Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

“Dreck, by the look of it. I thought I’d solved a problem with the new novel, but…” He tossed the pen atop the sheets.

Novel? “Then maybe I should let you work. I thought I’d go out. Do you want me to bring you anything back?”

“No.” He smiled briefly, then picked up the pen.

Conny dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, and hurried out of the apartment.

The streets of Newport, this near the waterfront, were relatively empty in the mornings. Everyone was either down at the docks or further in. This thin slice of shops and cafes remained quiet till nearly noon. Conny was grateful for the solitude. She strode along the narrow avenues that twisted through the district until the sensations pulling at her ebbed. When they seemed at a safe distance, she stopped in a small café and ordered coffee.

It’s never happened with anything but the letters before…

They joked about the letters, pretending that their influence was purely suggestive—what was that delicious word from the psychoanalysts?—psychosomatic. That Conny’s reactions came from her own imagination while he wrote. He did them after lovemaking—or had, until illness stole his energy and all he could do was write about making love. He had missed several days during the worst of it. Afterward, when he wrote, scribbling earnestly to her with the ivory pen, she responded. Perhaps it was imagination, as he said. Perhaps he even believed it. She no longer did. Especially not now. She was disinclined to question it too closely—sometimes it seemed like the only thing they had together.

She looked down the cobbled street, glimpsing something familiar. A few people walked along—workmen, heads bowed, caps pulled low on their foreheads. Conny watched them go by across the street. As they reached the next street, one of them looked her way. A heavy line staggered over half his face.

Conny stood abruptly. Coffee sloshed onto the table. She fished tuppence out of her bag, dropped it, and hurried after the workmen. When she got to the corner they were gone. She continued down the canyon-like avenue, but she saw no one.

Most of the shops were still closed. Conny framed her eyes to peer through the dusty windows. In one, among the assorted bric-a-brac, stood an attractive oak chest with brass trim. When she looked up she saw the shopkeeper, smiling at her. She pointed to the box and he nodded, motioning her to the door.

A musty, decayed odor escaped the box when she opened it. Shreds of felt still clung to the inside. “How much?”

“Oh… two pounds.”

She surprised him by not haggling. Instead she counted out the notes and laid the sheaf in his hand. She lifted the chest. It was only a little larger than what comfortably fit in her arms.

When she stepped from the shop, Geoffrey was standing in the street, hands tucked in his pockets.

“I thought I saw you,” she said.

He touched two fingers to the bill of his cap, then came forward and took the chest from her. He tucked it under one arm.

“I’ll carry this home for you,” he said.

They stopped in another café, not far from the apartment.

“After he recovered he wanted to leave London,” she said. “I suppose he blamed it for making him sick.”

“Hm. Well, that’s as good a reason as any, I suppose.”

“It hasn’t helped much.”

“He still isn’t selling? How are you getting by?”

“He writes reviews. My uncle sends money. We have friends—I have friends. One or two seem to find it romantic to help an aspiring writer. William almost never goes out.”

“He never was one for socializing.” He nodded at the chest. “What are you going to use that for?”

“Oh… memories.”

Geoffrey smiled. It eased the severity of his scar.

“William said you got that because of a misunderstanding.”

“Did he now? Interesting way of putting it.”

“Was he wrong?”

“To tell you? No, I suppose not.”

“No, I mean—”

“Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it.”

Conny drank her coffee to cover her disappointment. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a job working dockside.” He lifted his cup to his mouth. His hands were wide, heavy. Conny imagined them holding and lifting, easily, as though born to it. She imagined them then palms out, calloused, flat against her face, her breasts, her thighs—

“I really ought to get back,” she said, looking away.

Without a word he picked up the chest and followed her.

“Would you like to come up?” she asked. “I’m sure Will—”

“No. I have to get to work.” He handed the chest to her, touched his cap again, and walked off.

William was asleep on the sofa. Conny carried the chest into the bedroom. She took the letters from the suitcase where she kept them and transferred the pages into the box. Two stacks fit side by side as if the container had been made for them.

She locked the chest and slid it under the bed. Listening to William’s labored breathing from the next room, Conny sat by the window, absently chewing on a thumbnail, and thought about Geoffrey’s hands.

JULY, 1926

“Don’t you want to come?”