Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  “Your deodorant and aftershave.” She hikes up her purse strap. “It’s the same scent.”

  The deodorant and aftershave she had stocked the bathroom with. Not just now, but after Nora was born, when he’d come to stay with them. “And I thought I had issues.”

  She grabs his arm and leans in, sniffing again. “Seriously, what is it? It’s so familiar.”

  He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Talcum.”

  “Baby powder?” She laughs. “That’s totally it. But why do you—”

  “It helps,” he growls, brushing past her. “With... chafing.”

  She giggles all the way out the front door.

  He sighs, and then turns toward the kitchen. If he doesn’t have dinner ready by the time she gets home with the kids, they’ll eat him alive. He’s pulling chicken and broccoli out of the fridge when he stops—pauses—and then puts them away.

  Instead, he gets out a mixing bowl and starts to bake.

  A little over two hours later, the front door bangs against the wall. “What smells good?” Seth asks. Nora gallops into the kitchen, skidding to a stop at the sight of the cake. The chocolate frosting, hastily but generously slathered on, glistens a deep, dark brown.

  “Don’t touch,” Robin warns, dumping her purse on the dining table as she follows on her daughter’s heels. “How on earth are we gonna get them to eat dinner now they’ve seen—”

  “This is dinner.” He opens a cabinet and pulls out four salad plates.

  The look she gives him is a mixture of amusement and dismay.

  He shrugs. “It’s not gonna kill them—or you—to have dessert first once in a while.” Using his foot, he pulls open one of the lower drawers, stuffed with miscellaneous cooking and baking implements.

  “It might kill you.” She steps around him and bends, pulling out a cake knife and server. “Here.”

  He looks at the utensils she hands him. Both are engraved with her and Tav’s names and wedding date. “Awkward.”

  “Like everything else isn’t?” Her head swivels. “Nora, I told you—”

  “I didn’t touch!” Her eyes are wide and innocent, but she has a smear of frosting on her cheek.

  “She stuck her finger in,” Seth volunteers. “Right here.”

  “Girl knows what she wants.” Cyril makes a cut on either side of the mark and slides the slice onto a plate. “Have a blast, kiddo.”

  Nora sits on her knees at the dining table, putting a protective arm down around her plate as she digs in. With her mouth.

  “Gross,” Seth says.

  Cyril snorts. “Like you were any better at this age.”

  “Like he’s any better now.” Robin leans over the table and nabs the second slice.

  “Hey!” Seth protests. Not objecting to the commentary on his dining habits, but because he expects to be served before the adults.

  “Hold on, kid. Lemme get some milk.”

  Robin makes an elaborate show of inserting the first bite into her mouth as Seth watches, open-mouthed and mute with outrage. But when the combination of cake and frosting register on her tongue, her eyes roll upward and she sags dramatically against the counter. “Oh, Cyril, I forgot about your cakes.” She accepts a mug of milk and drains half of it in one gulp. “I mean, normally I don’t even like cake.”

  “You’re picky about cake,” he corrects, pouring a child-sized glass of milk for each of the kids and, finally, granting Seth his slice. “That’s called being a connoisseur.”

  “What’s conna-sir?” Nora asks, coming up for air.

  “It means snob. Your mom is a cake snob.”

  Seth casts a skeptical eye upon his own untouched slice. “Mine’s crooked.”

  “Hey, I’m all about content, not presentation.”

  Robin snorts and then chokes, coughing as she sets her plate on the table and reaches for a napkin. “Boy, aren’t you.”

  He looks at her. “Oh, are we doing innuendo?”

  “What’s in-your-end-o?” Nora again.

  Robin raises her eyebrows at Cyril. “Not in front of the kids we aren’t.”

  He shrugs. “You started it.”

  “I know, I know.” She picks up her plate and takes another bite. “I’ll be good.”

  Seth looks between them, frowning. “What’s going on?”

  “Eat your cake, kid.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel and pulls up a seat at the piano.

  “Buddyholly!” Nora demands.

  “Aren’t you going to have some?” Robin asks, using her fork to point at her half-eaten slice of cake.

