Her closet, almost deep enough to qualify as a walk-in, is in a state of organized disarray. Shoving aside winter coats and spare quilts reveals a space heater and a stack of plastic storage bins stuffed with kids’ schoolwork and art. On top sits a handcrafted wooden box, which, upon opening, he finds sectioned into a grid of small compartments. He fingers through agate and mother-of-pearl, remembering the occasions that prompted the gifting of each piece of jewelry. Tavis had presented her with the matching earrings and necklace for their first wedding anniversary. The pendant rimmed in gold was an apology for his second deployment. When she wears jewelry—which is not often—she looks like a queen.
He digs through the upper shelves, finding only more blankets and a thick folder with legal documents pertaining to the purchase of the house he is standing in. No letters. No lies.
He ends his search where he ought to have begun: her computer. That’s where his talents lie, and it’s there he’ll find the evidence to corroborate her deceit.
She’s logged out of Gmail, but her password is saved in the browser, so he doesn’t even have to do any real hacking. He braces himself for the inevitable note from a lover, but her inbox, like her text history, is mundane. Work. More work. Emails from the school district and the kids’ teachers. A few notes from Cooke’s wife: What would Seth like for his birthday, will Nora eat butternut squash, and so on. Robin has always been a bit of a loner, but her inbox suggests she’s given up on cultivating a social life entirely.
Her browser history is equally bland. DIY YouTube videos, bookmarks of several Pinterest pages but no account of her own, online banking... nothing but the essentials. Her Facebook account still exists, but it’s been deactivated for five years. She has no Instagram or Twitter presence; no Tinder or Snapchat or whatever the cool kids are using these days. It’s as if, in his absence, she’s erased herself from the internet. He can’t say he blames her; when he’d dumped the classified intel and made Tav’s death national news, the press had descended upon Robin en masse. To protect herself and, more importantly, her children, she’d had to shut down every public aspect of her life. And had decided, apparently, never to risk opening herself up to such scrutiny again.
The groceries arrive. He waits until the delivery woman returns to her car, then opens the door, lugs the bags inside, and assembles a platter of BLT’s. Food prep drains the reservoir of his frustration, and when he installs himself on the couch with a full plate, he makes the magnanimous decision to let Robin’s private life remain private, at least for the time being.
Instead, he Googles himself. The top result is a Wikipedia page, followed by a few articles about his impending trial, and then his plea bargain and sentencing. He sorts by “news” and “most recent.” There are a few stories about his release, but they are perfunctory at best, buried in the general deluge of current events. In 2020, he simply isn’t headline news. Good.
Browsing his usual online haunts is not as simple or mindless as it once was. He’s managed to keep up with major world events by word-of-mouth and television, but his knowledge is shallow, lacking nuance or detail. The internet is alive, ever-changing, and without having been immersed in its flow, the current has passed him by. Jokes, memes, opinion pieces, even the way people use emojis and punctuation—all of it has continued to evolve in his absence, and now feels as though it’s written in a dialect tantalizingly close to his own.
When he wearies of tumbling down rabbit holes of outdated information, he redirects to practical matters: resetting passwords and reactivating accounts, where he can remember. He regrets not having left himself an encrypted document with these details organized in spreadsheet form; he had always relied on his own memory to serve as his most secure vault, but at some point, his brain had decided to prioritize the orchestration of dungeon crawls to keep himself sane. He doesn’t feel compromised, but five years baking in a central California sauna has doubtless blunted his edge.
He checks the time, then takes his empty plate back to the kitchen, setting Robin’s laptop on the dining table as he passes. He’s loading the plate again when the light from a stained-glass window, flecking his arm with blue and green, brings his thoughts to a halt. He’d seen nothing in Robin’s inbox from her mother. Nor on her phone. Were they on the rocks again? The prominent display of the older woman's artwork in the kitchen windows suggests not.
He returns to the dining table, opens Robin’s email, and searches for “Glennis.”
