Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  By the time they reach the park, a breeze has kicked up and blown away the cloud cover, leaving the air crisp, clean, and cold. Robin pulls him toward an open square bathed in sunlight, where a bunch of elderly folks bicker over mahjong tables.

  They stop to watch three women and one man in a plastic rain poncho sitting around a card table in flimsy aluminum folding chairs. Robin glances up at him. “You know how to play?”

  “Nope.”

  “And here I thought you were super into games.” Her phone pings, and she pulls it out to text, probably with Greta. She smiles.

  “Okay,” he says.

  Robin looks up. “Okay what?”

  “Now I know how to play.” He gestures to the old man in front of them. “Which is more than this idiot can say.”

  “Hey!” the old guy says, startled. A woman with bright blue eyeshadow bursts into laughter, slapping a knee for emphasis as she translates the exchange into Chinese for her companions. The other two women titter and nod.

  “You want to join?” blue eyeshadow asks. “I'm tired of taking this old fart’s money.”

  “Another time,” Robin interjects, tugging his elbow. “He’s busy today.”

  “When you come back, bring cash,” the lady says, eyeing him. “And your own chair.”

  They continue across the square and into a little garden area with a sand-colored gravel path. The photographer breaks her promise of being inconspicuous long enough to direct them toward a cement bench under a circular red bower. “It’s double happiness,” she says, pointing to the character formed by the wooden lattice. “Perfect for weddings.”

  So they stand and pose, first with Robin in front and then facing one another.

  “Hold hands,” the photographer says. “No, like, so the ring—yeah. Hold it right there.”

  Robin squeezes his fingers. “So,” she says, slowly.

  “Fucking knew you had an ulterior motive.”

  “A girl can’t just take a walk on her wedding day?” She grins like a cat. “I know I didn’t get you a wedding band, but—”

  “I could not possibly care less.”

  “So sentimental. Anyway, what I was about to say was, I do have a present for you.” She opens the clasp of her little purse and pulls out a plain white envelope. The seal has already been torn; she flips it open and pulls out a sheaf of three papers folded in thirds.

  He takes it when she offers it to him, unfolding all three sheets at once with a firm shake. His stomach sinks as he realizes it’s a medical report of some kind. Her name and medical record number are printed at the top. “What’s this?”

  She doesn’t say anything. She just watches his face. Waiting.

  He examines the paper in more detail. “A… what, CT scan?” Then he notices the date of the evaluation: three years ago. “This is old.”

  She reaches over his arm and flips past the first page, and then the second, which is a continuation of the numbers and acronyms on the first. The third page is a letter, also dated three years ago. He is skimming, still not understanding—findings consistent with—mass detected in—recommend follow-up in six months—when she taps the bottom of the page. He follows her finger down to a single word, highlighted in yellow.

  Remission.

  His vision narrows into a thin tunnel of light. The word grows large. Suddenly, he can’t breathe.

  “Cyril. Hey.” She tugs his arm. “Have a seat, big guy. Right there.”

  He looks at the cement bench behind them. It’s wet. He sits.

  “He okay?” the photographer’s voice says, somewhere beyond the event horizon.

  “He’ll be fine,” Robin says. “Keep shooting.” Her face appears in front of his. “Cyril?”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  She gives him a little shove; he moves over, and she sits down next to him. “I had breast cancer. Double mastectomy, chemo, and radiation. It worked. I went into remission.”

  “But it came back.”

  “No,” she says, simply.

  He forces himself to look from the paper to her face. “You—you fucking had surgery. I was there—”

  “Yeah. About a year ago, I started bleeding really bad every month. Like, so bad I’d be out of commission for three or four days. That’s sort of a red flag for uterine cancer developing, and with the type of cancer I had, my risk was higher. The doctors recommended I get a hysterectomy, but I kept putting it off because I’d already put the kids and Greta and her husband through so much, and honestly because it was just tough to give up on the idea of having more kids. Then COVID hit, and you reached your minimum sentence date, so I talked to your lawyer and wrote a letter, and—” She shrugs. “They took like fifteen biopsies while they were in there, just to make sure. Everything came back clear.”

  “But you—you’ve been so tired—”

  “Cyril, I’m not a robot. Even I can only work ten hours a day for six days a week for so long. I mean, I’m recovering from surgery, and I’m going through early menopause. I told you—they keep changing up my medication. My hormones have been going bananas.”

  “But—”

  She laughs. “Are you really gonna argue this? Cyril. I don’t have cancer.”

  He just looks at her, uncomprehending.

  “I’m not gonna die.” She spreads her arms, looking pleased with herself. “Gotcha!”

