Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  “Heaven forbid I disappoint.” Cooke tucks a hand under one knee and, with a quick, practiced tug, drops one foot and then the other to the floor. Seated upright, he makes a few careful adjustments to the sleeves and collar of his button-down shirt. He looks abruptly younger, more animated—a puppet master well versed in crafting the illusion of life.

  “Well?”

  He exhales another dry laugh. “Blanchard, it’s taken five years to repair the damage you did to my company in a single day. We’ll never get another government contract again. You may have my political sympathies, but if you think I can possibly justify hiring—”

  “Not you, fucktard. You have contacts. Friends.”

  Cooke’s left eyebrow slides upward. “For the sake of argument, we’ll assume I haven’t already called in every favor I could in the process of resuscitating my business. What makes you think any of my ‘friends’ will hire you?”

  Is he playing stupid? “You know what I can do.” If there were vulnerabilities in a system, no matter how small or Byzantine, he would find them. Work that took most securities firms weeks and a team of personnel, Cyril could accomplish in days. After exposing the most glaring oversights, he’d often be called back months later to test the revised system. One job for the price of two. Hackers didn’t even bother trying to infiltrate systems they knew he’d worked on because his fixes were considered so impenetrable.

  “Oh, better than anyone.” Cooke leans forward, over his knees, and snags a corner of the blanket, which had fallen to the ground. His brow contracts as he pulls it, end over end, into his lap. “But at some point, being good just isn’t... good enough.”

  Cyril senses an awareness in those words—not that Cooke is privy to the dismissive responses Cyril has elicited when reaching out online, but as if he can easily guess. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Cooke’s cool blue eyes meet Cyril’s. Searching. Then he sighs. “Nobody’s told you.”

  “I’m not playing your fucking games, you little—”

  “Look up the Castro Valley shooting.” Cooke shoos him with a flick of his fingers. “Leave, unless you want my wife to—mm. Too late.”

  “The fuck?” He has no idea what to make of Cooke’s words, but Greta’s firm footsteps sound in the hall, and he looks up as she rounds the corner into the living room. Her eyes go first to her husband; she places one large hand on his shoulder, as if reassuring herself that he is there, and whole. Cooke puts his hand on hers, giving it a little squeeze. And then she raises her eyes to Cyril.

  He expects fury; a tongue-lashing, at the very least. But the expression on her face is not anger. It’s exhaustion. As if she can’t summon the emotional energy necessary to chew him out. Instead, they share—something. A look. A fleeting moment of mutual understanding. She, too, knows the special desperation of loving someone who may, in an instant, wink out like a star.

  But it’s not like that, with Robin. She’ll be fine. Of course she will.

  Cooke clears his throat, and Greta’s face shutters. Whatever it was, as far as she’s concerned, it never happened. She lifts her other arm, hefting two child-sized backpacks straining at the zippers, and motions Cyril toward the front door. “They’re playing out back. We’ll go through the gate.” She shakes her head when he opens his mouth to protest. “Don’t worry, they have masks. They needed to burn off some energy. Desperately. You—” This last is directed at her husband, with irritation.

  “Will stay put. Yes, yes.” He waves her away, as if dismissing a servant. “Go on.”

  Her frown says she will deal with her husband’s nonsense later. Outside, Cyril takes the backpacks, waiting as she turns to shut the door. “What are these for?”

  She tugs a rumpled N95 mask out of one pocket and slides it over her face. “You need to take them.”

  “The backpacks or the kids?” He doesn’t bother with his mask; cotton’s not going to do shit for smoke.

  “Both.”

  “Oh. Great. You just decided this?” He follows her down a ramp which leads from the porch to the side of the garage—it's such a natural extension that he doesn’t immediately realize it’s sloped. Robin’s handiwork. As is the side-yard gate that Greta pauses to unlatch. He runs a hand over the top of the fence. “Your husband—”

  “He’s fine.” Her clipped reply bears the edge of something deep and raw. “Just—tired. How is Robin?”

  “Fine,” he says, tossing the word back with a sneer. “Just ‘tired.’”

