The Black Cats

by Monica Shaughnessy

  Egad, the house was on fire!

  Nothing distracted Eddy from writing. Nothing. I envisioned him looking up from his desk, pondering aloud about the warmth of his bedroom floor, and dipping his pen to resume work. Muddy must have fallen asleep at the stove again! I leapt over the picket fence and dashed toward what I feared would be a raging kitchen fire. I collapsed with relief at the small blaze in the kitchen garden.

  Clad in her brown checked everyday dress, Sissy stood over the burning remnants of the rose print frock she’d worn to market, tending the flames with a rake. Eddy stood next to her, arm around her shoulder. A heap of stones had been piled beneath the morning glory vines in the corner of the yard. The final resting place of the victim, I surmised.

  “Mother said it was beyond repair, and Mother would know,” Sissy said.

  “I don’t have the means to replace it,” he said, looking at the dress.

  “Do not fret, Eddy,” she said. “I would give a hundred gowns to know his soul is at peace. And now that he has a memorial,”—she gestured to the mound of stones—“he will not be forgotten.”

  Eddy kissed her forehead. “He will never be forgotten.”

  The breeze lifted a cinder into the air. It popped and flashed, clinging to life, before vanishing into the firmament.

  “You are too good for this world, Virginia. Too good.” He tucked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “I will buy you another dress when I can. In the meantime, I will give the black cat a fine eulogy—a story of his own. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Yes. Very much.” She smiled, her face wan. “When will you begin?”

  “At once,” Eddy said. He looked to me with lifted eyebrows. “Catters? Where have you been?” He snapped his fingers. “Lunch can wait. We have work to do.”

  On our way into the house, Eddy tripped on a nail head protruding from the threshold. “Don’t tell Muddy,” he said to me, “or she’ll be after me to fix it.”

  We entered and climbed the winding staircase to his writing chamber on the middle floor. Instead of officing in the parlor, as he’d done on Coates, he’d taken to working in solitude. I believed this was for the better. Not only did the eastern window capture more light, it looked out onto a splendid stretch of road. Whenever the ink stopped flowing, he would stand, stretch, and watch the parade of humanity. This gave him the thrust to finish his work. I, too, loved the view. Swifts would fly in at candle-light, pricking my ears with chatter, and roost inside the chimneys of Spring Garden. I imagined Auntie Sass slinking along the rooftops, hunting them into oblivion.

  Eddy lifted the window sash, and I settled onto his desk to supervise the preparations. Two pens he owned: one of common goose, which he used for hasty notes, the other of crow, which he used for manuscripts, official correspondence, and so forth. The crow offered a finer point that made writing in a small, neat hand easier. As expected, he plucked the black quill from its wire holder, withdrew his penknife from his pocket, and shaved the nib to his liking. The scraping lulled me into a purr. Once he’d prepared the instrument, he uncorked the ink, a blackish-brownish liquid that smelled of rust, and laid out a clean piece of paper, cut the day before from a long scroll. The day’s writing could begin.

  He dipped his pen and drew marks across the top of the page. “‘The Black Cat,’” he said. “An obvious title but a fitting one, eh, Catters?”

  I hopped on his shoulder and surveyed the work. The scrawl looked like a dribbling of weak tea now but would soon dry to a strong, fine brown—the color of Eddy’s hair. I meowed with approval and resumed my spot on the desk. He stroked my back then sat forward to write, completing several lines before stopping again. “Listen, Catters, and tell me if I have captured the requisite voice.” He took up the paper and read aloud: “For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream.”

  I stretched and yawned, curling my tongue. Life was much too comfortable to pursue a man who made sausage of cats. Although something about the challenge piqued my curiosity. I wondered if I had enough stamina to chase such a villain. Alas, I’d regained some—not all—of the weight I’d lost last fall. Blasted pot roast dinners. It was almost as if Muddy wanted me to eat them, the way she left them on the sideboard time and again. I rolled on my back, exposing my ample mid-section. Eddy tickled my stomach with his quill, and I batted the feather more out of obligation than interest. I shut my eyes and waited for the pleasant scratch of goose nib on paper once again.