  Chapter 33

  “This—” he says, barely able to articulate the words. “This is—this is the most fucked up—the most fucked up thing in anyone could—”

  “Oh?” she says, archly. “More fucked up than lying about your identity for seven years?”

  “I honestly don’t even know.” He shakes his head. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Good. Then we’re even.”

  “Are—are you telling the truth? I mean—this isn’t some—”

  “Some extra meta layer?” Her grin widens. “If it was, how would you know?”

  Disbelief gives way suddenly, like a broken dam. He wraps both arms around her, squeezing her so hard she coughs, and has himself a good long cry. It doesn’t matter that she’s lied. All that matters is that she’s not going to die.

  Eventually, the floodgates taper off. When he releases her, she tugs the handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to him. “Figured you’d need this.”

  He blows his nose, loudly. “You’re gonna have to give me some time,” he says. “To, uh, get used to this.”

  She shrugs. “I got time.”

  “I just—why would you—I mean, even Greta?”

  Robin laughs. “For a devout Christian woman, Greta Cooke is surprisingly willing to lie. Although I’m pretty sure the only reason she agreed to play along is because she was sure you’d get fed up and leave.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Greta, I just—” He gets to his feet, takes a step, and then turns, shaking his head. His skull is pounding. “All of this. Everything. I—”

  “What do you want me to say?” She spreads her hands. “That I never meant to let it go this far? That I planned to tell you I didn’t have cancer after the surgery? I could tell you I only kept going because I realized your insane fucking puzzle box mind wasn’t gonna let me in unless it was the last possible option.” She sucks in a breath. “But that would be a lie.”

  “I’m getting the feeling I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering whether anything you say is true.” Which is, ironically, exactly what he deserves. Or perhaps it’s not ironic at all. Perhaps that’s exactly the point. He looks at her. “You planned this.” All of it. From before he’d even gotten out of prison.

  She takes a step toward him, and then again, until they’re close enough to touch. She places both hands on his chest and tilts her head back to look him in the eye. “You thought you could own me, Cyril. Keep me in a little box on your desk and pull me out whenever you wanted. But you were wrong.” Her fingers curl, gathering his shirt into her fists. “I'm not yours. Never was, never will be.�
�� She pulls him down, until her lips are close enough to brush his ear. “I broke you,” she whispers. “And now you’re mine.”

  She releases his shirt and steps back. Her eyes bore into him, hard as black diamonds. Her face is flushed and filled with triumph.

  He stares, uncomprehending. Or not wanting to comprehend. He looks at the photographer, still standing there snapping photos of his bloated, tear-streaked face. It clicks.

  “This is it,” he realizes. She’s played him for a fool. Beaten him at his own game. Ridden him farther than he could have possibly expected her to go. “This is the end.” She’s gotten her revenge.

  There’s no anger. In fact, there’s a kind of blunt, cauterized satisfaction in knowing she’s gotten even. But mostly he’s just... empty. He looks, stupidly, at the concrete bench behind him, and then at her, and the photographer. And then he walks away.

  Free.

  “Cyril? Cyril! Jesus Christ, where are you—Cyril!” Robin’s heels clop after him. He turns—just in time to catch her as she leaps into his arms, knocking the air out of his lungs.

  “What the—”

  She is laughing. “Oh my God, Cyril, I married you!” She presses her forehead to his, arms cinched tight around his neck. “Listen to me, you colossal idiot. This is not the end. This is where we begin.”

  Epilogue

  I’ve made up my mind to delete this absolute fucking masterpiece of masochistic masturbation probably about fifty times over the past five years. Nobody likes looking at themselves in the mirror, especially when the asshole looking back is me—in the figurative sense even more than the literal. Thing is, it’s not just me anymore, is it? It’s your mom and your sister and you, too. Plus my therapist said it would be “counterproductive.”

  Your mom’s gonna think you’re too young to read some of this shit, and maybe she’s right. She usually is. But hell, you know what sex is, and don’t think I haven’t overheard the language you use with your friends. (Seriously, kid, be a little more discreet, okay? Your mom doesn’t need to hear those words coming out of her baby’s mouth.) If reading about your mom gets weird, well… you know how to skim. I guess what I’m saying is, read as much as you want, but maybe don’t mention it to your mom for another year or two. She’s already pissed I let you read Game of Thrones.

  Just—damn it. Look. What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry about how I reacted when you sprang those papers on me. I know it was a big deal for you, and believe me when I say it’s a huge-ass fucking deal for me. I just—I dunno, maybe reading my vulgar autobiographical fanfic will help you understand that my acting like an asshole was not about you. It’s just me. Being an asshole. Which I try my best to keep on the down-low with you. Your mom already knows. Anyway.