  If looks could kill, the one she levels at him might have reduced an entire town to ash.

  This is when it occurs to him, belatedly, that the disdain writ so plainly on her face is not secondary, on Robin’s behalf, or even banal physical revulsion. She hates him because of what he’s done to her—and, more specifically, her husband. Obviously, there was fallout from hacking Cooke’s company, but he, Cyril, is used to thinking of his exploits in broad, corporate terms. It’s always been about challenging the system, for him; nothing personal. Cooke still seems reasonably well-off, but who knew what he'd gone through to preserve his comfortable upper-middle-class lifestyle? Maybe he’d had to sell his condo down south; restructure and downsize his company; lay off employees he considered friends.

  This asshole’s not going to apologize, but maybe he doesn’t have to be a complete tool. “She’s in pain,” he admits. “But better. I’ve been trying to keep her off her feet.”

  “Trying.” The word is flat. Heavy with disapproval.

  “Well, I tried tying her to the bed, but the screaming got on my nerves.”

  Greta exhales a sigh of weighty disapproval. She steps through the gate and, leaving it open, heads down a concrete path toward the back yard. Halfway along the length of the garage she stops, so abruptly that Cyril, following, nearly runs into her.

  “Uh—”

  “His respiratory system is compromised,” she announces, without turning around. “My husband. The smoke doesn’t help.”

  “Oh,” Cyril says. “Uh. Okay.”

  She keeps walking.

  The kids don’t notice their entry into the back yard. They’re too busy cavorting in what is apparently this sour shrew’s personal fantasy fairy garden. At least, it would be, on a sunny day. The smoke reduces the variegated colors to rusty reds and browns. Seth sits on a swing suspended from an orange tree in the back corner; it’s obviously not made for more than swaying, but he’s doggedly pumping it as high as it’ll go. The lower half of his face is covered with a close-fitting black neoprene mask, with circular discs on either side for replaceable filters. “Wow,” Cyril says, “you have some sort of black market contact?”

  “A friend at the hospital. I put a couple of N95’s in Seth’s bag.”

  “Nice.” It takes him another moment to spot Nora. Instead of steps, the ends of the L-shaped back deck curve out and down in a gentle oval, meeting at a wrought iron table in the center of the garden. Artistic, but also accessible; Robin’s work again. Nora, masked in pink with hair done up in braids fastened with translucent jewel-toned balls, crouches beside the table, half-under a bush bursting with red flowers. Her fingers manipulate a couple of slender blossoms which are clearly engaged in deep conversation.

  “Robin has done a lot for us.” Greta bends, plucking a tiny weed from a barrel of begonias or pansies or whatever. “And she can take care of herself. But if you—”

  “If I hurt her, I’ll be swallowing the business end of your shotgun. Got it, thanks.”

  She treats him to another long, withering stare. Then she turns, shaking her head in disgust, and pulls a couple of loops of garden hose from the coil hanging on the fence.

  “Look, lady—believe it or not, I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to make her happy.”

  “Then you’ve done a piss-poor job, haven’t you.” This is not a question.

  He shrugs. Even if she’s right, he owes this woman nothing, least of all explanations.

  She points the muzzle of
the sprayer at his chest. “Do better.”

  He snorts. “Why do you think I’m still here?”

  She turns the sprayer on the barrels by the fence, not bothering to hide her eye-roll. “You’re a man and she’s an attractive woman. I know exactly why you’re here.”

  “Hope springs eternal.” He delivers the line with snide sarcasm, but it’s not a lie. That this woman can even consider his potential for intimacy with Robin buoys him up like a balloon. Or maybe it’s that the unfiltered smoke is starting to make him light-headed. Either way, her next comment catches him off guard:

  “I can see why she likes you.”

  “You can?” It’s easy to convince himself that Robin is manipulating him; much harder to imagine this woman fibbing on her behalf.

  “No.”

  This is the moment at which Seth notices them, shrieks “Cyril!” and goes hurtling off the end of the swing. He lands with a thump next to Nora, showering her with loamy soil. Her response is an inarticulate screech. Then she looks down at her flowers, tiny trumpet bells now filled with dirt, and bursts into tears.

