Cyril in the Flesh

by Ramsey Hootman

  Nora says nothing, but she takes the string from him and flaps it up and down a few times. When he shrugs and returns to tuning the piano, she leans against him and watches as he works his way through another two notes. “I’m bored,” she announces, finally.

  “Feel free to do pretty much anything else, kid.”

  “I wanna play a song.”

  Of course. “Okay, I’ll take a break.” His arm is tired, anyway. He clips the hammer and mutes back into place, leaving the front board off. “Look, you can see how the keys work.”

  This is fascinating for about sixty seconds.

  “Okay,” he says, when her experimentation with the keys devolves into pounding, “you’re gonna knock them all out of whack again.” He puts a hand over hers to prevent her from slamming the keyboard. “You want to learn a real song?”

  She looks up at him, and he can see the wheels turning behind her bright eyes as she contemplates doubling down on the pounding, and then, thankfully, decides to accept his offer. This kid’s going places. She nods.

  He can’t really provide a lap, but he scoots the bench back and turns sideways so she can stand between his knees. “Okay,” he says, clearing his throat to give himself a moment to think. “You, uh... you see the pattern here? The black keys? Three and two. Three and two.” He rolls his knuckles over them to produce a simple tune.

  Nora giggles. “Me!” she says, and instantly reproduces the pattern on a lower octave.

  “Hey, you’re a natural!” And he’s not kidding—when he shows her middle C, she proceeds to pick out all the other Cs on the keyboard, leaning dramatically left and then right to reach. Within minutes, she’s duplicating his fingering as he walks her through the chords of “Heart and Soul.” When she gets it, he joins in with the melody. She giggles, dropping behind a few notes, and when he fills in her gaps she loses the thread entirely. He reaches around her on both sides and segues into “Everyday,” dropping down an octave because his baritone can’t match Buddy Holly’s hiccoughing tenor.

  Nora jumps when he belts out the first line, and then adds another little hop of delight, turning to stare at his mouth with an expression of pure wonder as he taps out the staccato notes. “More!” she cries, nearly drowning out his “a-hey-hey.”

  The chorus is all he remembers of the lyrics, so he cycles through that a few times and then hums the rest.

  “More!” Nora shrieks again, grabbing his shirt and jumping. “Sing it again!”

  He laughs as she knocks his arm and he loses the thread of the song. He ends it with a couple of sharp, final chords. “Give me a break, kid. I’m rusty.” And out of breath. But it feels... good. Uncomplicated. He'd played music like this with Seth, what seems like a lifetime ago.

  A movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he glances up to see Robin standing in the dining room, phone held up to snap a photo. She slips the phone into a back pocket and mouths, silently, the two words he’s forbidden her to say: thank you.

  Seth saves him the necessity of a response by barreling out of the hallway behind her, yellow belt flying. “Ready!”

  Nora looks up at Cyril, appealing to him with pleading eyes. “More! Please?”

  Cyril scoots back and gives her bottom a swat. “Later, kiddo. Get your shoes.”

  Robin grabs her purse from the table, slinging it over one shoulder. “Flip flops and water bottles, guys. Truck’s out in back.”

  Seth, who has already found his flip flops in the entry closet, skids to a halt in the kitchen. “Wait.” He looks at the clock on the wall above the sink. “Does this mean we’re not doing school?”

  “You already did that, kid,” Cyril says, heaving himself to his feet. “Martial arts, food, bed.” Early. “Go on, follow your mom.”

  “No, for the thing—the thing with the teachers? And ice cream?”

  Nora perks up. “I want ice cream!”

  “Are you talking about Back-to-School Night?” Robin’s brow contracts. “That’s not tonight—”

  “Oh,” Seth says, looking confused. “I thought Ms. J said it was.”

  Cyril puts his hands on Robin’s shoulders—sleeves, not bare skin—shifting her out of the doorway so he can pass into the kitchen. The calendar by the stove is empty, but he rifles through the stack of art and mail on the counter and finds the flyer he knows he’s seen. “It’s tonight, but it’s on zoom. I figured you didn’t care.” Greta had seemed to be the one in charge of all things school.

