Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  He starved himself for what seemed like weeks. He wrote and discarded a thousand confessions. Because he craved the reassuring high of her instant feedback, he composed vows and sent them to her. She loved his words, she said. She could not wait to spend the rest of her life living happily ever after.

  The high lasted only so long as it took to read her enthusiastic reply. Doubt was forever. Inevitably, he allowed himself that one bag of Cheetos, just so he could focus on something other than his hunger, and then it wasn’t just one bag, it was three, and then a frozen pizza, and by the time the tux he’d rented for the wedding arrived he couldn’t get it on. He spent nights picking fights on the internet and didn’t sleep for days. When he finally took a handful of sleeping pills the night before the wedding, he had nightmarish hallucinations of leaping to his feet in the middle of the ceremony to declaim the truth and declare his love for her.

  Instead, when the moment came, he buttoned up the clearance-rack suit Tavis had rustled up at the eleventh hour and stood three feet to the right of where he wanted to be, nails cutting bloody crescents into his palms. Robin's face was luminous as Tavis recited the words Cyril had written for her.

  After that, his hopes diminished in inverse proportion to the expansion of his waistline. But even as vanishingly small as those hopes were, he clung to the belief that deep in her heart of hearts, Robin knew. That she would recognize the truth. That’s how delusional he had become.

  When she graduated, she moved onto the base with Tavis, and when they’d saved up a down payment they bought a fixer-upper in Camarillo, the city where he’d been born. Tavis was on leave again, for a month or however long it was that time, and he’d walked four blocks to the granny unit Cyril called home to catch up on Robin’s correspondence and play a couple hours’ worth of Counterstrike. He’d overstayed that estimate by an hour when his phone pinged once, and then again.

  “She’s gonna be pissed if you’re not home in time,” Cyril said, knowing Tavis knew this perfectly well. “Her mom’s coming for dinner, remember?”

  Tavis hadn’t moved from his position on the worn leather couch: feet kicked up on one arm, Xbox controller in hand. “Just one more level. It’s fine.”

  Not two minutes later, his phone pinged again. Cyril knew he was asking for trouble, but he never was any good at keeping his mouth shut. “You should let her know if—”

  “I’ll deal with it,” Tavis snapped. Then he sighed. “I know you think you know everything about her, but she’s my wife, dude.”

  As if Cyril didn’t know. Writing to Robin when Tavis was home was necessary—it was how she had become accustomed to communicating the most important things—but too risky to do more than once or twice a week. Even then, he had to stick to general platitudes and remember to fill Tavis in on every last detail. But if Robin got angry at Tavis, she’d put it in an email, and then it would fall to Cyril to smooth over. It would, at least, be some meaningful contact from her during what was, ordinarily, a lean season for him. So he shrugged. “Fine.”

  The next interruption was not a ping, but a knock. Before Cyril had time to haul his ass out of his computer chair, the door swung wide, and there she was, framed by the pink-purple light of dusk like some modern-art Madonna. He froze. It wasn’t often he saw her in the flesh.

  Tavis was on his feet in an instant, sputtering apologies.

  Her face was angry—but not really angry. Cyril could see that much. “You were supposed to be home half an hour ago,” she said, arms folded over her chest in exaggerated outrage.

  Astonishingly, Tavis couldn’t see the smile hidden behind her eyes. “I’m sorry, Robbie,” he said, “I thought—”

  “I couldn’t wait,” she said, raising her voice to drown out his next excuse. “For you to slink in halfway through dinner. Not unless you wanted my mom to figure it out first, Tav.”

  “Figure out, uh, what?” His electric blue eyes flickered to Cyril’s face. Was there something he should have known? Something conveyed by email that Cyril hadn’t relayed? It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  Cyril shrugged. This was news to him.

  Robin pulled one hand out of the crook of her arm. Cyril had never actually seen one in person, but he recognized the object she raised like a trophy: a pregnancy test.