  Here’s the thing.

  Fuck.

  I’m not supposed to say shit like this because I’m technically not even related to you, but you’re the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I love you, kid. I always have. You and your sister are the very best of the two people I loved most in the world and you’re better than either one of them.

  I don’t deserve you any more than I deserve your mom, probably even less, but if signing the papers and making it legal will make you happy, I’ll do it. And I swear to God I’ll try not to be an asshole. It’s just… it’s gonna take me a while to get used to having you call me Dad.

  Acknowledgments

  When Surviving Cyril came out in March of 2017, I had no intention of writing a sequel. Robin was headed off into the sunset, alone and free. Like the characters in Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac, the play from which I had drawn inspiration, Robin and Cyril were destined for bittersweet tragedy. No self-respecting woman could possibly go back to Cyril after what he’d done.

  Then, in what I am sure was meant only as a complimentary off-hand comment, librarian Robin Bradford tweeted that she regretted not being able to include Surviving Cyril in a romance roundup because the ending didn't include a “happily ever after,” or HEA, in the parlance of the genre.

  Exactly, I thought—crafting an HEA for my characters was impossible!

  Impossible...? Well. If there’s one thing I like more than thumbing my nose at genre convention, it’s a challenge.

  Which is all to say: Robin, I blame you.

  I’m kidding, of course. But when I started this project in the fall of 2017, I quickly realized I’d bitten off more than I could chew. That's four years from first draft to final product. While my progress was delayed by health issues and a worldwide pandemic, getting into Cyril’s head was also the most difficult narrative challenge I have ever tackled. It was often frustrating, demoralizing, and emotionally exhausting—but I am intensely proud of the result. I hope readers will agree.

  First thanks go to my husband, Kelson Hootman, who to my astonishment continues to take this whole “writing thing” seriously. Your unflagging support means the world to me. Next in line are my parents, John and Linda Biggers, who basically bear responsibility for the person I am today—for better or worse! Thanks for letting me be me.

  It will not surprise anyone to learn that this book has been through a dizzying number of revisions. I had the privilege of trading manuscript critiques with six incredibly talented writers: Laura Santi, Karien van Ditzhuijzen, Hilary Wright, Lily MacKenzie, Julie Campbell, and Hilda Hoy.

  I would be nowhere at all without the women who welcomed me as the fourth and final member in their writing group. Week after week, Janet Schneider, Valerie Stroller, and Susan Segal pored over every last sentence of this book, offering insight that allowed me to cross the finish line with my last big revision. Thank you for keeping me grounded whenever I try to get too clever for my own good!

  I also want to thank the writers I have connected with online, through both Binders and the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, who have provided both moral support and feedback on questions of craft. Your time and generosity have been greatly appreciated.

  Last but certainly not least, my thanks go to you, dear reader. Publishing is a long and lonely road, and as a very small fish in a very big pond, I can genuinely say that every reader counts. Thank you for choosing to spend your time with these absurd characters, whom I have grown so much to love. I hope you love them too.

  Also by Ramsey Hootman

  Courting Greta

  Samuel Cooke knows most women wouldn't give him a second glance if he were the last man on earth. He's the cripple with crutches, the nerdy genius everyone feels compelled to mother. So when he ditches his career to teach high school programming, romance isn't on his radar.

  Perhaps that's why Greta Cassamajor—the sarcastic gym coach with zero sense of humor—catches him off guard. Samuel is certain she won’t accept his dinner invite, so when she does, he’s out of his depth. All he knows is that he'll do whatever it takes to keep her as long as he can. Pretending he's got his class under control? Easy. Admit why he ditched his career? Um, no. That would require honesty. And if there's one thing Samuel can't exist without, it's the lies he tells himself.

  * * *

  Surviving Cyril

  When Robin Matheson's husband is killed in Afghanistan, she finds herself an outsider in a community grieving for the hometown hero it never really knew. At least she can cut ties with her husband’s obnoxious best friend, Cyril—a 500-pound hacker who didn't even bother to come to the funeral.

  Unfortunately, her three-year-old decides Cyril is now his best buddy, and Robin can't bear to take anything else away from her son. A few hot dogs and video games won't do any permanent damage… right?

  Cyril doesn't magically transform into a good person—or even a decent one—but he does prove to be a better role model than Robin expected. Gradually, she also begins to realize that Cyril may be the one person who truly understands the magnitude of her loss.

  He also knows far more about her husband's death than he’s been letting on.

  otman, Cyril in the Flesh