He is staring at a chain of emails from a funeral home director when Robin shoves in the front door. “Hey,” she says, clomping past him into the kitchen. With her comes the scent of fir and fresh soil. “Oh—good, I was hoping you’d have something ready.” She comes back, stuffing a triangle of sandwich into her mouth, and stops behind the dining chair. “Find anything juicy?”
After Tav’s death, Cyril had tripped the breaker on a chain of events leading inevitably to prison in the confidence that Robin would be better off in his absence. He hadn’t thought of it as deserting her; it was absurd that she’d decided to look to him for comfort in the first place. She was a survivor, and she’d had her mother to lean on. But the emails on Robin’s laptop are four and a half years old.
Robin leans forward, squinting at the screen he hasn’t bothered to hide. A crumb tumbles down over his shoulder. “Oh. Yeah. Between you and her, that was a pretty crappy year. Not that the one before it wasn’t. Or the one after.”
“What happened?” Glennis was old, but not ancient, and had always seemed energetic.
“Stroke, they think. She was driving on that oceanside stretch between Ventura and Santa Barbara, hit the median and rolled. Nobody else hurt, thank God.” Her words are clipped and firm, suggesting frequent recitation of this story has blunted the raw edge of grief. “I was up here with the kids, working on Cooke’s place, and Greta, she—” Her narrative cracks slightly as she reaches the end and extemporizes. “She’s not the most touchy-feely person, but she kind of took me under her wing. Her husband says she lost a daughter, a long time ago, and... well. When this wreck went up for sale, I decided to stay.”
“All a part of God’s plan, I’m sure.” He says it, with quietly devastating sarcasm, not because he believes it, but because it was what Glennis had written to her daughter not long after Tavis died—which Cyril knew, of course, because he read Robin’s email. The woman had loved her daughter more than life itself, but nobody had ever claimed tact was her forte. Robin had shed furious tears for hours.
She does not cry now. For a moment she is still, and he listens to her carefully controlled breath in his ear. Then she straightens. “Must be so satisfying to be you,” she says, to his back. “Do whatever you want, say whatever stupid shit comes into your head, and damn the consequences. I mean, people fantasize about that, and here you are living the dream.”
“Yeah, it’s worked out beautifully.”
“Is it worth it?”
Worth five years in prison? Maybe. Worth his best friend’s life? He doesn’t look at her. “It’s not that I want to be this way, Chica. It’s just pointless to pretend I’m not.”
Even with signs mandating masks and lines marked out in six-foot sections, the DMV somehow manages to remain the same as it always was. Cyril, as much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, is not.
After half an hour in a line that winds around the block—“Hey, we’re making good time,” Robin says—and a temperature check, they’re finally granted access to the building. Robin points to a kiosk in the corner, then takes the liberty of pushing the button and tearing off the number it dispenses. “You need what, a renewal?” When he doesn’t answer, she leaves him standing in the foyer to go hunt for the correct paperwork. “Found your line,” she says, when she reappears. And then she takes his arm.
He jerks away. “Fuck off.”
She lets out a short breath, puffing her mask out. “Fine. Follow me. Assuming you can manage that.”
She pokes at her phone while t
hey wait in the next interminable line, texting Greta to let her know they’ll be late. He is stuck staring down the half-dozen pairs of eyes which have come to rest on his unwieldy mass. This used to be simple: if people stared at him in public, it was because of his size. He either ignored them, or, if they decided to get confrontational, demolished them with a few scathing words. In a battle of wits, he could always win. Now he can’t tell whether it’s his size that draws curious gazes, or if they’re frowning at Cyril Blanchard, hacker and traitor. Probably both. Then a toddler in a stroller one line over starts bucking against her seatbelt and shrieking, and he is no longer the center of attention.
He shifts his bulk from one foot to the other, attempting to relieve the perpetual ache in his knees and lower back. Folding chairs line the edges of the room. Stepping out of the six-foot square he and Robin occupy to grab one would take ten, twenty seconds at most. He won’t.
“Chill, big guy.” She’s checking her email, using a thumb to flip through coupons and back-to-school offers. “Nobody’s gonna jump you.”
