Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  “Says the guy who won’t even sleep in my bed.”

  “I—you fucking know that’s not why.”

  “Explain, then.”

  Explain that he’s so fucked in the head that the slightest touch of her hand makes him want to put her nail gun to his head and blow his brains out? She already knows, and nothing either one of them says is going to fix it. “No.” This is just a distraction. “You explain this. Why are you up here? Working? This old hulk is a disaster, but it’s not going to collapse if you neglect it for a few weeks. I realize laying around on the couch is boring as shit, but you have kids. You can’t just—”

  “I already told you.” She looks out the window, shaking her head. “Everything I do is for them.”

  “How does that make any sense?”

  “Because—” She turns to face him, finally, pulling the kerchief off her head as she looks up, meeting his eyes. “Because this is how I want them to remember me.”

  For one vertiginous moment, he thinks she means the unthinkable: that this is the end. That she is actually going to die. But no; it’s only the fear of the thing. She’s already come face-to-face with her own mortality, and she’s terrified she might not survive a second encounter. Life has taught her to expect the worst-case scenario.

  “Chica,” he says. He looks for somewhere to set the gun down and, finally, stoops slightly and lets it drop to the floor. “That’s not—that's not how it’s going to end.” He steps forward, but she doesn’t move toward him, and he doesn’t reach out. Not quite. “Look, I—” He rubs his forehead and looks at the floor. “I know I’m completely fucking everything up, but—you do the radiation and the chemo and whatever the hell else—you fight, Chica, and I swear to God I will be here. For—” He swallows. “For whatever you need.”

  And she laughs. Softly. Sadly. The look she gives him says, surely you already know.

  “What?”

  “Cyril, there’s... not going to be any chemo.”

  Stage 4

  Depression

  Chapter 22

  “I don’t understand.”

  She offers him a small, knowing smile. “You did, a minute ago.”

  He’s been patient. Played by her rules. He made a fool of himself playing nanny, nurse, and even boyfriend on her stupid fucking date—and still, she’s jerking him around. He steps toward her, head lowered and shoulders squared in a way that every prisoner would immediately recognize as trouble. His fingers close around her bicep, hard. “I am done with your games.”

  Robin doesn’t even flinch. She just sighs, as if disappointed in him for making her explain. “It metastasized. I’ve been holding the line at stage four for... a while.”

  “A while? Stage four? What the fuck does that even mean?”

  “Oh, come on.” She shrugs out of his grasp. “Don’t pretend you didn’t google uterine cancer and oophorectomy and whatever else.” She stoops, wincing a little, to pick up the staple gun. “If it was only my uterus they wanted, they could’ve gone in laparoscopically. They didn’t need to cut me open for that.” She checks the tool over, like she’s worried he might have damaged it, like that’s something that even matters, and then crosses the floor to tuck it into the dry bones of an interior wall. “It's everywhere, Cyril. They cut out what they could get. It’ll buy me a few more months, maybe a year, but—”

  “No,” he says.

  “But I’m done with treatment. I'm not gonna spend my last months in a hospital shooting up poison and puking. I’m gonna be here. Doing what I love. With my kids.”

  “How—” But he can’t even speak the words. Everything has stopped. “How long have you—”

  “What, known that I’m dying?” She steps around him, leaving the upstairs bedroom. He follows her past the stairwell—he can hear one of the kids talking on Zoom, downstairs—and into the big room at the front of the house. She turns, seating herself on the second rung of a stepladder, and lifts a hand to examine her nails. “Depends on how you look at it.” She picks at a ragged nail. “I went into remission a couple of times after my mastectomy, but it never lasted long. I got into a couple of different drug trials that helped, but never permanently. I mean, I could keep hitting it with chemo and radiation, but at this point it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Why—why would you—” Why would she do this to him? Or, more specifically, why, in the face of her impending mortality, would she waste even a second of her time on this worthless asshole? Why pick him up from prison? Why bring him to her home, let him sleep on her couch, reconnect with her— “Oh,” he exhales, as it hits him like a wall of water. “Oh. Fuck.” He tries to suck the air back in. Pain radiates through his chest. “The kids. You want me to take the—”

  She laughs. Not unkindly. “No. Greta’s adopting them.”