  Some period afterward, light played across my eyelids. I awoke to find Eddy slumped in his chair, the penknife—not the quill—between his fingers. He turned the sharp object, catching a ray of sun with the blade. Any other day, his fascination with the knife would have raised little concern. Today, however, was not any other day, not with a one-eyed cat planted in the garden.

  “What would possess a man, Cattarina? What?” He looked at me with pained expression. “I could not fathom it, unless…” He placed the penknife in a leather case that he tucked in his jacket pocket. “Come, Catters. Jolley Spirits awaits.”

  I accompanied him out of concern, for I did not like Mr. Jolley, nor did I like the effect of Mr. Jolley’s spirits on my companion. They dulled my companion’s wits, a fact apparent to everyone but him. We descended the steps and entered the kitchen where he cobbled together bread, cheese, and ham pulled from the cooling cabinet. He finished by heaping the concoction with a generous portion of mustard and sour pickle.

  Sissy poked her head into the room, embroidery hoop in hand. “I see you have an appetite, my love.”

  “I have a great thirst as well.”

  “For water?”

  Eddy chuckled.

  “For words?”

  Eddy did not answer. He wrapped his sandwich in a kitchen cloth, folding and tying it with great consideration. From the attention he gave the bundle, I would have thought it no less important than a manuscript.

  Sissy’s gaze fell to the floor. “When will you be back?”

  Eddy tied the top of the cloth and headed for the back door. “Before dinner. I swear it.” He held up his hand in oath. “Catters will keep me out of trouble. Do not worry.”

  Sissy regarded me, her jaw clenched. This winter, I had become not just her nursemaid but also his. Like the morning glory vines in the back garden, Eddy and Sissy’s woes grew in tangles, each pulling the other down, until the couple’s fate became inseparably entwined: the sicker Sissy grew, the more broken Eddy became; the more broken Eddy became, the sicker Sissy grew. It was enough to drive a cat mad.

  “Very well,” she said. “If you must.”

  ***

  Eddy and I arrived at Jolley Spirits, a tavern on Spring Garden. Trimmed by a ripped awning, the single-story eyesore sat amongst newer, taller edifices, and had—of all things—a stable out back. The interior was no less squalid. We took our usual table near the window. The air smelled faintly of horse dung, a scent I attributed to someone’s boots. From the crumb-covered tabletop, I assessed the crowd. Men with sooty faces—rowdies from the rail depot—had gathered around the bar. They shouted and slapped one another’s backs in a manner most aggressive, disturbing a table of dark-suited gentlemen in the back. Despite occasional jeers from both sides, spirits flowed, and a war between the camps seemed unlikely. I thought about starting one later for my own amusement.

  Eddy untied his kitchen bundle. “Sissy worries about me, Catters,” he said in a low voice. “But it is I who should do the worrying, don’t you think?” He lifted the sandwich to take a bite. “Virginia was so…despondent when we left and over a trivial matter.” His face soured. “Curses, I have lost my appetite again.” He shrouded his lunch with the cloth, laying it to rest. “I am certain it is ‘The Black Cat.’”

  I recognized these words from our writing session. Had he been referring to this
morning’s feline? Or his story? I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I was glad the tom’s death still occupied his mind because it had yet to leave mine. I thought about the killer—the Butcher of Green Street—while I groomed my haunches.

  “At any rate, I cannot seem to—” Eddy stopped mid-sentence when Mr. Jolley, the barkeep, arrived with a glass of port wine.

  “How is my best customer?” Mr. Jolley asked. A hideous old man with fewer teeth than fingers, he’d outlived most humans. He set the drink before Eddy and reached for me with a spotted hand. Blue veins bulged beneath his thinning skin. I flattened my ears and growled, letting the pitch rise to match my agitation. He heeded the warning and withdrew. Common sense may have been his lone attribute. “Your cat is most peculiar, Mr. Poe,” he said.

  Eddy slid a coin across the table then took a draught of wine before speaking. “Peculiar, yes. Most peculiar? Good sir, you have not met my mother-in-law.”

  Mr. Jolley chuckled, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. His dark suit smelled of cedar and dust. “I have seen Maria Clemm on the street, and she is a fetching woman.”

  “She is rather good at retrieving,” Eddy said.

  Mr. Jolley’s chuckle turned into a belly laugh. “Oh, Mr. Poe, I beg you! Stop at once!”

