Read Girl in the Arena for Free Online

we had it up and running we were able to have dinner with an early Scarlett Johansson, or a projection of Scarlett or a distillation of Scar—we called her Scar—that was very lifelike. I got up from my chair and went over to where Scar was poised, her fork and knife about to dive into her new potatoes. I touched her lips and though they were without real substance, there was a distinct feeling of moisture on my fingertips. She pushed my hand away, or the equipment pushed my hand away, or something in my psyche pushed it away. It’s a powerful piece of equipment, though sometimes I wonder if Allison has the settings right.
    Scar said, — I’m still eating .
    That was kind of spooky.
    We played Foosball with John Lennon, watched Oliver Stone’s  Iraq  with Condoleezza Rice, and painted Christmas gifts with Van Gogh in English translation: placemats, small wooden boxes, and decoupage wall plaques.
    When it was my turn, I asked for Einstein because I wanted to get a better handle on time. It wasn’t about a school assignment and I wasn’t, as Allison claimed, trying to be lofty. I had begun to feel that time would always move at an unwanted pace—too fast in good moments, too slow when Allison is in despair. But when I started to press to get Einstein, Allison discovered that her sixth husband, Diesel, had been added to the Living catalog. She moved the bulky equipment into her bedroom and only turned it on late at night when she imagined I was sleeping.
    Now I throw open her bedroom door and find her at the window, the Living machine going full blast. She turns as I fly into the room.
    —What are you doing? I ask.
    —Shh, she says, pointing to Thad.
    He’s fast asleep, bathed in anime colors streaming from the silenced TV. Thad loves anime. Allison pulls me out into the hallway.
    —Where’s Tommy? I ask.
    —He’s already left for the stadium.
    —Don’t you think he’d be a little upset to learn his double is out there gardening while he’s getting ready for the toughest fight of his life?
    —What’s that supposed to mean?
    —It means you should leave some things alone.
    —You don’t understand, she says, and starts to turn away again.
    —Then make me understand.
    —If Tommy dies, I become this  thing , this widow for life. I’m not even supposed to fraternize with men once he’s gone.
    Tommy is the seventh and seven is the limit, I know. That’s it on this earth, according to the bylaws.  No woman is allowed marital congress with more than seven gladiators,  Bylaw 116. And  Gladiator Sport Association Widows ,  GSAWs ,  are not permitted to fraternize with common men,  Bylaw 118. Allison knows she could lose her GSAW Financial Remuneration Fund if she goes against the rules. Each year she’s been in the GSAW, and with each Glad husband she’s married, her share has grown. But the fund can be demolished by flagrant misbehavior, mine as well as hers.
    —Tommy’s not going to die, I say.
    She begins to pace back and forth in front of the photo gallery she’s made of our hallway. Most pictures are groupings of Glads, like swarming class pictures, and in each, one of her husbands is to be found.
    —Okay, worst case. You petition Caesar’s Inc. and you challenge the bylaws, I say.
    —You don’t get it. I read through the new bylaws again last night. Petitioning isn’t allowed. And if I’m out making a living , who’s at home with Thad? And God knows  you’ll  probably take off.
    —I’m not taking off, I say. Because right now, we just have to get through this match. She seems to calm a little and she puts her hands on her hips and looks back toward the bedroom.
    Now.  I’m not taking off  now,  I think.
    —I was only testing to see if Tommy’s Living version is anything like him. I meant to just turn it on for a minute.
    She looks at me with an almost timid expression.
    —Did you see? I had him wave at you, she says. —I think he was nice and sharp, don’t you? But