  Which was why she’d been sending the kids to Greta’s while she was in the hospital, instead of leaving them with him. Why they went to her house for school. To ease the transition. It was also why she’d wanted them back as soon as possible, surgery be damned. Because—oh, fuck. Fuck. She didn’t have much time left with them. But then, why bother with him? “I don’t understand,” he says.

  But oh, he does.

  “You knew this was a trap,” she says, and looks up, finally. Watching his face as the realization sinks in. “Didn’t you? You’ve been looking for the catch. Well, here it is.” She shrugs. “You thought you could have the best of both worlds—a marriage of minds, without all the messy parts like mortgage payments and morning sickness and fights over who left the fridge open. But that’s not how it works, Cyril. You don’t get to turn a relationship on and off like a power switch. When Tavis died, it destroyed me. You know, because you watched it happen. So now it’s your turn. The body of the man I love is gone, but not his soul. You made me love you, Cyril. For better or worse. And now you’re gonna learn what it means to love someone ’til death do us part.”

  He’s got nothing. Nothing whatsoever. He just stands there, utterly bereft, watching her gnaw on a cuticle.

  She gives up on the nail with a sigh of frustration, uncrosses her legs, and stands. “That’s my revenge, Cyril.” She spreads her hands. “I brought you home to help me die.”

  Chapter 23

  Later, when he tries to recall what he said, what he did after she spoke those words, there is nothing. Only a haze of blind fury. Directed not toward fate, or whatever insensate rubric of chaos and chance governs the universe—but toward Robin.

  This—all of this—is her fault. For hiding her diagnosis, for dangling the irresistible prospect of time with her when she knew there was none. And before that, for letting him into her home after Tavis died. For allowing him to fall in love with her children. And even before that, for tolerating his friendship with her husband. For failing to see the lie behind his letters. For being impossible not to love.

  For all of this, he hates her.

  And yet he does not. Not really. Cannot. Will never.

  He finds himself on the sidewalk in front of the doughnut shop, exhausted and pungent with sweat. The light outside is dim, but he cannot tell whether it is dusk or dawn. He looks in through the window at the empty baking racks.

  She cannot do this to him. He will not let her. That’s what he keeps thinking, though he knows it’s irrational. The thing is already done.

  What can he do? Nothing.

  Nothing but watch the only person who has ever made life tolerable suffer slowly and die.

  He wants to die. Perhaps he is already dead. Perhaps this is hell.

  No. This is just a prelude. Hell is what comes next.

  The cowbell clinks. “You hungry?”

  He blinks, and the baking racks are full. Morning, then. “What?”

  A wiry old woman with faded strawberry blonde hair swept back in a hairnet leans out the door, releasing a waft of sugar and warm dough. “You hungry?”

  He is starving. This is how he knows he’s still alive.

  She
wrestles the door open with one foot, dragging a sandwich board out onto the sidewalk. “Don’t worry if you can’t pay,” she says, trundling past him to prop it open on the curb. A crude shelter of two-by-fours and corrugated steel roofing now spans the four parking spaces in front of the shop. Pandemic architecture. “Nobody leaves my place with an empty belly.”

  “Lady, do I look like I need an extra meal?”

  She shrugs. “Ain’t always about the food, honey. Up to you.” With another clink of the cowbell, the door swings shut.

  He continues to stand there, mostly because he doesn’t see any point in moving, as the old woman continues bustling in and out of the shop, bringing a box of napkin-wrapped utensils to set out on the tables under the shelter, and then a tray of heavy brown mugs. An ancient Chevy rumbles up to the nearest empty parking spot. The man behind the wheel is so old and brittle a puff of wind could blow him away, and it takes him a good five minutes to fumble a paper mask over his ears and ease himself out of the truck. He checks himself in the side mirror, using a gnarled thumb to slick down his wiry eyebrows, and gives Cyril a skeptical once-over as he hobbles up the curb and then down again, into the makeshift dining area. “Hey, darlin!” he says, too loudly, as the woman from the shop comes out again with a steaming pot of coffee. “Fill ‘er up!”