  Robin presses the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Why is this my life?” she whispers.

  “I'll take the kids to martial arts,” he says. “You do the school thing. Problem solved.”

  She pulls her phone out of her pocket and taps the email icon. “No, they just—I got an email a couple of days ago. Sonoma County just got bumped down to yellow tier, so they decided to do it in person, with some socially distanced thing for the kids outside. So they can actually meet their classmates.” She sighs. “They sent the update out on Friday, and it just completely slipped my mind—”

  “Skip it, then. Not the end of the world.” She’ll be having surgery the day after tomorrow. This is the least of her concerns.

  She looks at him, over the kids’ heads, and her eyes tell him everything she can’t say in front of her children: they’ve already missed too much. Their father, obviously. And all the time she spent undergoing treatment the first time. Neither Seth nor Nora has played with another child in over six months. Cancer may take her health and literal pieces of her body, but she will be damned if it steals one more moment of joy from her kids.

  “Uniforms off,” Cyril announces. “I’ll have dinner ready when you get back. Go on. Quickly.”

  Robin exhales, then looks down at her paint-spattered jeans and work boots. “Shoot, I need to change.” She disappears after the kids, and he goes to the fridge to see what he can cobble together for dinner.

  When she returns, she has breasts again.

  “Oh,” he says.

  She joins him in looking down at her chest, and then reaches down the top of her silk shirt to adjust her bra. “Do I look all right?”

  He snorts. “All right? Yeah. Yeah, you do.” Strapless sandals with chunky cork heels, skin-tight jeans, a loose silk shirt, and the golden spiral earrings Tavis had given her for their fifth wedding anniversary. She’s not even that dressed up, but it doesn’t take much to make her look like royalty.

  She looks pleased, or embarrassed, or some combination of the two. As if his opinion carries any weight. “Look,” she says, glancing toward the hall to make sure the children aren’t listening, “I need you to come.”

  “Uh, no.” He feels like he’s lived a lifetime in the past—what, nine days? Ten? But really, it’s nothing. He can pretend everything’s hunky-dory, but the truth is he’s scarcely left the house since he got out of prison. “I’m not even sure I’m legally allowed to be on a grade school campus.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re not that kind of offender. I asked your lawyer. I just—I need to talk to Nora’s teacher about—” She cuts herself off as Seth materializes at Cyril’s elbow. “Stuff.”

  He grins. “Nora’s bad.”

  “She’s not—” Robin puts a hand to her head. “Seth, this is none of your business. It’s fine. I’ll deal with it. Forget I asked. Nora?”

  Robin’s daughter scoots into the kitchen. She is wearing green corduroy pants and a ratty, stretched-out Minecraft shirt.

  “Nora, that—” Robin shakes her head. “It’s fine. It’s fine. If I’m gonna make it to both of your classes, we need to get going.” She nods to Cyril as she herds the kids out the back door. “See you in an hour or so.”

  “Wait.” Seth looks from Cyril to his mother and back again. “Aren't you coming?” He looks genuinely crestfallen. “Who’s gonna see my class?”

  “Maybe next time, kid.” He gives the kid a thump on the back. “I mean, I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion.”


  It’s just an excuse, but Nora grins. “I know!” She dashes back toward the hall, neatly ducking her mother’s intercept.

  “Nora!” Robin shouts. “Not now! Seth, will you go get your sister and—”

  Nora reappears, clutching the garish red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt that had been sitting, folded, on the bottom of the pile of clean laundry Cyril kept on a cabinet shelf in the bathroom.

  Cyril laughs. “Thanks, kid, but it doesn’t fit.” He’s embarrassed to admit he’s even tried it on.

  “What, really?” Robin, having apparently given up on getting out the door on time, takes the shirt from Nora and shakes it out, holding it open by the lapels. “Here. Put it on over your t-shirt.”