  “I had... plenty while I was baking it.”

  “You? Exercising restraint? Doing manual labor voluntarily?” She shakes her head. “Who are you, and what have you done with Cyril?”

  When she’s in the bathroom that night, he places a glass of cold water on the table next to her bed. He sorts her nighttime pills, leaving them in the little plastic cup she uses for this purpose. He tosses the dirty laundry into the hamper and straightens the comforter, turning down the top edge at an inviting diagonal.

  Robin appears in the doorway, toothbrush tucked into one cheek. “What’s this, room service?”

  “No? I—” He doesn’t have an answer.

  She disappears back into the bathroom and returns, sans toothbrush. “Cyril, if this is some—”

  “I'm not fucking with you.”

  He moves out of her way, but she intercepts him, threading her arms around his middle. When she looks up at him, face glowing with quiet pleasure, he wants to die.

  “I lied,” he says. “About prison.”

  Her eyebrows go up. More puzzled than surprised.

  “Nobody stabbed me. There was some water on the floor in the kitchen, and I slipped and fell against a steel drawer handle someone had half-ripped off.”

  “Okay,” she says, slowly. Still not sure where this is going.

  “And I didn’t have the entire camp playing D&D. It was me and five other guys.” He swallows. "And when I said—”

  She stops his mouth with a finger. “Cyril.” The corner of her mouth twitches, and then her lips widen into a cockeyed smile. “Are you trying to tell me you want to have sex?”

  “Chica.” He looks down at her and comes back to his senses long enough to say, “I have wanted to fuck you every minute of every day since the moment we met.”

  Her left eyebrow arches, and he has the feeling she is stifling a laugh. “That’s... a lot of lost time to make up.”

  He doesn’t say what they both know: that there is no making up the time they have lost, and what time they have left is unbearably small.

  She tosses herself back onto the mattress. “You’re on top.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Uh, yes,” she says, parroting his dour grumble. She grabs both of their pillows. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  He doesn’t move. “Did you fucking Google how to have sex with a fat guy?”

  She cackles. “I totally did. And I’ve got some other tips for you, too.”

  Being loved by her is the most excruciating ecstasy. Once she’s been satisfied, it takes him what feels like an hour to finish. As he rides her, huffing like a locomotive, the rhythm in his head says don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.

  “Whoa,” she says, giving him a shove to the side as his arms buckle. “You’re not having a heart attack on me, are you?”

  He grunts a negative. “I just...”

  “Had sex?” She rolls off the edge of the bed, stepping into her underwear before handing him her half-empty glass of water.

  “Had sex,” he agrees. Everything inside of him evens out into a vaguely pleasant haze. He shoves a pillow under his head and empties the glass, watching as she picks up his shirt and hunts for the neck. “Though I’m sure the quality’s not quite up to your standards.”

  She groans as her eyes roll upward. “I knew this was coming.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  She drops his shirt over her head
, and it unfurls like a sail. “Look. I love both my kids.” She yanks the sheets straight, and, uncovering his underwear, tosses them in his direction. “For entirely opposite reasons. I love Seth for being brutally honest and I love Nora for being a clever little sneak. Love isn’t some homogenized commodity, Cyril. You can’t measure it out in gallons or pounds. It’s…” She holds her hands out, as if to pluck the right words from the air. “It’s... a point of view. It’s seeing someone fully, exactly as they are, and no two people are the same. I love you for completely different reasons than I ever loved Tavis.”

  “Meaning, not sex.”

  “That’s not what I—” She cuts herself off, hesitates, and then sighs. “You need me to be explicit? Fine. Tavis had the body of a Calvin Klein model, and he could go all. Night. Long.” She shrugs. “But it was always kind of... about him? Not like he didn’t satisfy,” she adds, quickly. “You’re just more... attentive?”

  He shoves himself up, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed, and hooks one foot into his underwear. “Are you telling me Tavis didn’t appreciate—”

  “He did, he did. Just not to the same degree, I guess. I mean, having someone obsessively stalk you for a decade is creepy, don’t get me wrong. But I also know I’ve got your undivided attention. When I’m with you, I feel like it’s all about me.”