  Greta sighs, cranks the spigot off, and wades into the mess: pulling Seth to his feet, giving him a quick dusting-off, and then dropping to one knee to help Nora restore her fairy circle and clear the dirt from her blossom-dolls.

  “Sorry,” Seth says, without prompting. He darts an anxious, apologetic glance at Cyril.

  “Come here, kid.”

  Seth gallops over. “Is Mom better?”

  “Not all the way. But she misses you. You ready to come home?”

  The brilliance of Seth’s smile could light up a black hole. He collapses against Cyril, head buried in his stomach, arms stretched wide.

  Greta enters the house through one of the sliding doors on the back deck and returns with a paper bag, which Nora loads up with her flower collection, plus the few she plucks as she wanders toward the gate. Eventually, she is persuaded to join Seth in the truck.

  After belts are buckled, Cyril shuts the passenger door. Greta follows him around the front of the vehicle. When he reaches for the handle, she places a hand, palm flat, against the door.

  “Am I being detained, officer?”

  Her face is dead-serious. “You don’t have much longer.”

  “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Greta steps back. “She waited five years. If you think you’ve got another five to get your act together, you’re kidding yourself.”

  “Waited?” He snorts. “Trust me, she hasn’t been—”

  Greta exhales disgust. But there is a little bit of disappointment, too. “You’re even stupider than you look.”

  Jesus. “Lady, there are so many comebacks to that line, I can’t even pick.”

  Chapter 18

  Cyril snags an arm from each child as they drop their backpacks and attempt to rush the couch. “Hold it, guys.”

  Seth stops and redirects his attention; Nora wriggles and screeches, then falls limp in Cyril’s grasp.

  “There will be no jumping on your mother. Okay? She’s still healing. So be”—he edits out the word fucking—“careful. Got it?”

  Seth nods; Cyril lets him go.

  Nora scowls, crossing her arms and giving him a pouty hmph. But when she sees Robin embrace her brother, she flails her arms and whines, “I’m careful! Lemme go!”

  He walks her to the couch and sits her down next to Robin before releasing her arm. She’s exactly like Seth was, when he was little: sincere as sunshine, with the attention span of a gnat.

  Robin hugs the girl, tight to her chest, and then leans back, running a hand over the braids sprouting from her daughter’s head like so many antennae. “Hey, cutie. Did you have fun at Greta’s house? She sure is getting good at doing your hair.”

  Nora bobs her head to one side and then the other, listening to the clack of the plastic balls at the ends of her braids. “Yep!”

  “She dumped her milk all over the table,” Seth announces.

  “Seth,” Robin warns, reaching out to give his arm a gentle squeeze. It’s as if she hasn’t seen her children in years; she can’t stop touching them. “Let her talk.”

  “That’s what I wanted to do,” Nora says.

  Robin frowns. “You spilled your milk on purpose?”

  “No you didn’t!” Seth interjects, unable to contain himself. “It was totally an accident!”

  Nora sticks her chin out, doubling down. “I wanted to see my milk on the floor!”

  Seth is outraged. “You’re lying!”

  “Hey.” Cyril, halfway to the hall with the kids’ bags slung over his arms, drops them beside the dining table and motions to Seth. “Come give me a hand in the kitchen.” They may not be jumping on Robin like a trampoline, but she doesn’t need them playing verbal ping-pong for her attention.

  Seth looks stricken. “But—”

  “You’ll get your turn. Come on.” Cyril raises his eyebrows to indicate he’s not fucking around, and the boy dutifully rises and plods after him into the kitchen. “Here.” He opens the cabinet above the fridge and hands down a quick-prep box of mac and cheese. “You’re gonna need a pot.”

  “I’m making this?” Seth is incredulous.

  Cyril pulls salmon and asparagus from the fridge. “Are your fingers broken?”

  Seth rolls his eyes—an unusually tweenagey reaction, from him—but squats down affably to hunt through the pots and pans in the cabinet to the left of the stove. “Nora really did spill the milk on accident.”