  “Fuck you” is what he would have said, were the kids not standing there looking at him expectantly. Instead, he rolls his eyes and thrusts his arms into the sleeves as she holds them out.

  "Yeah. See?” Robin tugs his shirttails and adjusts the open collar. “It’s casual. You don’t have to button it.”

  Nora claps, delighted. “Pretty!”

  He looks at Robin, who is studiously hiding her smile. Then he looks at Seth, which he should not have done. The kid's eyes shine with uninhibited hope.

  “This is bullshit,” he says.

  Chapter 12

  The line of masked parents waiting to get into the mission-style elementary school stretches down the block, six-foot segments marked out on the sidewalk in bright pink chalk. “Guess we’re not late,” Cyril says.

  Robin finds a spot to park around the corner, and as soon as they cross the street the kids dash off to play under the maple trees lining the front of the building. Though she spent the drive lecturing them about maintaining six feet of distance between friends and making sure their masks cover mouths and noses, Robin still calls a reminder to keep their hands to themselves. She glances up at Cyril, flashing a tight, anxious smile.

  “You sure about this?” About him, really.

  She closes her eyes, and for a moment her soft black mask conforms to the contours of her nose and mouth as she inhales. Then she squares her shoulders and gives him a single firm nod.

  He follows her lead as she steps off the red curb and into the street, striding past each and every person waiting in the lengthy line. Unsurprisingly, everyone but Robin is either white or Latinx. By the time they step into the first vacant chalk square at the end of the block, the attenuated crowd has gone unnaturally quiet. A woman two squares in front of them casts a hasty glance back and bends to whisper something in her wife’s ear.

  Cyril looks down at himself. The hot wind has dissipated, but the evening is still warm enough to make him regret the second layer of fabric in his armpits. “I knew this shirt was a mistake.”

  Robin laughs. “Yeah, that’s what they’re looking at.”

  A woman in a pencil skirt with a clipboard is working the line. She stops a few feet away from another chalk-boxed couple, engaging them in a chipper conversation about joining the PTA. Robin lifts a hand and offers a little wave. The woman turns her back slightly, clumsily pretending she hasn’t seen. Bitch.

  Cyril is used to attracting attention from strangers, though the disgusted looks and not-so-hushed whispers used to be about his size. Now it’s a tossup between that, his face—splashed across national news for a couple of weeks back in the before-times—and the fact that he’s showing up as Robin’s plus one. Probably all of the above.

  “Look,” he says, “I can just, uh, wait in the car.” No reason the stink of his reputation should rub off on her. Or the kids. “I’ll think of something to tell Seth.”

  Robin looks startled. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

  How can she be so certain of him, when he is not? She hates these idiotic social functions—he knows she does, because over the seven years they corresponded she complained about every single event that involved mingling or small talk. She’s here because, as a single black mother, thrust unwillingly into the public eye—thanks to him—she considers it her duty to dress up, show up, and advocate for her kids. As far as this asshole can see, his presence only complicates that objective. But for whatever reason, she has apparently decided that the potential benefit for her kids outweighs the risk of... him.

  And so, to whatever degree it is within his power, he resolves—for whatever that is worth—not to give her cause to regret her choice.

  When, eventually, they reach the head of the line, Robin calls the kids over for obligatory temp checks and the screening questions they’ve all heard five hundred times. Word of his identity has clearly reached the staff behind the folding table; they eye him warily, and the elderly volunteer who takes Cyril’s temperature stumbles nervously over the questions.

  “No,” he says. "No to everything.”

  “I—I have to ask.”

  Robin and the kids wait on the other side of the table until he’s cleared. But as they turn together toward the building’s entrance, a mousy man in a brown suit (who has presumably drawn the short straw) steps forward and says, “Ah—excuse me, could you folks come over here for a quick chat?”

  Cyril is tempted to tell him that no, they fucking can’t, but he looks at the kids and keeps a lid on it. Still, he knows what’s coming.

