They successfully ignore one another for a while: Cooke scrolls through a newsfeed as Cyril loads the table with sliced sourdough and crackers and beverages. The entire situation is awkwardly domestic—Cooke is a professional contact, not a friend. Or he was, anyway, until Cyril brought the Feds down on the guy’s company. Now the man is attached to someone who is attached to Robin, who in turn is, strangely, attached to Cyril. This asshole is painfully conscious that igniting one end of this social chain could burn the entire village down. He’d do it, and gladly, except that in a matter of months this irritating little prick and his wife will be Cyril’s only gateway to Robin’s kids.
“Look,” he concedes, finally, dropping a bowl of fruit salad on the table. “If you want to go upstairs, I can…” He jerks his head toward the stairwell.
“Offer appreciated,” he snaps, without looking up. “But my wife is the one in charge of carting me around.”
Why is that not a surprise? “Does she, like, throw you over her shoulder, or—”
Cooke raises his eyes from his phone without lifting his head. Then he snorts, apparently deciding not to be offended, and sits back. “Piggyback,” he says, conversationally. “I find it slightly more dignified.”
“You might be kidding yourself.”
“Aren’t we all?” He flicks at his phone again, then holds up the screen to display an article from what looks like his personal newsfeed. “Did you see this Blizzard thing? I mean, it’s not going to tank them by any means, but geez.”
Cyril knows enough to understand Cooke is referring to the company that produces World of Warcraft, but “No,” he says, heading back toward the kitchen. “I haven’t been following… anything.”
“Oh.” Cooke clicks his phone off. “Wait. Have you actually been offline?”
Cyril stops in the doorway. He turns around. “As opposed to what?”
Cooke clicks his phone back on, hunching over it as if he’s just remembered something very important that needs his attention. “I just assumed you got your own computer.”
Cyril takes a moment to process the implications of this seemingly offhand comment. Then he takes a step forward, leans over Cooke, and yanks the phone out of his hand. The little man lets out a yelp of surprise. “I’m gonna need you to explain,” he growls.
“Oh. I—” Cooke reaches up, plucks the phone from Cyril’s grip, and uses the edge of the tablecloth to wipe it down before dropping it back into his shirt pocket. “Assumed you would have found—”
“Found what?”
He tugs the ends of his sleeves and then adjusts his shirt collar. “I literally just loaded up her laptop with the same tracking suite you used on her cell. I showed her how to install it, so you, uh, might wanna check your phone, too.”
“You—” Cyril’s hands contract into fists. The fact that he must be polite makes the temptation to eviscerate this man unbearably strong. “You squirrelly little fuck—”
Cooke holds up one hand, as if to deflect responsibility. His fingers are shaking. “Look, Robin asked me to make sure you stayed out of trouble. And it looks like you did. No harm done.”
“I should rip off your little toothpick arms.”
His laugh is a dry hiccough. “You could, but you won’t.”
Cyril nods upward as the kids’ footsteps come pounding down the stairs. “Or you’ll cut me off from the kids? Even from where I stand, that’s fucking low.”
“Uh. What?” Cooke looks befuddled. “Why would—”
“I’m starving!” Seth exclaims.
“Me too!” Nora chimes in.
“Hands off!” Robin yells, tromping down after them. “Greta’s gonna pray!”
When Greta descends, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder from behind, Cooke grasps her fingers. His knuckles are white. “Hey, honey.”
“‘Honey?’” she echoes, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes. Honey.” He twists to give her a meaningful look. She gives a slight shake of her head. “Seriously?” He exhales exasperation. “You know, for, like, when one of us needs a quick exit? You don’t remember this discussion?”
Robin catches Cyril’s eye. She lifts an eyebrow, as if to ask what on earth he’s done. He shrugs.
Greta ends the awkward silence by lifting an open hand toward Cyril. “You want to escape… from him?”
