The Black Cats

by Monica Shaughnessy

  “Where did you find him?” Mrs. Arnold asked.

  “Outside of Jolley’s,” Mr. Arnold said.

  The window glass blunted their words.

  She tilted her head. “Except for the white fur on his chest, he reminds me of—”

  “Don’t say it.” Mr. Arnold crossed his arms. “Not sure if we should keep him.”

  “Of course we should keep him,” she said. “It’s your chance to make amends.” Mrs. Arnold rose, poured a pitcher of water into a kettle, and set the kettle on the cook stove.

  Mr. Arnold and Midnight eyed each other with an unbroken gaze. The room bristled with confrontation, though Mrs. Arnold seemed oblivious. When the teakettle whistled, the man reached for a pot of ointment in his pocket and applied it to the wounds on his neck, chin, and hands, turning his skin shiny. I thought of the salve Muddy put on my paws and licked my lips. “I liked the look of him before,” he said. “Now I don’t know.”

  “He’s a fine cat, even if he’s missing an eye,” Mrs. Arnold said. “You didn’t do it…did you, Abner?”

  “No. I swear it. It was missing when I found him.” He rubbed his stomach. “Don’t know why I eat at Jolley’s. Makes me sick every time.”

  “I’ll fix you up.” Mrs. Arnold put several heaping spoonsful of loose tea in a cup and poured boiling water over the top of it. Then she set the refreshment on the table before her husband.

  Mr. Arnold sat forward and pushed the cup aside. “Do you see a picture in his fur?” He pointed at Midnight. “There, on his chest.”

  “Now that you mention it, the white does make a pattern.”

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  Mrs. Arnold chuckled and said, “Roast chicken on horseback!”

  “Bah,” he said, rising from his chair. “You think too much about food. I’ll be in the parlor.”

  Mr. Arnold left the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Arnold and her tea tray a short while later.

  Midnight hopped to the floor and approached the window. “They’re keeping me, Cattarina, just as we planned. Let the haunting begin.”

  ***

  Throughout the waxing moon, Samuel, Silas, George, Margaret, and I kept watch over Midnight as he performed his otherworldly duties. This effort alone wouldn’t convince a man like Abner Arnold to abandon cats, so we all played a part. In the morning, I would follow him on errands, usually to the tavern, hissing and spitting from the shadows. If he stayed home, I’d dart to his bedchamber windowsill, careen off the glass, and leap to the ground in a continuous arc, performing this action over and over until he lifted the sash. “W-who’s there?” he’d say, followed by, “Is it the g-ghost cat?” Come afternoon, Silas and Samuel would sneak out of a hole in Mr. Eakins’s roof and gallop across the Arnold’s roof. The pitty-pat of the brothers’ footsteps kept Mr. Arnold on the threshold of insanity until dinnertime, when George and Margaret would take over. They caterwauled from the garden to upset Mr. Arnold’s digestion.

  These efforts supported Midnight’s real work inside the home. Eye ablaze, “Snip’s ghost” would stalk our victim room to room, unnerving him with an eerie low-pitched growl. I’d heard the sound more than once during my rounds, and it chilled even me. If the man tried to sit—in the parlor, in the bedchamber—Midnight would linger in the doorway and gaze at him with a hypnotic stare we cats reserve for mice and birds, the kind that turns prey into pudding. “What do you want from me? Leave me alone!” Mr. Arnold would shout.

  Whenever the man of the house left, our pal turned into a different feline, different even from the one who lived in Rittenhouse. I’d never seen Midnight so vulnerable, so kitten-like. Over the days, he endeared himself to Tabitha Arnold, becoming an indispensible companion by warming her bed, catching her spiders, and listening to her stories. She did the same for him, scratching him just so, moving his blanket to follow the sun, even squiggling the odd piece of yarn for him. “There’s a good boy,” Mrs. Arnold would croon when he sat on her lap. Yet as soon as the man returned, Midnight would assume his role as specter.