  A few yards down the sidewalk, in front of a little drug store, there’s a bank of empty newspaper dispensers, a public telephone with no receiver, and a cast iron bench with about sixty coats of flaking green paint. This asshole takes a seat and, mostly out of habit, pulls out his phone. He clicks the home screen on, and then stares at the background—a photo of Seth and Nora eating chocolate chip cookies—until it goes dark.

  More trucks and an old diesel BMW putter into the lot. Five o’clock in the morning on a weekday is apparently meetup time for bowlegged old farmers in white Stetsons, snakeskin boots, and Levi jeans. The grizzled old guy who’d entertained the kids with his magic tricks the morning after Cyril’s release arrives on his grumbling Harley.

  A leaner motorcycle slides by out on the otherwise deserted street, stopping briefly at the corner. The black-jacketed rider plants a boot on the ground, and his helmet turns to look at the diners. Or Cyril. Perhaps both. The rider pulls his leg up, seems to hesitate as he rolls through the intersection, and then makes a U-turn through the parking lot, coasting to a stop next to the Harley. He pulls his helmet off.

  It’s Greta. Riding a motorcycle. Because of course she does.

  She swings a leg over the back, dismounting it like a horse, and leaves her helmet balanced on the vacated seat.

  He doesn’t tell her to fuck off when she stops beside the bench. He meets her gaze evenly. Not angrily. Just... empty.

  “She told you,” Greta observes. Her voice is muffled slightly by the black cloth mask layered over a disposable paper one.

  Because of course she knew. “Fuck off.”

  Greta lets out a short hm, as if his vitriol were a minor point of interest. She nods at the shanty. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “Why does everyone assume I’m broke?”

  She shrugs. “You buy, then.”

  “Hard pass.”

  “You’re remarkably blunt, for a man who supposedly trades in words.”

  “Yeah, I’m only eloquent in ink.” He uses a hand to wave her away.

  She doesn’t move, and he feels her eyes on the back of his skull as he bends his attention pointedly to his phone.

  “Cass,” someone says, or something like that. It’s a greeting.

  “Morning, Joe. It’s Cooke now.”

  “Right. Sorry. Old habits. Comin’ in? Or out, I guess.” A dry laugh.

  “In a minute.”

  The cowbell clinks. The old woman comes out with a tray of food.

  Greta is still there.

  Cyril shifts. “Look, lady—”

  “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other in the future,” she says, “whether we like it or not. We might as well figure out how to tolerate one another.”

  “Good news—I don’t plan on sticking around that long.”

  She is silent for a moment. And then: “I’ve been teaching for a long time, Mr. Blanchard. I’ve had plenty of students lose a parent.” She punctuates her pause with a sigh. “I’ve seen a few lose both. Trust me when I say Robin’s children don’t need any more burdens to bear.”

  “Trust me when I say they’re better off without me. It’s not my fault she dragged me into this.”

  “In my experience, attempting to deal with the situation at hand is far more effective than resorting to hyperbole.”

  He sighs and clicks off his phone. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you.”

  “Mr. Blanchard, I absolutely cannot wait to leave you alone.” She unzips the front of her jacket, reaches inside, and pulls out a crisp new paper mask. “After breakfast.”

  “Jesus. Fine.” He snatches the mask and puts it on. “Out here? With all your friends?”

  She snorts. “The only option at this hour, unfortunately.”

  He hauls himself to his feet and follows her through the posts and lintel of two-by-fours. Two tables at the far end of the space have been claimed by the coalition early-morning elders, chairs spread out in a loose semicircle. A middle-aged man in a button-up shirt and tie sits alone at another small table, perusing a newspaper.

  When Greta steps down off the curb and into the ad-hoc dining room, every face turns to look. A couple of hands toss casual waves. “Join us?”