“That’s not—” He cuts himself off as heads turn, and forcibly lowers his voice to a hiss. “I’m not that fucked.”
“I can literally feel you steaming.” Robin glances up and, seeing his stormy glower, tucks her phone away. She folds her arms over her chest. “What’s eating you? Wait—are you pissed at me?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
She blinks, slowly. “I literally got you released, Cyril. You’re sleeping on my couch. And now I’m chauffeuring you around town, holding your hand through your prison PTSD or whatever the hell is wrong with you, and you still don't believe me when I say I want you to...” She hesitates. “Stay.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t believe you.” There’s no rational reason for her to want this. Him. If that is, in fact, what she meant when she put her hand on his cheek. She only wants him to think that’s what she means, so he’ll say something stupid, and then she can laugh at his expense. He knows how this game is played. “This is bullshit.”
She casts a helpless look around the DMV, as if trying to locate the source of his insanity, and then shrugs. “Look, I don't know what else to tell you, Cyril. You need evidence of my sincerity?” She cocks a suggestive eyebrow. “Happy to provide proof here and now, if you want it. Just say the word.”
Do it, a part of him says. Call her bluff. Take this smug bitch for all she’s worth and throw her away when, inevitably, it goes south.
He can’t. He won’t. Confessing his desire would require dismantling a part of his emotional armor he knows full well could never be rebuilt, and he will not let her break him.
He is already broken.
“No.” Yes. Fuck. He is a goddamn fool. He puts out a hand to brace himself against the line marker, but the elastic ribbon gives in to his touch. There is nowhere to go. Everything in his peripheral vision melts into a pulsating haze. The only thing solid is her.
Then his number’s up, and for the next thirty minutes he’s filling in bubbles on a test so simple a baboon could ace it, reading off letters with one eye covered, taking a photo, and finally securing a printed-out provisional license.
“North Street,” Robin says, when he needs to supply a residence. “Healdsburg, nine-five-four-four-eight.”
Outside, clear of the building and other people, he yanks his mask off and wipes the dampness from his face. Robin stops beside him, using a hand to shade her eyes as she surveys the lot. In the courtyard behind them, a woman talks loudly on her phone, held out flat about six inches in front of her face, mask over her mouth but not her nose. The voice on the other end of the line chatters back.
“Tell me,” Robin says, tucking her mask into her purse. “Why do you think I’m doing this? Taking you into my home, letting you hang out with my kids—what, exactly, do you think I’m lying about?”
“Well, for starters, whoever you’ve been fu—” He cuts himself off, too late, choking on the fury that rises into his throat. His hands are shaking. He clenches them, and then shoves the crumpled printout into a pocket. He will not look at her breasts. “Seeing.”
Both of her eyebrows arch. She turns to face him, and the veil of caution which has heretofore masked their interactions falls away, revealing genuine surprise. “You—” She points an index finger at his face and then lets it drop, jabbing his belly. “You let me fuck a complete stranger for seven years—marry him—give birth to his children—and now you’re jealous?” She lets out an incredulous laugh. “That’s refreshingly cliché, Cyril.”
“Tavis was not—”
“A stranger? Not to you, maybe. But I haven’t a clue who my husband was, Cyril. Not a one.”
“He—”
“No.” She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “You don’t get to tell me who he was. I’m willing to forgive, but that ship has sailed.” Her hand flattens against him as she leans in. “I don’t know what you think you saw in my email,” she hisses, “but I’ve dated exactly two guys since Nora was born. Neither one made it past first base. The end.”
He forces himself to look her in the eye. Five years isn’t so long he can’t still read her with a glance. She’s not lying. Not this time. The woman in the courtyard, having concluded her phone call, gives Cyril a you’re in trouble now look as she skirts around them to the parking lot.
"But you knew that,” Robin says, giving him a little shove. “Because you know me. So what is it, Cyril? Seriously?”
He doesn’t want this. Not here, not ever. He steps off the curb and starts across the asphalt alone, as if they’re not going to end up crammed into the cab of her truck anyway. He hears the swift clump of her footsteps behind him, and then feels a tug as she grabs the back of his shirt.