  “I mean... have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re breathtaking.”

  “See, now, that’s exactly my point.” Her laugh is half a sigh. “To anyone else I’m just an ashy old woman with no boobs. You’re delusional, but also...” She frowns, and then nods as she seems to find the words she’s searching for. “You’re a piano player.”

  “Meaning?”

  She gives him a pointed look, like this should be obvious, and then rolls her eyes. “Meaning you’re good with your hands, Cyril. And your timing is...” She clears her throat. “Impeccable.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I’m better in bed than Tavis?”

  She grins. “Let’s say you’ve got potential. And, you know, it’s also just that I’m not who I was in my twenties. Everything was so... intense, then. Now I appreciate the importance of taking it slow; having someone who makes you laugh.”

  “Humor’s easy. I just say the worst possible thing I can think of.”

  She laughs. “Yeah. Like that.”

  She goes into the bathroom to wash up. While she’s gone, he collects the pillows, piles them against the headboard, and hauls himself into position so that when she returns, she climbs under the duvet and settles against his bare skin. He puts an arm around her, and she exhales a small breath of contentment.

  He knows she will die. But it seems far off from this moment, important but almost, in this moment, irrelevant. He feels satisfied, and comfortable, and...

  Oh. That’s it.

  He’s happy.

  Chapter 30

  Texture. Primer. Paint. Baseboard. Toilet and sink hookups. Cabinets. Outlet covers. Light fixtures. And then the remodel is complete.

  After hauling the last load of odds and ends down to the barn, he finds Robin in the big room upstairs, staring out the picture window. She glances at him over one shoulder as he comes in, and smiles. “Kids?”

  He stops beside her. “Minecraft.”

  She nods an acknowledgement and turns her attention back to the window, exhaling a self-satisfied sigh. “We did it. And whaddaya know? I’m still alive.”

  She means it to be funny. It is not. She hasn’t done anything as dramatic as collapsing or coughing up blood, but in the past weeks she has visibly... slowed. It takes her longer to get out of bed in the mornings; she takes lengthy showers; her movements are accompanied by winces and stifled groans. She keeps a pillbox of painkillers in her back pocket and has, finally, declared Wednesdays to be an extra day of rest. Any attempt to discuss her status directly—not that he wants to—is met with silence. But he has eyes.

  She slips a hand through his elbow. “This is my favorite view.”

  “Just... trees?”

  “It’s so green. I like seeing them from up above. Look.” She points, tracing a line in the air. Seen from a distance, each tree is perfectly ordered, branches arranged around the trunk in spirals or pairs depending on type. The leaves blend in perfect waves of texture and color. “Underneath, everything seems chaotic. Like, branches grow every which way, leaves seem random. Then you get up here, and suddenly everything’s… math.”

  She doesn’t have to explain, because it’s exactly why he loves code. He’s never told her that, not once in all the letters he wrote. Because it wasn’t something Tavis would say, and because… he had never imagined they would have something so fundamental in common.

  “Order out of chaos,” she muses. “Like building a house from plans, except… more.”

  They stand like that for a while, studying the blueprints of the world.

  The next morning, Robin texts him from Greta’s house to inform him that she’s invited the couple over for lunch to see the completed second floor.

  Thanks for the warning, he replies.

  Just be glad I didn’t invite everyone else, too. With Cooke fully vaccinated and most adults now getting the first of two shots, Greta has expanded her Sunday service watch-party from Robin and the kids to a small group of adults as well.

  Cyril is constructing an improvised cheese board lunch when everyone arrives. Nora bursts in first, through the back door, kicking off her patent leather shoes as she skips through the kitchen. Robin, following on her heels, makes an “ah-ah” noise. “You want somebody to trip over those? Go put them in the closet. Seth, go wash your hands!”

  “Somebody” apparently meaning Cooke, who swings himself over the threshold on elbow crutches as his wife holds the door. “The back door?” he gripes. “What am I, some kind of second-class citizen?”