  “Not today.” Greta gestures to a table up front, helping herself to a vinyl chair as Cyril does the same. Behind her, one of the old men says, in a too-loud whisper, something about Greta chewing up the big guy and spitting him out. She rolls her eyes and says, without turning around, “I can hear you, Rabbit.”

  There are guffaws, and then—when she shoots them a glare—hurried shushes. The waitress comes back out, walking around the outside of the shelter to deliver a couple of plates, and warns the old men to “behave” before making her way back around to the front. “Glad you decided to come on in. You need a menu, or—”

  “I’ll have my usual.” Greta inclines her head toward Cyril. “Standard breakfast menu. What do you want?”

  He clears his throat. “Two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon. Sourdough toast.”

  The waitress raises her eyebrows over her notepad. “That all?”

  “You expecting me to order the entire pig?”

  “She’s asking if you want a drink,” Greta says, sourly. “Orange juice? Coffee?”

  “Juice. Large.”

  The waitress tucks the notepad into her apron. “Bob’ll have it whipped up in a second.”

  Greta nods. “Thank you.”

  They are alone, or at least as alone as they can be in a parking lot dining room frequented by Healdsburg’s most proficient gossips.

  “So,” he says. “This your morning routine?”

  She gestures at her motorcycle. “Going for a ride, yes. I don’t always end up here.”

  “And your husband?”

  She snorts. “He’ll sleep til nine, if he can get away with it.”

  The idea of this woman—anyone, really—thinking of Cooke as a slacker is laughable. When Cyril had contracted for him, he’d not only answered messages at all hours, but had usually also been in the process of doing half the work himself. Or re-doing it, to his own exacting specifications. “And up past midnight, I assume.”

  She shrugs. “His life.”

  And then it hits this asshole, suddenly, that he’s sitting here having this utterly pedestrian conversation, waiting for his breakfast to arrive, while cancer is eating Robin from the inside out. He rubs a hand over his face and mutters a soft expletive. “I need to piss.”

  Greta nods at the doughnut shop door. “All the way in back.”

  The bathroom, wedged around a corner at the back of a dining room about a quarter of the size of the one in the lot, is
the size of a broom closet. Actually, it is a broom closet, plus a bucket and mop. He manages to empty his bladder and wash his face without getting stuck or breaking anything, though he wouldn’t be sorry if he had.

  Breakfast is waiting when he comes back out. The old codgers go quiet, watching with unrepentantly curious stares as he seats himself and begins to butter his toast. Greta casts a puzzled glance over one shoulder.

  “Everyone's gotta watch the fat guy eat,” he explains. They want to see him stuffing his face so they can reassure themselves they’ll never end up like him. He downs half the orange juice. “They know who I am?”

  “They watch Fox News. How much of their information is accurate, I don’t know.”

  Nobody knows. The only people who understand what he did were the experts at the FBI. And maybe not even them, fully. But every asshole’s got an opinion. “Let me guess—I'm either a vigilante hero or enemy of the state.”

  “Split was about forty-sixty, last I heard. Which was a while ago. The news cycle’s long since moved on.”

  “Good. I guess.” For Robin and the kids, anyway. The rest of the country might be better off if his early release still qualified as the worst thing on the news, but after five years in prison he’s no longer particularly invested in the state of the nation.

  They eat. The eggs are mediocre, the bacon greasy and limp. The biscuits and gravy on Greta’s plate look significantly more palatable.

  “Let's talk,” she says.

  “You don’t have to convince me I have to do this for the kids. I fucking know.”

  “You’re staying, then."

  “I—don’t know.” Not even twenty minutes ago, it had seemed impossible that the universe could continue to function without Robin, and that was precisely why he hated her with every fiber of his being. And then this woman forced him to talk to her and now he’s eating bacon. “None of this makes any fucking sense.”

  “Well.” Greta uses a butter knife to saw off a quarter-sized hunk of biscuit. “You’re going to be miserable whether you stay or go. But that’s nothing new for you, is it?”