  “It is all in jest,” Eddy said. “I could not do without dear Muddy. She is my salvation.” He finished his wine and set the glass down with finality.

  He pointed to the empty vessel. “Another?”

  Eddy hesitated.

  “How is your magazine coming?”

  “No longer the Penn, it is the Stylus, revived and restyled under better auspices. And while the Pioneer and others like it have collapsed, the Stylus is in capable hands.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. Jolley held onto the back of a nearby chair. “I read Mr. Clark withdrew his support. Unless the Saturday Museum prints lies these days.”

  Eddy shifted in his seat.

  “Let me get that refill,” Mr. Jolley said, hobbling away. “Good afternoon, Mr. Arnold!” he shouted to a departing patron. “Give my best to Tabitha!”

  Mr. Arnold, the cobbler of Franklin Street, sneered in reply. A coarse man with a bulbous nose, he slumped more than walked. One could argue that his frame had been sewn of wet burlap. And, dear me, his sun-worn skin needed polishing more than the boots in his shop. When he passed our table, he jerked one of the empty chairs, startling us both. I flattened my ears and hissed. “What are you looking at?” he bellowed. “Well? Answer me!”

  “Nothing, sir. I pride myself on minding my business,” Eddy said. He must have responded on my behalf since Mr. Arnold had addressed me, not him.

  “People shouldn’t bring animals into public houses.” He spat tobacco on the floor near our table. “It’s not sanitary.” His crazed laughter lasted all the way out the door. “It’s not sanitary!” he shouted again before crossing the street.

  “That fellow is corned, Catters, from top to tail. No wonder Mrs. Arnold stays ill-humored.”

  In a fashion, Mr. Jolley brought another glass of port. Once Eddy finished it, the old man returned with yet another, walking more briskly than I would have guessed his age would allow.

  “No, Mr. Jolley,” Eddy said. He held up his hand in refusal. “I have had enough.”

  Even I, humble cat that I am, understood his answer. Mr. Jolley, however, did not, or rather pretended he did not. With a gummy smile, he set the drink in front of my companion and left. The barkeep gave me many reasons to hate him, but this bested them all. Josef, the server at Shakey House Tavern, always heeded Eddy’s wishes. I’d even seen him refuse Eddy when my friend’s gait grew uncertain or his speech slurred. Not Mr. Jolley. He cared more for coins than people.

  Eddy sipped the blood-hued liquid and watched a couple on the street. The youngsters strolled past the tavern windows, elbows linked beneath a shared parasol. How rosy their cheeks; how gay their steps! The woman laughed with nary a cough and tugged her beau toward an oyster vendor across the way. Eddy’s gaze fell to his wine glass. When the rising chatter of patrons interrupted his contemplation, he took the penknife from his pocket again.

  As he toyed with the blade, his expression changed from one of concentration to one of despair, signaling the return of his melancholy. As they’d done so many times before, clouds overtook him, dampening his spirits with unremitting drizzle. This came as no surprise. One cannot hide from the tempest when it resides in one’s heart. Yet changing the weather was as easy—or as hard—as stoking his imagination. I’d learned this during our last adventure.

  “What state of mind must a man possess to commit this morning’s atrocity?” Eddy placed the object on the table next to me for my perusal. I sniffed it, detecting the scent of crow—nothing out of the ordinary. “An enraged state, an altered state…” He picked up the glass again and held it to the sunlight, casting a dappled reflection on the table. “I still do not know how anyone with a right mind could kill a cat,” he said to me.

  Kill a cat.

  Grasping tail in teeth, I worked on a cocklebur I’d picked up in the market. Constable Harkness wouldn’t likely jail a cat killer. But tracking down the murderer and involving Eddy in the hunt would blow away the storm. Sissy, too, might be cheered by our exertions. Nevertheless, one thing prevented my endorsement: the cat cookery book. I stood and stretched, anticipating the arrival of Mr. Jolley. To banish the pall over the Poe family, I would immerse us in the mystery of the hanged cat.

  As I sharpened my claws on the table, I questioned whether or not I had the speed and tenacity to bring down a human again. Winter feasting had given me a roundish, fattish shape, akin to a lump of dough—a detriment to fieldwork. If I couldn’t shake my sloth, I might end up on the Butcher’s plate next to boiled turnips. The floorboards vibrated. I turned to find the old raisin nearing with more blasted refreshment.