  If Robin does, she doesn’t show it. “What can we do for you, Mr. Tappin?”

  The man in brown clears his throat. “We don’t want to make a scene, but—”

  “Then don’t,” Robin says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

  A plump woman with thick black hair drawn up into a bun joins Tappin, presumably to lend moral support. “We’re just not sure if it’s a good idea for Mr., uh—Mr....”

  Everybody looks at Cyril. But if he opens his mouth, he's gonna say something they’ll all regret. So he doesn’t. He just grits his teeth and stares.

  “Blanchard,” Robin supplies, quirking a questioning eyebrow at him. “His name is Cyril Blanchard.” Like everybody doesn’t already know. Like they’re not standing here having this conversation because he’s a troublemaker. A criminal. Because this is an elementary school, and he’s been in prison.

  “What’s going on?” Seth pipes up, clueless but clearly able to read the room.

  Nora's tiny hand pushes its way into Cyril's palm, forcing the fist of his right hand to relax.

  “Nothing, Sweetie.” Robin takes her son’s hand and turns toward the building. “Let's go on in.”

  Tappin steps to the left, blocking her way. Cyril lifts his left hand, clenched, but before he can take a swing at the guy, the woman with the bun steps between them, completely oblivious to his intent.

  “It’s just that Mr. Blanchard is not a parent,” she insists, looking slightly pained. As if she’s not the one who makes the rules.

  “Let the big guy in,” someone calls from the back of the line. “Nobody cares.”

  Robin studies the woman for a moment, almost thoughtfully. “Pretty sure I saw Jeremy’s grandmother go in ahead of us. Or do only blood relatives count?” She cranes her neck to look down the line of people behind them. “Dan, are you Freya’s legal guardian?”

  The man in question turns beet red. “I, um—no, I’m just—I mean, Brandi and I just started dating, I’m not—uh.” He looks around. “Should I leave?”

  “Chica,” Cyril warns, directing a pointed glance at the kids.

  She ignores him. “Maybe,” she says, turning back to the woman with an air of cool vehemence, “if you’d stopped to consider that not every family has two parents, you’d have staggered the schedule so I don’t have to be in two classrooms at the same time, and we’d have avoided this conversation altogether. But you didn’t. So spare me your pearl-clutching.”

  The woman looks like she's been slapped—like she can’t quite believe anyone, let alone Robin, would call her out on her bullshit. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sorry but stiff with barely constrained tears. “Everything is challenging right now. We’re doing our best.”

/>   “Yes,” Robin agrees, with finality. “We all are.” She nods to Cyril. “Including him.”

  Tappin touches the bun-lady’s elbow, prompting her to step aside to confer. The woman seems particularly perturbed, gesturing at Cyril with agitation. Tappin shrugs and delivers a calmer response. Finally, they seem to reach an agreement, and it’s Tappin who approaches them this time. “Ms. Matheson, your guest may enter the school as long as he agrees not to make any kind of disturbance or interruption.”

  “I assume that’s the condition upon which everyone here enters the school, Harry. But sure. Yeah.” She turns to Cyril. “You planning on punching people or flipping any tables?”

  He doesn’t know what she thinks she’s doing, or why she has picked this hill to die on. (Him. He is the hill.) “Uh—planning on it? No.” Nothing he does—or says—is ever really premeditated. That’s kind of the issue.

  “Great. Let’s go.” Robin turns and marches up the front steps, Seth still in hand. She stops, halfway up, to look back at Cyril. “Coming?”

  He glances down at Nora, who blinks at him with saucer-round eyes. “Uh, after all that, I guess I better.”

  “Yeah, you better,” Robin says under her breath, as he catches up.

  The double doors are propped open, and the hallway inside feels like a wind tunnel, icy and loud with the thrum of two industrial-sized fans. Directly across from the entrance is an exit to the playground, and a young man waves to the kids and motions for them to come outside and “join the fun!”

  As soon as the kids are gone, Cyril turns to Robin and says, “What the actual fuck was that?”