Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  She leads him along the sidewalk parallel to the plaza, passing other masked pedestrians who either risk stepping into the street in an effort to maintain distance or hurry quickly by. Though a smattering of tourist boutiques have their doors propped gamely open with racks of merchandise displayed on the sidewalk, the handful of shoppers scurry in and out and back to their cars as if rushing to beat an impending storm. There is a collective awareness that this effort at maintaining some semblance of business-as-usual is only temporary. Winter looms on the horizon, bringing with it rising COVID rates and another wave of shutdowns.

  Robin, seemingly unruffled by the general mood, stops to peer into the darkened window of a store which—as the sign on the door explains—repurposes vintage kimonos into dresses and handbags and shit.

  “Isn't that, like, textbook appropriation?” he asks.

  “Like you care. They’re pretty.”

  “Not your style.”

  “No,” she agrees, unbothered by his criticism. “But they remind me of my mom.”

  At the end of the block, they reach a bookstore, its open doors like a lighted beacon in the dark. Robin looks up at him, and he knows that behind her mask there’s an expectant smile.

  “Yeah, no.” He’s gotten through dinner without making a scene. No need to tempt fate by interacting with anymore humans right now. Although, as far as he can see, there’s nobody inside.

  She pulls her phone out to check the time. “Oh, look,” she says, with mock enthusiasm. “If we go home now, I have time to glue up some cabinet doors!”

  “Fuck off.”

  This asshole had stopped going to bookstores well before he went to prison. Before he’d quit going out because of his size, even. He’d stopped when bookstores had replaced their science fiction and fantasy sections with fifteen shelves of Tolkien and a handful of recently released “high concept” titles which inevitably failed to deliver. Oh, and toys.

  “You’re such a snob,” Robin says, when he relates this to her. “Copperfield’s is different. They curate their selection. Go look in back.”

  “Of course it’s in the back.”

  “The perfect place for antisocial assholes like you.”

  “Aisle’s probably twelve inches wide.”

  She gives him a shove. “Go.”

  Not that he’ll admit it, but she’s right. It’s one of those indie shops where shelves are embellished with employee recommendations handwritten on little three-by-five cards. Those he refuses to read, but he also finds a wealth of paperbacks new to him—no great shock after five years in lockup, but these are obviously the sort of niche, lesser-known titles that he’d normally only hear about online, and then only from other connoisseurs. The good stuff.

  He’s picked out a short story collection by Gene Wolfe and the first two books of VanderMeer’s Southern Reach trilogy—which he’d owned but hadn’t gotten around to reading when he went to prison—before an employee spots him. “Good evening! Do you need help finding anything?”

  He spares only the briefest glance at the plump girl with colorfully tattooed arms and retro horn-rimmed glasses. “Fuck off.”

  “Who hurt you, Cyril?” Robin teases, coming around the other end of the aisle. She has a stack of picture books tucked under one arm. “Who made you like this?”

  He shoves the short story collection back onto the shelf—horizontally, on top of the other books. “Who didn’t?”

  She waits as he picks through the remainder of the selection, leaving the books in disarray, and then exhales a sigh. “Tavis,” she says. “Tavis didn’t.” She shifts the picture books to her other arm. “Was that all it took to win your friendship? Not hurting you?”

  “You make it sound easy.” He takes the books from her. “Are you done?”

  She nods, gesturing for him to precede her to the front of the store. “I don’t think I’ve ever come out of here with less than five books for the kids.”

  He bought dinner, and now he buys the books, thumbing the crisp new twenties onto the counter. As if he’s not the guy who’s been mooching off of Robin since he got out of prison, utterly failing at every attempt to secure work. The bespectacled woman packs the books into a white paper bag with the store’s logo stamped in red, eyes trained firmly upon the countertop.

  “Don’t worry,” Robin tells her as she hands the bag around the plexiglass divide. “It’s not you. It’s definitely him.”