  Robin pulls a jar of tiny cocktail pickles out of the depths of her purse and hands them to Cyril. “The fact that I built that ramp eight months ago and this is the first time you’ve used it tends to suggest you’re a second-class friend,” she returns lightly.

  “Wait,” Cooke says, trailing her as she heads into the dining room, “we’re friends now? I thought I was your employer.”

  “That’s odd,” she says, over one shoulder. “I haven’t seen a paycheck in a while.”

  Cyril puts the pickles in the fridge to chill; Greta, having followed her husband inside, takes Cyril’s place at the cutting board and begins to saw salami.

  “Oh, was I doing that wrong?” he asks, shutting the fridge.

  “I assume you have more than one thing to prep.” She nods to the board. “I’ve got this.”

  This asshole rolls his eyes, but he opens a cupboard and takes a stack of plates to the table.

  “Now, where is this mythical ‘upstairs’ you speak of?” Cooke, standing beside Robin at the stairwell, speaks in a high, nasal tone that is impossible to tune out. He peers after the children as they bound upward. “Ah, yes. Truly lovely. Impeccable craftsmanship. Almost as if it—” he releases the handle of one crutch long enough to flourish a hand. “Goes somewhere.”

  Robin snorts. “Like you care. Table or couch?”

  He nods to the table. “Maybe I do. I mean, what’ve you got up there, frescoed ceilings? Tiles mosaics? Tapestries?”

  Robin pulls out the chair with arms. “Says the man who paid me to furnish his condo with, and I quote, ‘whatever.’”

  Back in the kitchen, Greta is arranging the salami in a line on the plate. Cyril collects four glasses and a couple of plastic cups for the kids and is stacking them to take to the dining room when Greta reaches into a pocket of her pleated khaki pants and produces a slip of paper. “Here.”

  Cyril doesn’t take it. A name—Jorge—and a number are written on it in ballpoint blue. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  There is a crash from overhead, and then a cry. Robin, chatting with Cooke in the dining room, lets out an exclamation of irritation an
d starts up the stairs. Not at her usual jog, but stiff and slow.

  “Jorge is twelve,” Greta says, pronouncing the name with flawless intonation. “His grandmother is a member of my Bible study. She wants him to learn piano.” She places the paper on the kitchen counter and taps it with her index finger. “I told her you were good.” The way she says it sounds more like a threat than a compliment.

  Cyril picks up the note and pockets it. “How much does it kill you to do this for me?”

  Children’s footsteps pound downstairs. “Ms. Greta!” Nora shrieks, bounding into the kitchen and grabbing Greta’s arm. “Come see! Come see upstairs!” As proudly possessive as if she’s done the work herself, rather than everything in her power to inhibit it.

  Greta plucks an olive off the cheese board and pops it into her mouth. “I've seen Robin’s smile.” She shrugs. “Better late than never.”

  “Ms. Greta!” Nora pleads.

  Greta looks down, finally, at the little girl. “I don’t take orders.” Nothing in her voice suggests she is kidding.

  Nora lets her head fall back, mouth open in an impatient groan. “Puh-leeze?”

  “Please come see upstairs,” Seth says, returning to the kitchen to offer an assist.

  Greta nods and permits Nora to lead her through the dining room—giving her husband’s shoulder a brief squeeze as she passes—and up the stairs.

  Cyril pulls the pickles back out of the fridge (not cold yet, but no matter) and uses a fork to scoop some into a dish. He nestles it into the center of the cheese board and then takes the entire production into the dining room, setting it on the table in front of Cooke. “What the fuck do they see in her?” Cyril growls, as they drag Greta upstairs.

  “What, you’ve never craved the approval of a strict teacher?” Cooke grips the arms of the dining chair and lifts himself slightly, repositioning his rear. “It’s like a drug. Earn it once, and you can never get enough.”

  “Not interested in your sex life, thanks.”

  “Ha! That’s funny.” Cooke’s intonation is flat and loud, making it abundantly clear that he finds Cyril anything but. He pulls his phone out of his shirt pocket and directs his attention, pointedly, to the screen.