He swings an arm back, freeing himself from her grasp without turning around.
It doesn’t matter. In the end he reaches the rear bumper of her truck, and there’s nowhere else to go. She stops behind him, and he hears her pull out her keys, but she doesn’t move to open the cab door.
His sigh comes out a low growl. “It’s not—What I did, I—” He shakes his head. Robin is attempting to go on with life as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn’t fucked with her so thoroughly and for so long that she will never be able to untie all the knots; as if discovering the truth hadn’t destroyed her; as if he weren’t personally responsible for the death of the father of her children. Not for a moment does he believe Robin can turn her back on a thing like that. Not ever.
But it’s not just that. It’s that she reached out to free him, too.
“Look,” he says, finally, turning to face her. “Either you’re crazy, or this is a trick.”
Robin lets out a bark of laughter. A man passing by on the other side of the row of cars looks their way, eyes crinkling above his paper mask as he mirrors her broad smile.
Cyril’s blood boils. “You think this is funny? I’ll show you—”
“Hey.” She puts out a hand, stopping short of touching him this time. “Just—” She shakes her head, eyes closed. “Cyril. You built your entire—” She searches for the word, then lifts her hands, shaping them as if gripping an imaginary basketball. “Your everything around the absolute certainty that I’d never, ever give you a shot. Now I’m offering you one, and you can’t deal. I mean, come on.” She grins. “It’s either hilarious or tragic, and let me tell you, I’m fresh out of tears.”
The ride from the DMV to Greta’s is silent, but the kids inevitably break the tension and then it’s a rush to get them home and into their uniforms for “socially distanced martial arts on the plaza”—yoga, basically, Robin admits, but it’s better than nothing—except that the pants are in the dryer, she thinks, and the belts are in the closet, maybe, no, wait, hanging on the back of the bedroom door—and you can’t wear long sleeves under your gi, Seth, you’ll get sweaty; yes, I know you get sweaty anyway, but I don’t want you to pass out or—you know what, never mind, do what you want, you’re nine, but you
’re taking a shower when you get home. Then Nora lets out a long, low fart and runs away, cackling.
Cyril wants this. All of this. Deeply and desperately—even more so, knowing it will be lost. He hates her for dangling this illusory carrot, even if it’s what he deserves. He can’t have it. But he cannot refuse.
There are only two banks in Healdsburg, neither of which has his money, so she runs him south to Windsor after dropping the kids off, walking him into the lobby like he’s her fucking third child. “I don't need you to—”
“Martial arts is only forty-five minutes,” she says, “so let’s make this quick.”
He sits across from her in the waiting area, neither of them speaking, until a woman in a beige suit takes him to a desk once walled in by beige partitions, now rearranged to surround the entire area, like a castle wall. She balks at his provisional license, but checks in with her supervisor and gets the go-ahead. The details take five minutes at the most, and then he’s done. It will be two-to-five business days before his card arrives in the mail, but they allow him to withdraw five hundred dollars in cash.
“That’ll cover about two days of groceries,” Robin notes, when he returns to the waiting area, shoving the wad of twenties into one pocket.
“Jesus Christ,” he snaps. “Would you give it a rest?”
She rises and follows him out, pumping a dollop of hand sanitizer from the complimentary stand in the entryway and offering a nod to the bank employee who holds the door for them so they can leave without touching anything. “What, harassing you? I think I’ve earned the right.”
“Pretending we’re bosom buddies, or—whatever the hell you think we are. You’re not fooling anyone.”
The lot behind the bank is empty except for her truck. As they walk toward it together, Robin tugs her mask off, checks her phone for the time, and then tucks it back into her pocket. “I get that all of this seems sudden to you, but the world didn’t stand still while you were gone. Believe me, I was angry. For a long time.” She flashes a tight smile that only accentuates the pain in her eyes. “I could probably fill a book with all the ways I imagined killing you.”
Cyril in the Flesh Page 7