Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

Then came the morning when the telephone rang. She ignored it. Ten minutes later, when it rang again, Chiara didn’t answer. She covered her ears with the pillow as the answering machine picked up the message.

Two hours later, the lawyer showed up at the door.

He kept his well-manicured index finger pressed to the bell until she answered.

All the while, the stone box kept silent company with her.

When what now remained of her lover was returned to Chiara, it reminded her of Chinese takeout. At least that’s what the white shiny-stock cardboard box resembled.

She unfolded the lid and contemplated the contents. When she stirred with one tentative and delicate forefinger, she discovered the bits of bone.

Chiara withdrew her finger and stared at the dusty patina that filled in the whorls of her fingertip. The rose glow of the Tiffany lent everything a sensual radiance.

The time seemed appropriate, so she talked to him.

Chiara talked far into the evening.

Eventually—and not to her great surprise—he answered.

I guess we ought to discuss our relationship, he said.

She smiled. “I always thought it was forged in heaven.”

Even now?

“We fought sometimes,” she said. “We had misunderstandings. A few times we hurt each other. But we learned to talk it out. Each of us cared enough to work for what we wanted.”

I miss you, he said.

She didn’t have to say anything. It was in her sudden tears. “Can we stay together a little longer?” she said.

I think so, the equivalent of his voice said, sounding wistful. There’s a way.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Tell me.”

Then… he began to whisper, you know what you need to do.

Yes, she did, but she had to think about it a while longer, denying herself food, drink, sleep. But she was a quick study. She required only a brief parching stint in the wilderness of her own soul to reach a conclusion.

Yes, she knew what she had to do.

And more, she wanted to do it.

She bought smooth stones, alleged to be, if not outright magical, at least highly spiritual, from a Boulder, Colorado, woman named Chalice. The surface of the stones was veined with a blue mineral.

Chiara used the stones to grind the bone fragments from the takeout box into a fine powder. Then she sat at the kitchen table under a bright light, her largest facial mirror set out on the checked cloth. She used the spare sharp X-Acto blades from the tool drawer to divide the powder into a finer dust. Some dispersed into the air with the quick, birdlike motions she employed.

She thought the cloud particles looked shiny, almost glowing in the light from the overhead.

“So beautiful,” Chiara murmured. She knew who that really described.

Some of the dust settled on her lips. She flicked with the moist tip of her tongue. The ashy residue tasted—she wasn’t sure at first—a little of salt, with a hint of something much richer.

Chiara licked her lips again, eager now.

She abruptly saw herself as if from another’s eyes, toiling in dirty work clothes with the sharp blades, the mirror, the powdered remains. Chiara laughed at the image and offered a silent half-serious prayer that the police were not somehow watching.

This would be a tough one to explain.

She finished powdering the bone and mixed it back into the contents of the box. Then she put away the smooth stones. Chiara realized she was humming, and her lips curved around the companion lyrics:

“Fee, fie, foe, fum…”

Tonight she did not feel alone.

Not one bit.

The gargoyle box bided time patiently, watching over Chiara and the men she chose.

Rick or Roddy, Steve or Lance, whatever his name was, his body was younger than hers. She thought about that briefly, a little regretfully, and then put it out of her mind. Rick or Roddy had been a tennis pro. Steve or Lance worked out well and regularly. His muscles were toned, the definition as clearly delineated as a USGS topo map.

Good territory, she thought.

Chiara surveyed him from where she lay back on the Olmec print comforter. He was ready, clearly so. She watched and appreciated the rigid jut, the involuntary quiver of anticipation.

He smiled down at her and settled himself on the bed. He reached to part her legs and she was instantly rolling onto her side, and then to hands and knees.

“No,” she said. “Not for a minute yet. Remember? Indulge me.”

“Right,” said Rick or Roddy. Slowly, knowing she watched avidly, he raised one hand to his mouth, then licked the inside of his beefy fingers. He used that hand to reach for the gargoyle box on the bed table. He carefully lifted the lid and set it aside.

Fingers dipped lightly into the powder inside. He transferred that dusting first to the head, then the shaft of his penis.

“Enough?” His voice was hoarse as he started to pump with his hand the length of his shaft. “This is kind of strange.”

“But you like it,” Chiara said.

He looked doubtful at first, but then nodded. “Yeah, I like it.”