. But then he asks for them and I can’t produce them, and then he runs and hides under his train table for hours.
He gives me one of his long, considered looks, like he’s about to doctor me.
—I’m worried about you.
—Me? I’m okay.
But I can never bullshit Mark. He pulls up the latest photos circulating the Internet. There I am, running down Fifth Avenue.
—I do look rabid.
I tell him about the kids who dogged me. And then I tell him that I need his help. Mark puts his hands around one of my knees.
—Anything, babe, he says.
I tell him about LeRoy, and outline the business about the contract. He drops his hands and tips back in his desk chair. He says, —I’m going in for you. You get that, don’t you? I’m taking this fight.
—I appreciate that. More than you know. But I have someone else in mind.
—That stings.
—No, listen. Do you remember that woman in Sacramento who projected her avatar into the courtroom where her divorce proceedings were taking place, because she was too nervous to personally attend?
—That woman’s going to fight for you?
—You know, she rigged the avatar to a Living machine.
—Shit, you can’t be serious.
—If she could that, why can’t I put my alter ego into the arena?
Mark cracks up.
—Didn’t they catch her? he asks.
—Only after it was in action for ten full minutes.
—And wasn’t her avatar a troll? Okay, but the thing is, I’m not sure if we can get your alter ego to lose a limb or bleed if she’s hit—without making her look really stupid—like a gushing fire hydrant. And what if she goes crazy and tries to take one of your arms off? But hey, I’ll bring my computer over tonight and we’ll see what we can do. What the hell.
—I’ve already started to