  “I believe you.” Since he’s at the fridge anyway, Cyril does the kid a favor and pulls out the milk and butter, lining them up on the counter next to the stove.

  “She always does stuff and then says she meant to. Or she’ll just, like, make up stuff that didn’t even happen. She lies all the time.”

  “I think your sister’s idea of reality is just a little more... malleable than yours.”

  Seth rises, pot in hand, and squints at him. “What’s that?”

  “Malleable? It means she’s five and she doesn’t understand the difference between reality and fiction. Even her own.”

  “How does that even make sense?”

  “I dunno, kid, but I think most kids are like that.” Seth had always been an exceptionally literal child—on one of the many occasions he’d tagged along with Tavis to visit this asshole, he’d entertained himself by crawling around the granny unit on all fours, barking. When Cyril had inquired whether the doggy would like a doggy treat, Seth had sat up on his three-year-old haunches, frowned in a way that suggested deep concern for Cyril’s mental health, and said, “No. I boy. Just pretend!”

  “Were you?” Seth’s question pierces the memory like a pin.

  “Was I... what? Lost in my own little fantasy world?” If only. That particular talent had taken him years to develop. “I... don’t remember. Look, first you gotta fill the pot with water.”

  Dinner is salmon for Robin, macaroni and cheese for the kids, and both for him, with an asparagus risotto on the side. Nora loves asparagus, it turns out, and Seth insists she’s going to have stinky pee (“It’s true! Really! I’m not kidding!”) until she shrieks and bursts into tears. Robin looks across the table at Cyril, and although she does not say the words, gratitude is written in her eyes.

  Then she notices the kids’ backpacks, still lying where he tossed them in the corner. “Why—”

  “They’re staying,” Cyril confirms. “Surprise.”

  Her face brightens. “Seriously? You changed your mind?”

  “Not my choice.” He shrugs. “Greta had their stuff packed and ready to go.”

  “Oh?” The delight on her face gives way to concern. “Is everything okay? She didn’t text me.”

  “She said her husband wasn’t feeling great because of—”

  “Oh, the smoke,” Robin finishes, punctuating the air with her fork. “Right. I completely forgot. The last fire season just about killed him.” She spears a chunk of salmon.


  Seth breaks from the conversation he’s having with Nora long enough to interject: “He was coughing a bunch.”

  “Mm.” Robin swallows. “First big project I did was to install vapor barriers in the attic and under the house. Then I replaced the entire ventilation system. It’s all HEPA certified. But you still gotta open a door now and then.”

  More often with kids, Cyril guessed. “Well, the guy looked like death warmed over.”

  “Oh, he always looks like he's about to croak.” She laughs. “He’s probably fine. Greta’s just paranoid. I mean, justifiably. But COVID’s sorta tuned it up to a whole ’nother level. I’ll text her.” Robin reaches for a back pocket that doesn’t exist, since she’s still wearing nothing but the shirt that looks, on her, like a dress. “Uh, my phone—”

  “Stay put.” He shoves back from the table. The kids’ plates are fairly well picked over. “Guys, it’s time to—”

  “No!” Seth and Nora whine in unison.

  “Please?” Seth adds. “Just a little longer?”

  Cyril had been about to say that it was time to clean up, but he’s not one to pass up an opportunity for leverage. He holds up a finger. “One, you guys help me clean up the kitchen. Two, your mom goes back to the couch. Three, you guys brush your teeth and get your pajamas on and I will read you one and only one bedtime story. And then it will be bedtime. Deal?”

  “Deal!” Seth shouts.

  Nora bolts for the hall.

  “Hey!” her brother calls. “Where are you going?”

  “Pajamas!”

  Seth pounds after her. “That’s step three! You can’t do that first—”

  “I wanna!”

  Cyril runs a hand over his eyes. “Oh my God.”

  “Two kids, four times the work.” Robin sits forward slightly, brushing crumbs off her shirt. “I’ve been a parent for almost a decade and I still don’t understand how it’s possible to love them so much when all they do is make me want to scream.”

  “They’re fucking exhausting.” He circles the table and gets a hand under her arm as she stands.