“Oh my God, Greta.” Cooke closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “It’s supposed to be subtle. What is even the point if you don’t—” He exhales. “You know what, just—never mind.”
“Mr. Cooke,” she says, in the most patronizing tone possible, “the man is a teddy bear.”
“Thanks for providing the mood music for lunch,” Robin says, when their guests have gone. “Even if it was only because you didn’t want to talk with Cooke.”
Cyril runs the water in the sink. “That smug little prick—”
“Was only doing what I asked him to do. So if you’re going to be mad at someone, blame me.”
“You’re allowed to stalk me.” He can hardly say he blames her, either.
“And he’s not?” She hands him a pile of dirty plates. “He likes you, you know. Even after you trashed his company. You might have to learn to get along with him.”
“Greta’s the one I have to butter up.” He rinses and begins to slot them into the dishwasher. “And she liked my playing.”
Robin raises her eyebrows. “You think she’s the one with the power in that relationship?”
“I don't think, I know.”
“If you say so.” She goes into the dining room and returns with glasses and silverware.
“Are you sure you wanna leave the kids with those two—”
“Don’t," she says, with a firm shake of her head. “Not unless you seriously think you could take them on.” She looks at him, searchingly. “Do you?”
He is silent for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Well. Greta knows.” She leans a hip against the counter and watches him finish loading.
He pops in the dishwasher pod and starts the wash cycle. “So now what?”
Robin pushes herself away from the counter, and, as she passes behind him, gives his ass a firm slap. “Now we haul.”
Small things go up first: books, couch pillows, folding chairs, a couple of houseplants. She enlists Seth to run cords and controllers upstairs, which he does enthusiastically until he realizes it means he won’t be able to play Minecraft until everything’s hooked back up again. When Robin tries to cart an end table up herself, Cyril takes it from her and boosts it onto one shoulder with a grunt of disapproval. After that, he grabs the TV and then the TV stand. Robin tells the kids to move whatever they can from their bedrooms, and then follows with the Nintendo Switch and its accoutrements.
“Would you stop?” he says, yanking the electronics out of her hands. “You remodeled the house. This is just grunt work. Go read a fucking magazine.”
She scowls up at him like a petulant child, hands on hips, and then shrugs. “Fine.”
He helps the kids haul a few items of kiddie furniture into their chosen bedrooms, and then, at Seth’s fifth or sixth request, agrees to work on hooking up the television.
Robin sits in a folding chair by the open window, tilted back on two legs with her bare feet propped up on the sill. She looks up from her architectural magazine and grins as he kneels and begins to sort through cables which have, somehow, in the short journey up the stairs, already managed to become hopelessly tangled.
“So you’re gonna make me haul my fat ass up the stairs every time I want to watch TV now, is that it?” he gripes. A cool breeze luffs through the front window, tousling her hair slightly. He hadn’t noticed, until then, that it has gotten a little longer.
“I was figuring I’d need some room downstairs for a hospital bed.” She looks up, tongue half-out as she licks her thumb to turn the page. “You’re free to rearrange, after I’m gone.”
That is not s
omething he wants to talk about. He is on his knees in front of the console. “Damn it,” he says, losing the cord behind the TV stand. “Give me a hand?”
“No thanks.” She licks her thumb again. “I’m enjoying the view.”
She is not talking about the window. She means his ass. “I will never understand you.”
“Good.”
He gets to his feet, abandoning the remaining cords. She moves her legs, and with a grunt and a sigh he opens another folding chair and seats himself next to her by the window.
Seth stomps up the stairs. “Is it ready yet?”
“Sure!” Robin says, “I mean, can’t you see it right there? Grab a controller.”
Cyril takes the remote from the top of the TV stand and pretends to click through a menu on the lifeless black screen.
Nora, coming in behind Seth, rushes to seize one of the controllers. “Let’s play!”
Seth presents Robin and Cyril with the deepest scowl he can muster.