  Tavis blinked at it for one uncomprehending moment. “Is that—” And then he choked out a laugh. “Robbie, oh my God!”

  Robin threw her arms around him, eyes shut tight. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

  There had been many final moments—so many Rubicons crossed—prior to their arrival at this place and time. But this moment, here and now, was Cyril’s last stand. His final opportunity to repent and wipe the slate clean. What he and Tavis had already done to her was bad enough. But to involve a child? Unforgivable.

  Tavis looked at Cyril over Robin’s shoulder, one eyebrow raised in a helpless question: What now? Should they confess?

  Cyril hesitated for half an instant, and then gave the slightest shake of his head. (What, like it’s a surprise? Tavis knew Cyril was a coward, and he fucking left it up him.)

  “I—I’m so happy,” Tavis stuttered.

  And that was it. Finito. Robin, fluent in Italian, would have said it thus: Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

  Cyril had seen the sign, and stepped through the door.

  Chapter 4

  Now

  He cannot sleep.

  The frequent flyers had warned him he wouldn’t, and he didn’t believe them. He hasn’t had a solid nights’ rest in five goddamn years. He’d have given his right arm for one night on a good bed. Here it is, and Jesus, apparently there’s not enough snoring or jerking off.

  As soon as he is sure she is asleep in her room, he rifles through the medicine cabinet. Not because he’s an addict, but because pills are currency. Power. Unfortunately, she is a responsible mother who doesn’t leave her pills or power tools unsecured. The good stuff, assuming she has any, is probably stashed on a high shelf in her bedroom closet.

  Maybe not because of the kids. Maybe because of him.

  You don’t have to do this, Tavis would have said, leaning his rangy frame against the bathroom door. But Tavis wasn’t here—not that his presence ever stopped Cyril in any case.

  He goes through her fridge next. Mostly what she’s got is fruits and veggies, but there’s milk and cheese and half a loaf of bread, too, so he takes it all to the table and sets to work. When his stomach is so full his gut aches, he returns to the kitchen and digs through the cabinets until he unearths a Costco-sized box of chocolate-laced protein bars. He consumes maybe ten, standing at the counter, plucking at his sweat-dampened shirt. Then he finds a couple of ice cream sandwiches hidden in the back of the freezer, and there’s room for nothing in his mind but the thought of how full he is and how much it hurts and goddamn, it feels so fucking good.

  He walks slowly, carefully, into the living room. He turns the lamp on, and then the TV, volume low, before lowering himself to the couch, stabilizing his belly with one hand. His waistband stretches wire tight. When he polishes off the last of the protein bars, the ones he brought with him, he is breathing hard.

  Chapter 4.5

  Six years ago

  “I can’t do this anymore.” In all the years Tavis and Cyril had performed this strange, tangled dance, each of them must have said these words a thousand times. It was Tavis who spoke that day, and even over the fragmented Skype connection Cyril had known that this time, he was for real.

  Their arrangement, the one where Cyril handled all the complicated emotional labor and Tavis got the girl, couldn’t work. Not up close. Not long term. Robin would inevitably discover the truth.

  “You can’t rush this,” Cyril said. “We need a plan. Give me some time.”

  Maybe he’d even started working on that plan. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been borrowing time. Tavis never found out one way or the other, because the Afg
han kid who worked odd jobs for him went missing. His father and uncle killed. When Tav’s inquiries unearthed a trail of corruption, his superiors ordered him to look the other way. He declined.

  Saving the kid was a phenomenally stupid idea. Cyril told him as much. Repeatedly. “Getting yourself court-martialed or shot to shit is not an exit strategy. What if you get your legs blown off? Or your arms. You want her to spend the rest of her life wiping your ass? Come home, buy her some fucking flowers, and get on your knees.” He knew her. Better than Tavis, it seemed. “Believe me, she doesn’t want your blood.”