  I crouched.

  “Here you are, Mr. P—”

  I flew at Mr. Jolley’s face, scratching and clawing with my own set of penknives. He dropped the glass—my objective—and held his arm aloft. This protected his rheumy eyes and little else. With unusual vengeance, I latched onto the limb, shredding the thin skin of his elbow like newspaper. He would not serve another drink to Eddy tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. I withdrew and waited by the door for a swift exit.

  Mr. Jolley slipped and skated on the bloody port pooling underfoot, unable to gain his balance. “Get out!” he screamed. “You and that damnable cat, get out!”

  The rail yard rowdies and the gentleman laughed, united in his ridicule.

  Eddy grabbed his penknife and tucked it away. “Shall I come back tomorrow?”

  “Out!” Mr. Jolley clutched his injured arm and fell into a chair.

  We departed full chisel, leaving Jolley Spirits behind. Cookery book be damned. Catching the Butcher would be no problem for a cat like me.

  Cat Cookery for Beginners

  I ACCOMPANIED EDDY AS far as our front garden and waited for him to enter before skittering back to Green Street. With extreme care, I approached the house with the window boxes—a little down, a little across from the Franklin cut-through—stopping short at the neighboring brownstone. From the holly bushes next door, I surveyed the Butcher’s lair. His bottom floor windows hung open, and the curtains billowed in and out with the draft. Trim garden, new paint, clean walkway—I found nothing awry, save for wilting petunias. The dwelling looked innocuous enough. But then, so had the Glass Eye Killer’s, and the dangers that lurked behind his door had been genuine.

  Margaret’s caution returned as I slunk into the open. “He makes cats disappear,” she’d said. I dismissed it and hopped the low wrought iron fence surrounding the Butcher’s property. A cage large enough for a parrot sat to the right of the front door, but the contraption was empty, lacking perch, seed cup, and, chiefly, a feathered occupant. A horse and carriage rolled by on the cobblestones, clackety-clack, startling me. When I faced the house again, a figure loomed
in the window beyond the curtain veil.

  I froze.

  When my legs could hold their position no longer, I disappeared into a cluster of zinnias, stirring a patch of butterflies. The Butcher would leave at some point and walk by the flower patch, giving me access to his ankle. A well-placed strike to this area would incapacitate him. I flexed my claws. Once he fell, his eye would be mine. I swatted the last remaining butterfly, scraping it into paste. Street justice was a concept most familiar to an ex-feral like me. And then I thought of Eddy and the scorn he would heap upon this act of retribution.

  In the twitch of a whisker, I’d sunk to a place unbefitting a cat of my status, a cat who cohabitated with an esteemed man of letters. I lowered my chin to my paws. While the Butcher deserved a punishment equal to one he’d doled out, I would bring him to his knees and nothing more.

  The hinges cried as the front door swung open. My stomach tightened. “Heeeere kitty, kitty,” the Butcher called. His voice cracked from strain or disuse, I could not tell which. This much I knew: the zinnia patch had grown smaller. Or maybe I had grown larger. Both were possible. “Heeeere kitty, kitty.” He descended the stone steps to the garden.

  The flowers obstructed my view of his face, though from his gait I judged him to be a man of advanced years. Considering my success with Mr. Jolley, I had less to fear than I’d originally thought. I unsheathed my claws and lifted my paw to assault the oldster. I would be home for tea.

  “There’s a pretty kitty,” he said. He stopped at the flower patch, casting me in a crooked shadow. It was the man with the bent spine.

  I spat in terror, not at his outstretched hands but at the object between them—a net.

  ***

  The struggle had been epic—a vicious roiling of claws and teeth and tail—and one, I dare say, worthy of Eddy’s pen, yet it belonged to me alone. Once the Butcher threw the net, he stood aside and let me wind deeper into the ropes until even my whiskers could not wiggle. What a sight I must have been—Philadelphia’s only ball of yarn with a cat inside. After I surrendered, he scooped me up and dumped me into the large birdcage next to the front door. The Gazette lined the bottom of the prison, completing the indignity. What next? A cup of seeds?