“It’s not working!” Nora exclaims, mashing buttons.
Cyril makes a passable imitation of the ka-chunk-ka-chunk of a Minecraft pickaxe.
“Oh no,” Robin says, “here comes a zombie!”
“What?” Nora says. “Where?”
“Nora!” Seth exclaims. “It’s not working. It’s not even plugged in. Come on.” He grabs the controller out of her hand, and before she can muster a wail, he’s dragging her back toward the stairs. “Let’s go play outside.” The look he gives them as they walk off is scathing.
Robin trades a glance with Cyril. And then they’re both chortling. She tries to stand, but she’s laughing so hard she stumbles and collapses into him. “Oh my God,” she gasps, pressing her forehead to the top of his head. She straightens, sighs, and then gives his shoulder a thump. “All right. Let’s do it.”
“Now what?”
She tugs him to his feet. “Couch. You and me. While the kids are out of the house.”
“Sorry I asked.” But he puts his hands on his knees and rises, following as she heads for the stairs.
“Do you ever wish,” she says, tossing the question over one shoulder, “that they were yours?”
He's halfway down the stairs before he realizes what she's talking about. “The kids?” He lets out a bark that’s half laughter, half surprise. “Jesus, no.” He’s never felt the slightest urge to pass anything of himself off to anyone. “They’re better off without my genetic material, thanks.” By every possible metric, Tavis had been the superior stock.
He doesn’t have the guts to ask, do you?
“Cyril. Come on. Wake up. Shit. Shit.”
He can hear her, feel the reverberation of her foot stomp through the hardwood floor, but he is an insect in amber, observing the world through yellow-flecked eons. He blinks, with effort, and in another instant everything snaps into sudden focus: she is standing over him, phone in hand, punching in numbers.
“Nine-one-one,” a tinny voice says. “What is your emergency?”
“Yeah. My, uh—my boyfriend just passed out, and I can’t get him to—”
He reaches for her leg, putting a hand over the smiling heart on her ankle.
“Jesus!” She jumps back. “Oh, thank God. Cyril?”
He blinks again. “Mm.” His voice is like cotton. He tries again. “I’m good.”
“No, I—yeah, I think he’s okay,” she says. “He’s—yeah. False alarm.” She listens to the voice on the other end of the line. “No, there’s no obstruction. Yeah. The color is coming back. Yes. I absolutely will. Thank you. Mm-hm. Thank you.” She drops to her haunches, her face suddenly close to his, and puts a hand behind his head as he lifts it. “You just keeled over. What the hell?”
With her help, he shifts onto his side and props himself up on one elbow. The room tilts. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mm. Low blood sugar, I guess.”
“Low—” Her hand tightens on his arm. Her eyes bore into his like a hammer drill. “Cyril. When was the last time you ate?”
He rubs his jaw. “My face hurts.”
“I slapped you. Answer the goddamn question.”
“On both cheeks? Jesus.”
“You didn’t have anything for lunch. The last time I saw you put anything in your mouth was—” Her eyes flicker upward as she retraces the thread of memory. “Friday morning? Which was two—almost three days ago.”
He shrugs.
“God damn it, Cyril.” Abruptly she stands, takes two steps towards the stairs, then makes an about-face and goes to the big front window. She lifts her hand, still clutching the phone, and grinds her knuckles against the glass. “You stupid fuck,” she whispers hoarsely. “What were you thinking?”
“I mean, that seems fairly self-explanatory.”
“No,” she says, as if the force of that single word can simply make it not so. She spins, leveling the phone at him like a gavel. “Nobody asked for this. This is not—” Her voice catches. She shakes her head, sucks in a long, rattling breath, and lets out a high-pitched noise that is both a laugh and a sob. “Do you know what I was doing?” Tears course down her cheeks. “I was trying to figure out how they were gonna get you out of here.” She flings a hand back, toward the glass. “I almost broke the fucking window.”
