Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

The sound of the phone ringing brought him back into the house. He heard his mother’s voice and decided not to intercept the machine. He listened as she left a message telling him that his Tiá Carmen had taken sick in Mexico City and she was going to stay with her for a week, and would he please pay a visit to his abuelita while she was gone. His grandmother, who’d had a series of strokes, had been in a nursing home for the last year. She was partially paralyzed and barely spoke. She spent her days waiting for aides to change her and feed her, put her in the wheelchair, then back into the bed. He didn’t visit her often because it saddened him. He preferred to remember the abuelita who made the finest tortillas he’d ever tasted and a mole sauce that was heaven, who went to church every morning and lit candles to the Virgin every night. He didn’t know who it was he was supposed to be visiting in the wheelchair. He did not call his mother back.

He worked instead, reading through a developer’s plans to re-direct a wash away from an eastern tract of the desert.

He studied the topographic map of the flood plain and the builder’s blueprints. Then he began to work the numbers, losing himself in the elegance and surety of the calculations.

His sleep was broken that night by a cat’s blood-curdling scream. He sat bolt upright in bed, knowing it was Seena. He heard it again, louder and closer this time, and he knew with certainty that she was fighting for her life.

A coyote must have her. Or a bobcat.

Still caught in the heaviness of sleep, he forced himself out of bed. He stumbled out of his bedroom and stopped halfway down the hall. The two male cats were blocking his way, both of them arched and hissing.

He walked toward them slowly then drew back as the tiger stripe swiped at his bare legs, drawing a clean line of blood.

Swearing softly, he knelt to face them. “What the hell’s got you so frightened?” he asked.

He stood up and again tried to pass, but the old torn went after him, closing its teeth around his ankle so fast it made his stomach lurch—and stopping just short of puncturing his skin.

“Okay, okay,” he said. Gently, he stroked the tom’s head and the side of its jaw, until the animal released his ankle. His bone ached where the cat’s teeth had gripped him.

“You’ve both gone loco,” he told them. “What am I doing living with crazed cats?”

Their eyes glittered in the dark hallway. He could feel a low growl coming from the torn.

“Relax,” he told them, his hands raised in surrender. “I’m going back to bed. But in the morning, I expect you both to behave.”

He started back to the bedroom, wondering what had gotten into the animals and why on earth anyone would put up with it. He’d all but forgotten about Seena. Until he flicked on the bedside lamp and saw her sitting on his bed, contentedly washing her face as though she’d never been gone.

The phone woke him the next morning. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was seven, exactly. Usually he was up by six. Without opening her eyes, the little female cat rearranged herself so that her head pressed against his hip. Then he remembered. He’d overslept because of that nonsense with the cats.

“Welcome home,” he murmured, running a finger down the cat’s nose.

The phone rang for the third time. He rubbed his eyes and put the receiver to his ear.

“Enrique Ortiz?”

“Yes?” He didn’t recognize the voice.

“This is Evelyn Mitchell at the Desert Hills Home. I’m sorry to disturb you so early. I’m calling about Maria Teresa Hernadez. Your mother listed you as next of kin.”

María Terésa… abuelita. “My grandmother, she’s—”

“She had another stroke, Mr. Ortiz. Several hours ago.” The woman’s voice reminded him of a television reporter’s, frighteningly well practiced in the art of delivering devastating news. “Your grandmother has suffered additional loss of movement on her right side but she is conscious. We were hoping you would stop by today. Dr. Donovan thinks it might be beneficial for her to see a member of her family.”

He was sitting up now, staring at the receiver as if it were a rattler who’d struck him.

“Mr. Ortiz?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come in today?”

He groaned and tried to recall what it was he had planned. He had eight and ten A.M. classes to teach, followed by a lunch with the developer, and then an on-site visit to the wash that was being diverted. Then he’d planned on calling Liora, taking her to dinner, bringing her home…

“Mr. Ortiz?” Evelyn Mitchell was relentless.

“I have a lunch meeting at twelve-thirty,” he said. “I’ll try to stop by after that, though I can’t stay long.”

He could hear Ms. Mitchell penciling him in to whatever appointment book lay open in front of her. “That will be fine, Mr. Ortiz. I’ll try to ensure that Dr. Donovan is available.”

“I’m sure you will,” he told her, and hung up.