  Cyril had given up hope of making this right when Robin got pregnant, but Tavis still thought he could pull it off. He convinced himself this could be his road to salvation. If he bucked command and saved the kid, he’d be a hero. Then, when he told Robin the truth, she’d have to love him in spite of his sins. And if she didn’t—well, at least he could face himself in the mirror again. Cyril’s letters tumbled to a footnote, in his mind. As, perhaps, they always had been.

  Dumbass.

  But Tav's mind was made up, and if he was going to do this thing, Cyril couldn’t let him go it alone. He did securities work, on an off, for a software company with a defense contract, which meant half the work of gaining access to the information Tavis needed—winning the trust of people with the right clearances—was already accomplished. Tavis knew his command was hiding information involving the whereabouts of the kid, and working from the back end forward, Cyril was able to tell him exactly what to look for in the architecture of the local system.

  Would Tavis have gotten himself killed if Cyril hadn’t helped him penetrate his command’s classified server? If he hadn’t shown Tavis how to cover his digital footprints, would he have realized the futility of his efforts and given up before the wrong person caught on and blasted him to kingdom come with an IED?

  These are the questions that will torment this asshole for the rest of his life.

  Chapter 5

  Now

  His best friend’s widow is perched on the end of the couch. She wears pajama pants and a ribbed tank top over her ubiquitous sports bra, knees pulled up to her chest, hands wrapped around a cup of steaming coffee. Morning light forms a soft halo around her face, and because of this he wonders if he is dreaming. There were a lot of dreams like this, in prison. None of them ended well.

  She glances at him. “You sleep all right?” Her eyes flicker back to the morning show, muted with the captions on. She raises the mug to her lips. “After you raided the kitchen, I mean.” There is no trace of sarcasm in her tone. Only truth, seasoned with a dash of dry humor. Motherhood has made her unflappable.

  This asshole pushes himself upright, tugging his shirt down over his belly, running a hand over his face to clear the sleep from his eyes. “Better than usual.” Also truth. “I have to piss.”

  Strange to say that, and then just... go. Alone. Behind a solid door that locks. He checks it three times.

  Even more strange: she is still there when he returns, hugging her knees, sipping coffee. Her toes curl over the welted edge of the cushion.

  He lumbers into the kitchen, wincing as his knees crack. Stained-glass sun-catchers, the handiwork of Robin’s mother Glennis, cast a rainbow of leopard spots over his pale skin. He hadn’t touched the cereal the night before, and there’s still a little milk, so he pours them each a bowl of mini wheats. As if this is totally normal for him. “Here,” he says, shoving one at her face.

  “Thanks.” She lets her feet drop to the floor and makes room for her mug on the coffee table, pushing aside design magazines and empty protein bar wrappers.

  He watches her lift the spoon to her mouth. Everything still feels vaguely unreal.

  She glances up. “Well?”

  He sets the bowl next to her mug before lowering himself onto the couch. Then, even however many pounds down he is, this asshole is still too fucking fat to reach his own cereal. Her eyebrow quirks, and she watches, unperturbed, as he rocks himself forward, hooks a foot around the leg off the coffee table to pull it closer, and reaches again.

  On television, the morning show hosts are interviewing an epidemiologist. They pepper her with questions about the pandemic but won’t let her get a word in edgewise. Five minutes in, nothing of substance has been said, and they cut her off to break for commercials.

  Robin spoons a couple of sugared squares into her mouth. Chews. “So here’s the thing,” she says, swallowing.

  He looks at her.

  She looks back. “I forgive you.”

  He does not ask what for. The answer is written in her frank, unwavering stare. Everything.

  Does he break down, or stammer, or cry? Don’t be naïve.

  He laughs. Then this asshole heaves himself to his feet and shuffles into the kitchen, still chuckling, as if she’s told a rather amusing joke and he’s still replaying the punchline in his head. He pours another bowl of cereal before remembering the milk is gone. He opens the fridge, but there’s not much left he hasn’t already consumed. Yogurt? Eggs? It’s been five years since he’s had a decent fried egg. Peanut butter, the real kind. Cantaloupe? Shit, just pick something.