  When they cross at the corner, Robin steers him onto a sidewalk path that meanders diagonally through the deserted plaza, more or less in the direction of the truck. They pass a bronze statue of a boy holding a folded American flag to his chest, head bowed. The dedication at the base lists the names of local World War II veterans. Cyril snorts. “Could that possibly be any more saccharine?”

  Robin releases his arm, hands him the bag, and plants a hand on the boy’s head to steady herself as she bends. She scratches an itch on the ankle with the tattoo, and then slips her sandal off. “Apparently the source of a big political dustup here in town, actually.”

  “Who’s going to object to that? Other than me, I mean.”

  “That’s exactly what the city thought, so they let the Lions Club install the thing without bringing it up for a vote. Apparently they forgot a couple of names?” She laughs as she brushes off the insole of her sandal. “I dunno, small town drama.”

  “Jesus. And this is where you decide to raise the kids?”

  Robin drops the sandal and steps back into it. “It’s petty and inconsequential and... refreshing.” She tugs her mask down to her chin. “To know that people can still disagree and not, you know—”

  “Show up with an automatic and slaughter everyone?” Unlike the nutcase who shot up a Denny’s in his honor.

  The silence which follows is sharp. Her eyes flicker up, and he sees he sees that she knew about the shooting, of course. Everyone knew. And now she knows that he knows.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she says, finally. But she is looking at the ground. “A lot of things were your fault. But that wasn’t one.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure my good intentions are a real comfort to those bereaved parents.”

  She chews her upper lip. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Save one kid, two kids die. Seems like a pretty simple equation to me. You can stick your head in the sand all you want, but there’s no reason it couldn’t happen here.” Particularly with him around.

  She looks up. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Holing up in this idyllic little town so I can raise my kids and pretend the rest of the world isn’t on fire?”

  “I’m not blaming you.” He tugs his own mask off and pockets it; there’s no one around. “Cancer is a pretty good excuse to check out—”

  She cuts him off with a snort. “I’m a black woman and a single mother, Cyril. I don’t get the luxury of escape. You get to shut your laptop, and poof—” She makes a fist and then spreads her fingers. “Gone. Me? Last month, I had to tell George—the guy with the cars in the barns?—I had to tell him I wasn’t gonna bring the kids over for cookies unless his wife put away her collection of damn mammy jars. I got the manager at the lumber yard to stop offering me discounts in return for a date, so now I get to listen to him joke with his buddies about how ‘cold’ it is every time I stop in. The week after I bought the house, I took a box of candy and my kids to the police station just to make sure they see my kids as kids. I could say fuck it and move to Oakland, but that’s not better, it’s just a different set of compromises. There's no winning move here. Not for me.”

  “So you’ve given up on trying to save the world, then.”

  She shakes her head. “You don’t get it. I’ll keep fighting until I take my last breath, Cyril.” She pulls her cell phone out and clicks it on, showing him the background photo of her kids. “It's just that I’ve realized my kids are the world.”

  He blinks at the screen, and then at her face. “Is this where you start spouting bullshit about ho
w every person is a universe?”

  “Well, they sure as hell aren’t equations. Look, you saved a kid’s life. And maybe you share some responsibility for the deaths of some others. But if you’re gonna reduce your worth to a formula, you have to add in everything. Playing the piano with Nora. Teaching Seth to make mac and cheese. You and Tavis were always so obsessed with fighting the giants outside the walls, you never understood that the real battle is here, inside. Wading through all the shit but existing anyway—being happy anyway—loving anyway—that's a revolutionary act, Cyril.”

  “Serious question: are you drunk? Because I would have sworn you had root beer with dinner.”

  She spreads her hands, expansively. “If ordinary life doesn’t exist, there’s nothing worth saving. There’s no point in fighting the good fight if that’s all you ever do.”

  They look at one another for a moment. Then she lets her arms drop with a sigh, tucks her hand into the soft crease of his elbow, and tugs him off the path and into the soft, damp grass. With her free hand she fiddles with her earring and then, with a grimace of irritation, tugs one and then the other out of her ears. Lacking pockets, she starts to drop them into the open mouth of her purse, and then, on second thought, reaches for his shirt pocket.