He snorts. “That might have been a slight overreaction.”
“You can’t do this,” she sobs. “I can’t—I can’t take care of you. The kids—I—” She swallows. “One of us has to have our shit together, and it’s not me.”
He’s failed her. Again. What a shocker. His brain still isn’t firing on all cylinders, so he just sits there, watching stupidly as she sinks to her haunches and cries.
Eventually, she sniffs and wipes her eyes with the backs of both hands. “I gotta check on the kids,” she whispers, rising. She doesn’t look at him as she slots her phone into her back pocket and heads downstairs.
“Okay,” he says, to the empty room. A minute later he can hear her voice out the window, calling to the kids outside. He runs a hand over his face to try, again, to clear the mental fog, and then braces himself against the wall and shifts to one knee. Black spots cloud his vision. He waits.
Robin’s footsteps jog back up the stairs. “What are you—” She is carrying a glass of orange juice. “Hold on. Here.”
He takes the glass and drains it—slowly. She sets it on the ground, and ducks under his arm to help him up. His heart feels like a butterfly. He puts a hand against the wall.
“Can you—”
“Wait,” he pants.
When the world has righted itself, he takes a careful step, then nods. Though he doesn’t remember doing it, they’d apparently gotten the couch up the stairs, and it’s only a few steps across the room before he can sink into the cushions. Robin puts a hand on his chest. “Stay,” she orders.
“Trust me, I am not going anywhere.”
She brings him a second glass of orange juice and a bowl of potato salad, then stands there, hands on hips, glaring.
He eats.
“I didn’t even think it was worth addressing the most laughably glaring omission in your long-ass confessional,” she says. “But apparently I was wrong.”
He swallows. “What are you talking about?”
She stomps down the stairs again. When she returns, she carries her parents’ unframed portrait, the one that usually hangs on the wire in the hall outside the bathroom. She thrusts the stiff paper forward, so it’s about two inches from his nose.
He crosses his eyes slightly to bring the photo into focus. “Uh… okay?”
“Look at my father, Cyril. Look. At. Him.”
He shoves the photo back a few inches. “Jesus. I’m looking.”
“The man,” she says, whipping the portrait away, “is easily three hundred pounds.”
“And…?”
She slaps the portrait down on the coffee table. “And I like big men.”
He scoffs. “Three hundred is not—”
“Maybe if you yelled a little louder.”
She obliges. “I don’t want you, but skinnier. Or you, but nicer. Okay? I just. Want. You.”
He lifts the bowl, now empty. “Okay, but can I get some more potato salad?”
She snatches the bowl from his hand, stalks halfway down the stairwell, and releases a primal scream.
It is two in the morning when her bedroom door opens. He glances up from the portable Nintendo Switch screen, propped up on the dining table. He’s adding onto the fortress-tower he’s been building with the kids in Minecraft. It’s night in the game now, and the kids hadn’t secured the village, so zombies are attacking.
She stops next to him, empty water glass in hand, and surveys the wreckage on the dining table: candy bar wrappers and soda cans surround a grease-stained circle of cardboard which had, not long ago, held a frozen pizza. “Boy,” she sighs, planting a kiss on his cheek, “you don’t do anything by halves.”
“Hey,” he says, tossing her a fraction of his attention. “Throw a Hot Pocket in the microwave while you’re—damn it!” The zombies are dead, but he’s backed up into the stupid lava “trap” Nora had dug outside the tower, and now he’s got to respawn and try to get back to the scene of the battle before all his gear disappears.
He doesn’t actually expect Robin to do as he's asked, but she goes into the kitchen and the microwave begins to hum. It pings, and a moment later she drops the steaming plastic bag on the table next to his elbow. “Thanks,” he grunts. He locates his gear, thankfully—he’d been carrying a diamond axe that was technically Seth’s—and stows everything back in the kids’ community chest.
Cyril in the Flesh Page 35