  And then she is standing next to him, looking in. Her bare skin brushes the hair on the back of his arm. He moves away.

  “I mean it,” she says.

  “I’m sure you think you do.” She’d been angry—so angry—when she discovered that Cyril, not her saintly departed husband, was the author and perfecter of their strange romance. For seven years she had shared her most intimate thoughts with him, thinking she wrote to the man who shared her bed. Cyril had hoped to bury the lie with Tavis, but she’d found out the truth the day she drove him to prison.

  Robin knows well what he did to her; what she doesn’t know is what he did to Tavis. And that’s the rub.

  He grabs the eggs from the fridge. “Funny how you didn’t mention this yesterday.”

  “You’ve been gone for five years. I needed to know you were still... you.”

  The mixing bowls are not above the stove, which is where she kept them in her Camarillo home. Instead, he locates them to the right of the sink, down on the bottom shelf. To pull them out, he lowers himself to one knee and bends, belly brushing the floor. Like everything else, he considers this her fault. “You mean the traitor who killed his best friend and fucked over his widow?”

  “Wow.” She turns, framed by the rectangle of stainless-steel fridge doors, and sucks a breath in through her teeth. She is beautiful when she does this. She is beautiful doing anything. “You do not make this easy.”

  He said it out loud, and still she doesn’t believe him. Not really. He can see it in her eyes. She thinks he’s exaggerating. Because, like her husband before her, she will always give him the benefit of the doubt. And look where that got Tavis. This asshole hooks an arm over the edge of the counter, exhaling a grunt as he hauls himself back to his feet. “So now you’re expecting... what, gratitude?”

  Of course she expects gratitude. It’s what any normal, functional human being would feel.

  Except that between Tav’s death and this moment lie five fucking years of silence. This asshole deserved every hellish minute, it’s true; but if she’d wanted to extend an olive branch, why wait until now? He’d had nothing but time, in prison. And now—now, suddenly, he’s supposed to believe she’s decided to forgive?

  No. There is no gratitude.

  What he feels is resentment. Fury. Hate.

  That’s right. He hates her. He has always hated her. He could not have done the things he did, otherwise. Why? That much should be obvious. She is kind and generous and strong. She is all he cannot ever have. He doesn’t delude himself. He has known it from the start. And what he cannot have, he will destroy.

  He could tell her these things. He could make her weep. He doesn’t, because she won’t believe. She offers absolution because, all evidence to the contrary, she still believes he’s human, deep inside. Like most decent human bei
ngs, she can’t wrap her brain around the possibility that she might be standing in the presence of a monster. But he seemed so normal! That’s what they always said about killers, wasn’t it? It’s not his fault people are idiots.

  There are six eggs in a carton which once held twenty-four. He cracks them all into the bowl. The whisk, at least, is where it ought to be. Milk would have made this better, but he’s always flexible when it comes to food. He’ll make do with cheese.

  She stands in the open threshold between the kitchen and the dining room, watching as he heats the oil in the pan and tips in the eggs. When it becomes clear that he is not going to speak, she slips around him and out through the laundry room in back. He watches through the colored glass over the sink as she tromps down a path worn through the weedy hill of the back yard, disappearing into the barn below.

  He is plating the omelet when she returns, hefting a transparent plastic storage bin filled with the things he left behind. She carts it through the kitchen, kicking the laundry room door shut with a heel, and drops it on the dining table. It contains mostly legal documents, obsolete electronics, and a few childhood photographs of Tavis he cannot throw out but will never look at again.

  “Thought maybe you’d left some clothes.” She glances at him through the open doorway and gives the lid a rap with her knuckles. “Anyway, there’s your stuff.” She pulls a phone out of her back pocket and pokes at it, frowning. Then she sighs and looks up. “Is it really nothing to you?”