  “What are you—”

  “If they go into my purse, one or both are never coming out.” The button on his pocket flap is caught on a stray thread, and it takes her a moment to work it through the hole. “Do you remember our second anniversary? I mean, I know you wrote the damn card. But Tavis knew he’d be deployed, so he bought these like three months in advance and hid one in—” Her fingers stop.

  “What?” As if he doesn’t know.

  She licks her lips, and then her eyes flicker up, all bittersweet and sad. “I’m an idiot.”

  “No more than anyone else.”

  Her hands fall away from his chest. “You.” She cups the earrings in one upturned palm, letting the golden links twist in the moonlight. “Picked these out. Didn’t you?”

  He snorts. “Tavis bought them.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” She catches his arm, her grip tightening as he tries to turn away. “Answer me. Did you pick these earrings? Yes or no.”

  He shakes free of her hand and backtracks to the sidewalk path, taking the most direct route across the plaza toward the truck. But he is slow and quickly winded and as he passes the fountain at the center of the square, her swift footsteps overtake him. She hops up onto the broad concrete lip, trotting along the fountain’s edge to keep pace and eye-level with him. “You picked out all of his gifts. And planned the surprises, too.” Her path ends, abruptly, as the fountain makes a sharp ninety-degree turn. She stands balanced at the corner, opening her fingers to look at the earrings again.

  “I thought I had it figured,” she says. Not to him, but to the earrings. “Thought I’d sorted the two of you out, column A and column B. But it’s never over, is it?” She glances up. “There’s always more.”

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  She holds her hand out over the water and lets the earrings fall. Plop, plop.

  He turns away and keeps walking.

  She drops back to the grass and follows, falling into step beside him. “Jesus, Cyril. You had me thinking it was just the letters, but he really outsourced everything but the sex, didn’t he?”

  A surge of anger. He knows what she’s trying to do—pin the blame on Tavis. It’s easy to blame a dead man. “That’s not how it was,” he growls.

  “Wasn’t it? All he had to do was give you friendship, and you would have done anything for him. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “It’s not that simple.” He hadn’t just swallowed his own desire because Tavis was his friend, and Tavis had wanted Robin. Tavis had deserved her. And she had deserved a partner who could love her like she deserved to be loved. Even if Cyril had attempted to woo her himself—and even if she had, for some insane reason, responded to his advances—he would eventually have ruined it by doing what he does best: using his words to make her feel small. She deserved more than that, then and now.

  Robin dashes ahead, turning to walk hop-skip backward so he has no option but to speak to her face. “Tavis could have had any girl he wanted, Cyril. Ask yourself—why did it have to be me? You don’t think he knew, in his heart of hearts, that I was the one you loved?”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “No, of course you’re not. Because if you did, you might come to the conclusion that he wasn’t the one being used.” She stops, forcing him to pull up just short of barreling into her. “And if Tavis wasn’t the victim?” She plants a finger on his chest. “That means the sucker was you.”

  He grabs her wrist, meaning to jerk her arm—and the rest of her—out of his way. But he hesitates, and in that moment they both look down at her hand. Her left hand.

  She spreads her fingers, and the moonlight hits the diamond set in the thin gold band. “Did you—”

  His silence is answer enough.

  She turns away, tugging her hand from his grasp. The hunch of her shoulders makes him think she is crying, but then she shifts, slightly, and he sees she is using a thumb and forefinger to pry off her wedding band. It doesn’t come easy.

  “That—that—fucker.”

  “Chica—” He drops the bag of books and then lunges as she takes a long step toward the fountain, arm cocked back to hurl. He captures her wrist in time. “Robin.”

  Her lips press into a hard line of indecision, and then, finally, she lowers her arm and tosses the ring at his chest. “Fine. Take it.” It bounces off his shirt and slips through the fingers of his right hand, but he manages to trap it against his body with his left.

