asks.
—Yes.
Though now that I think about it, I guess I haven’t.
—Do you think Thad’s predictions are getting a little worse? I ask.
—It’s possible he needs his meds rebalanced.
—Maybe he needs to get off his meds.
God, she’s even dressed like Jackie today, in one of those straight, trim suits, belted at the waist, a smart little jacket. Black, of course, for mourning. She looks as weary as I am.
—Don’t start, she says.
—Okay, well... I wanted to tell you I’ve decided to get a full-time job. To help out, I say.
—I spoke with the president of Wives College again. Their doors are wide open and she’s assured me they could offer you a full scholarship. You and Uber could have a long, protracted engagement. That would give you time to think things through.
—I already know how to dress a wound. I know the bylaws, how to comport myself in public.
She unpins her pillbox hat and puts it down on the table next to her.
—How to comport yourself in public? Like making insane statements about wanting to be a gladiator?
—I got tongue-tied. Can we just let it go?
She rubs her fingers into her face as if the deep musculature is in pain.
—I meant to say wife, gladiator’s wife.
—No you didn’t, she says.
—How do you know what I meant to say? All I can think about right now is Tommy.
—I just do, and yes, that’s all any of us are thinking about.
—Okay, well, maybe if it’s a choice, I’d rather fight for something than have it carved out for me.
I ache when she picks up the hat and spears the stiff fabric with the pin. I know she’s at the outer limits of frayed, but she insists on talking.
—You make my entire life sound ridiculous, she says.
—You chose your life. And that’s a whole lot different than someone assigning a husband to you because of some obscene rule. And by the way, it was your husbands who taught me how to use a sword.
—What are you talking about?
—You don’t remember the plastic sword and shield Mouse gave me, with the vinyl belt and greaves? I was six, Allison.
—That doesn’t sound like Mouse.
—I don’t think my being a girl, or a gladiator’s daughter, even occurred to him. If he had played ice hockey, he would have slapped blades on my feet and pushed me onto a rink.
—He was just having a little fun with you. Mouse could be a great kidder, dear.
But my memory is vivid here. While we trained in the backyard Allison stood by the kitchen window, her hair thinning and dropping to the linoleum like needles off a Christmas tree. She did her best to go along with Mouse, however, to hold on to her second husband as long as she could. I explained that he padded my sword arm with a manicae, that he told me repeatedly that I was to stab, not slice, if I planned to take out my opponents’ organs, if I intended to win.
—He used to shout, Don’t decorate your opponent! ELIMINATE her!
—He got a little carried away sometimes, I know.
But at that age, with nothing more than the pole of the basketball hoop to strike, the sound clanging in my head, it didn’t feel like he was just getting carried away. Right now, all I can do is look at her.
—Now I remember. I gave that set away to one of the boys down the street after Mouse died. Funny, the things you forget. I know you were spending a lot of time in the library then.
It’s true that I became more content to study weapons than play with them, to learn about Caesars and slaves, the meaning of bread and circus, the Forum...
—And then Truman... I say, referencing her fourth husband.
—What on Earth did Truman do?
So I began to tell her that one day in fourth grade, I was pig piled in the girls’ locker room.
—You aren’t serious, she says.
—Um, that’s what they do to Glad girls.
—Then I must have gone in and talked to the principal, she says, looking nervous.
I explain that the girls were careful and hit my torso and upper thighs only. So you couldn’t
—Yes.
Though now that I think about it, I guess I haven’t.
—Do you think Thad’s predictions are getting a little worse? I ask.
—It’s possible he needs his meds rebalanced.
—Maybe he needs to get off his meds.
God, she’s even dressed like Jackie today, in one of those straight, trim suits, belted at the waist, a smart little jacket. Black, of course, for mourning. She looks as weary as I am.
—Don’t start, she says.
—Okay, well... I wanted to tell you I’ve decided to get a full-time job. To help out, I say.
—I spoke with the president of Wives College again. Their doors are wide open and she’s assured me they could offer you a full scholarship. You and Uber could have a long, protracted engagement. That would give you time to think things through.
—I already know how to dress a wound. I know the bylaws, how to comport myself in public.
She unpins her pillbox hat and puts it down on the table next to her.
—How to comport yourself in public? Like making insane statements about wanting to be a gladiator?
—I got tongue-tied. Can we just let it go?
She rubs her fingers into her face as if the deep musculature is in pain.
—I meant to say wife, gladiator’s wife.
—No you didn’t, she says.
—How do you know what I meant to say? All I can think about right now is Tommy.
—I just do, and yes, that’s all any of us are thinking about.
—Okay, well, maybe if it’s a choice, I’d rather fight for something than have it carved out for me.
I ache when she picks up the hat and spears the stiff fabric with the pin. I know she’s at the outer limits of frayed, but she insists on talking.
—You make my entire life sound ridiculous, she says.
—You chose your life. And that’s a whole lot different than someone assigning a husband to you because of some obscene rule. And by the way, it was your husbands who taught me how to use a sword.
—What are you talking about?
—You don’t remember the plastic sword and shield Mouse gave me, with the vinyl belt and greaves? I was six, Allison.
—That doesn’t sound like Mouse.
—I don’t think my being a girl, or a gladiator’s daughter, even occurred to him. If he had played ice hockey, he would have slapped blades on my feet and pushed me onto a rink.
—He was just having a little fun with you. Mouse could be a great kidder, dear.
But my memory is vivid here. While we trained in the backyard Allison stood by the kitchen window, her hair thinning and dropping to the linoleum like needles off a Christmas tree. She did her best to go along with Mouse, however, to hold on to her second husband as long as she could. I explained that he padded my sword arm with a manicae, that he told me repeatedly that I was to stab, not slice, if I planned to take out my opponents’ organs, if I intended to win.
—He used to shout, Don’t decorate your opponent! ELIMINATE her!
—He got a little carried away sometimes, I know.
But at that age, with nothing more than the pole of the basketball hoop to strike, the sound clanging in my head, it didn’t feel like he was just getting carried away. Right now, all I can do is look at her.
—Now I remember. I gave that set away to one of the boys down the street after Mouse died. Funny, the things you forget. I know you were spending a lot of time in the library then.
It’s true that I became more content to study weapons than play with them, to learn about Caesars and slaves, the meaning of bread and circus, the Forum...
—And then Truman... I say, referencing her fourth husband.
—What on Earth did Truman do?
So I began to tell her that one day in fourth grade, I was pig piled in the girls’ locker room.
—You aren’t serious, she says.
—Um, that’s what they do to Glad girls.
—Then I must have gone in and talked to the principal, she says, looking nervous.
I explain that the girls were careful and hit my torso and upper thighs only. So you couldn’t
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