“So there are no questions?”
“Seems clear enough,” said Cyril.
“Right.” Steve became brisk. There were documents to sign. He reassured Cyril that there was nothing to worry about, that it would be business as usual. “You’re the de facto if not legal owner of the house.”
Cyril nodded. De facto meant de fucto all.
“It’s your home.”
Again Cyril nodded. Steve had got what he wanted; he wouldn’t get Cyril’s blessing too.
Steve stapled papers together, folded them, slid them into an envelope, slid the envelope across the desk then mustered the courage to look directly at Cyril, compressing his lips and shrugging in a show of innocence. Cyril maintained a neutral expression. Steve stood and extended his hand, the final formality. Cyril stood and shook Steve’s hand and accepted the manila envelope, at which Steve risked a smile and made a move to come around the desk and escort Cyril out. But Cyril sat back down. Steve halted. His eyebrows jumped. Uncle Cyril, it seemed, was about to fuck things up. He exhaled long and made a show of glancing at his watch, meaning he was a busy man. “Something else?”
Cyril settled back into the chair, the padding sighing beneath him, crossed his legs and folded his hands on top of the envelope in his lap. He gazed past Steve out the window at the apartment building across the alley. It needed paint. “I won’t stay long. Don’t worry.”
“Oh. No. Hey.” Steve returned to his seat and prepared to be a good listener.
Cyril said, “Your grandmother and I had a tense relationship. We had issues. We blamed each other for things. But one thing I’m not to blame for is your dad’s death.”
“Cyril.”
“Your dad and I did not get along.”
“I know.”
“I’m sure you do. But I can’t help having been born in 1945 instead of 1937. I offered my kidney. I was willing to give him one. I signed the papers.”
Steve’s face tightened. “He sensed reluctance.” He spoke as if his jaw was wired shut.
“Of course he did. Because I was reluctant. I signed the papers, though. I made the decision. I took the step. But here’s the question: did you offer one of yours?”
Steve’s head jerked back as if Cyril had swung at him.
“I don’t recall you or your brother offering any help.”
“He already told us not to. He said don’t even think about it.”
“But it was alright for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You knew enough to blame me.”
Steve slammed both of his palms down on the desk. “What do you want me to say?”
Cyril spoke quietly, almost reflectively, because the realization had been so slow in surfacing. “Steve, it doesn’t matter what you say. It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what I think. And I’m not to blame. I thought I was. For years I accepted that I was. But that’s wrong. I. Am. Not. To. Blame. And if you and your grandmother wanted to think otherwise, if you still want to keep punishing me then do your worst. I mean, you already have.” He held up the envelope, then sailed it into Steve’s chest. At the door he turned and asked, “Oh. One more thing. And be honest for once. Was Gilbert in on this?”
Steve looked at Cyril from under the brow of his lowered head and nodded. Then he recovered. He sat back and set his palms flat on the desk because now it was his turn. “They didn’t exclude you. It had nothing to do with you. They just wanted to put it all behind them. It was the only way they could cope. She told me.”
“She seems to have told you a lot of things.”
Steve looked genuinely helpless. “Maybe because by then it didn’t matter.”
The words reverberated through Cyril’s mind as he drove home. His parents had been given interior lives with complex pasts that stretched into earliest childhoods that were unique to them and them alone. He’d always known this—only now he knew it better.
When he got home, he found the saucer empty and the cat in the roses. Cyril opened a tin of salmon and forked some into the saucer, and that evening as the sky was turning a dusty pink and crows were racketing in the cemetery, he sat in the kitchen nook watching the cat creep up onto the porch. He sketched the cat as it ate the salmon. When it was done it spent a full ten minutes grooming, going over its paws, its stomach, its tail, curling around and doing its back. Cyril did a dozen sketches, working fast though sure to turn the pages slowly so as not to startle it.
SEVEN
THE KNOCK ON the door sounded like the rattle of ancient plumbing. Cyril looked at the pair of pipes in the corner that ran from the ceiling down through the floor. An inch in diameter, they’d been repainted so many times they resembled melting candles, and regularly shuddered as if choking. The knock came again. No, not the pipes. One of the other tenants hitting him up for dough? Cyril had got a hundred and sixty thousand dollars six months ago when Steve had sold the house. Cyril’s new neighbours had smelled money, and when they came knocking he’d been free with the twenty dollar bills and consequently become a great favourite. Gilbert had visited once. Cyril had said little as his old friend babbled excuses about being desperately broke due to alimony, the stock market, and the fact that no one took cabs anymore.
“How much did Steve give you?”
Gilbert looked away, unable to meet Cyril’s eyes. “Ten grand.”
Cyril had asked about Savannah, and Gilbert said grandpa had become invisible. That was sad but in Cyril’s experience invisibility was not without its liberating aspect. Gilbert sat with his head in his hands and cried, though whether due to Savannah’s indifference or because he’d scammed Cyril, or both, was not clear. Placing his hand on Gilbert’s shoulder he’d gently signalled that it was time to go. Cyril had said he’d give him a call. So far he hadn’t. He’d been busy, spending all his time drawing and in the Fine Arts Department of the new library that was shaped like the Roman Coliseum.
The knock came again. He lay down his pencil and closed the sketchbook and looked at the door. Crossing the room—a journey of five steps—he opened up and found Connie standing there in the corridor. She wore blue jeans and a red pullover, her hair pinned in a loose heap atop her head, over her shoulder a black, cotton bag decorated with bits of coloured glass.
He didn’t miss a beat. “About time.”
“Traffic was bad.”
“The important thing is you’re here.”
She studied him with cautious delight.
“Good to see you,” he said.
Her voice softened. “You too.” She peered in at the room then at the number on the door. “Cyril, is this…”
“Yup.”
“Is he—” She pointed toward the office at the end of the corridor.
“His son.”
“Did you plan this?”
“I was just looking for a cheap place for a week or two, then a week or two became a month or two, and then, well…”
They embraced. He held her close, squeezing until she sighed and then he squeezed her more. She smelled good, so good. It occurred to him that he could be humiliated at being found here. It also occurred to him that he wasn’t.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, cheek against his chest and arms around his waist.
He felt the vibration of her voice in his breastbone. He didn’t say how often he’d thought of her. “That’s good to hear.” He hoped he didn’t come across as desolate. He didn’t feel desolate, in fact he felt pretty good. He had a show coming up at The Arena.
When they stood back they held on to each other’s hands. Her fingers were warm and fine. She was no longer wearing all those silver rings.