  Lacking a better outlet for her anger, she kicks the leg of a park bench. Gently, since her sandals are open at the toe. “I can’t believe I kept his name.”

  This asshole tucks the ring into his shirt pocket. “Chica—”

  “Don’t fucking try to tell me it was all your fault.” Her hand flutters, indicating him. “You wrote letters. Okay? Tavis fucked me. I had his children. And he couldn’t even pick out the goddamn wedding ring?” Her voice catches, and her eyes gleam with unshed tears. “How, Cyril? How could you love me, and let him do what he did?”

  Robin doesn’t wait for him to get out of the truck. She parks, climbs the front steps, and disappears. When he steps into the living room, her purse is where she dropped it, half open on the floor. The slam which comes from the back of the house is doubtless her bedroom door.

  Greta looks up from the couch, where she is making notes in the margins of a Bible. “Dinner went well, I see.”

  At least she sleeps in. Enduring the inevitable shitshow of dinner was worth it, if only for the sake of fulfilling his half of her ridiculous bargain.

  That’s his first thought, anyway. By mid-morning, his relief has given way to concern. It’s like Nora’s infancy, except instead of fretting that she’s stopped breathing or choked on her own spit-up he worries about an accidental overdose or negative interactions between her medication. That and the fact that increased fatigue could indicate a resurgence of cancer.

  Around eleven, long after he’s fed the kids and set them up in their bedroom with school, Robin meanders in and flops down on the couch. She is dressed in shirt and jeans.

  “Hungry?” he asks, half-expecting her to ignore him.

  “Starving, actually.” She yawns and shifts as she flicks the TV on. “I think my appetite’s finally coming back.”

  He abandons the half-folded pile of laundry and is ten minutes into constructing eggs benedict from a recipe on his phone when he glances into the living room and realizes the couch is vacant. The TV is still on. He lurches into the dining room. “What are you—” She’s halfway up the stairs. “Jesus. Would you come back—” He starts forward, realizes the slotted spoon in his hand is dripping hollandaise, and rushes back to the kitchen. “Damn it.” The sauce is turning into runny scrambled
eggs. He yanks the bowl off the pot of boiling water and drops it into the sink. Probably a loss anyway.

  By the time he gets back to the bottom of the stairs, she’s gone.

  "Your breakfast is fucked!” he shouts up the stairwell.

  The only answer he gets is the kickback of her staple gun.

  “God damn it.”

  Upstairs, he finds her in one of the two smaller bedrooms at the back of the house, lavender kerchief knotted around her hair, stapling gaps in the Tyvek he put over the windows. There are more than a few, because he nailed it up in the dark in the rain in the middle of the fucking night. His back is killing him and he’s out of breath so instead of arguing he walks up to her and yanks the staple gun out of her hand.

  “Hey—!”

  She makes a lunge for the tool, but he holds it up over her head, beyond her reach. “We had a deal, Chica.”

  She glowers. “Fuck your deal.”

  “I was joking when I told Greta I tied you to the bed—”

  “You what?” Her laugh is incredulous.

  “But I swear, Chica. I swear to God I will fucking do it.” He pops the rechargeable battery out of the gun, shoves it through the gap in the Tyvek, and lets it drop to the yard below.

  She turns on him with fire in her eyes. “You.” She slices the air in front of him with an index finger, as if to send him flying out the window after the battery cell. “Do not fuck with my tools.”

  “Your tools can be replaced. That—” he uses the gun to gesture, vaguely, at her torso—“seems like it might be worth, oh, I dunno, slightly more.”

  The fire dims. She goes to the window, pops a corner of the Tyvek off with a couple bumps of her fist, and stares, chewing her lip, at the ground below. She plucks at her shirt with a little sigh. “This temple’s already wrecked, Cyril.” She shakes her head. “I won’t let my house fall apart, too.”

  “It’s—you’re—” Her casual dismissal of the frame he’s so pathetically abased himself to preserve makes him feel oddly defensive. “You’re not wrecked. Not even close.”