  And these exertions worked. I’d never seen a twitchier human than Abner Arnold. In a misguided attempt to restore her husband—I’d witnessed my share of useless home remedies—Mrs. Arnold plied her husband with tea every morning and every evening. But it was little use against the liquor he consumed and the mental anguish we doled out. Each day, his eyes grew yellower, his neck redder, and his stomach greener, the latter evidenced by daily purging.

  Our “ghost’s” health fared only slightly better. Though the pomade had worn off days ago, Midnight’s eyelid remained closed. Poor thing. The infection I dreaded had become a reality. He’d showed me one afternoon while the Arnolds attended church. “Does it look bad?” he asked. “Will I lose the eye and become like Snip? Tell me the truth.”

  “If you do, you will be even more handsome,” I told him.

  I should state here that these shenanigans came at no expense to the Poes. Muddy supervised the house during my absences, but I always—always—returned home to Sissy each night to warm her. The other cats took turns sleeping in the Arnold’s front garden so night duty wouldn’t fall derelict. Eddy didn’t write much these days and had no need for a muse, though a secretary might have been useful. He departed the house on more than one morning with a messy satchel of manuscripts and scrolls, scattering a paper trail up and down North Seventh. The first time, I tailed him as far as the omnibus stop, and overheard him tell the driver, Mr. Coal, he was off to file a libel suit. I couldn’t hazard what became of this libel suit for Eddy never wore anything other than his somber black uniform.

  While pulling these capers at the Arnold house, the loose friendship I had with Silas, Samuel, George, and Margaret tightened into a genuine troop—the Green Street Troop—and I began to think of them as family. Midnight, however, I thought of as more than family.

  ***

  Around mid-summer, I met the Coon Cats by the Arnold’s garden gate as they headed home for dinner. I’d just finished my own meal and had come to fill in for George and Margaret since Margaret had caught a cold and could not rid herself of it. Even though this upset our schedule, the impending storm would’ve been the death of her. “Smell the rain? It’s coming,” I said to them. “It’s been so dry lately, I can’t complain.”

  “I hope we make it home before the downpour,” Silas said. “It takes my coat ages to dry.”

  “Cattarina?” Samuel asked. He rubbed against the picket post and scratched his back. “Do you think Midnight has taken a liking to Mrs. Arnold? The comfort he gives her seems more genuine these last few days.”

  “And not at all pretend,” Silas added. He licked his nose.

  “I am not sure,” I said. I did not wish to voice my concern to the others. “But I can tell that Mrs. Arnold has taken a liking to him. When she is with Midnight, her face shines.”

  “Changed by the love of a good cat,” Silas said.

  Samuel trilled in agreement.

  “Until Mr. Fitzgerald enters the picture,” I said. “They fight like couple of rabid dogs. Oh, the fist shaking and screaming! Axe this and tree that. Humans.”

  “The heat drives them insane,” Samuel said. “Makes them do things they normally wouldn’t. They should try weathering it with a coat.” He turned and bit his rump, as if mentioning the coat caused the itch. “How much longer will it take Mr. Arnold to give up cats I wonder?”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “I shan’t expect much longer,” I said. “What’s the report?”

  “Mr. Arnold’s mood is fair to poor,” he replied. “He’s been pacing a lot.”

  Silas chimed in, “They are just about to dine—beef stock and crackers. If the haunting doesn’t do them in, starvation will, right brother?” His stomach rumbled. “Speaking of starvation, our Robert will be serving dinner soon. We must be home by then.” He nudged Samuel toward the street.

  “I will be back for the overnight shift,” Samuel said as they lef
t. “Until then, Cattarina!”

  As I watched the brothers disappear down the street, I, too, wondered how much longer it would take to break Mr. Arnold of his “fondness” for cats. Soon, I hoped. I couldn’t see keeping this pace until fall. And Midnight’s eye needed to be washed and cared for lest he lose it. I approached the house and jumped to the kitchen sill to observe the goings-on.

  Tragically, the answer to “how much longer” presented itself this very night.

  During my brief conversation with the Coon Cats, Mr. Arnold had turned hysterical, evidenced now by his tortured expression and gnashing teeth. Perspiration darkened the shirt fabric under his arms, and his skin gleamed with sweat. Just as Samuel said, the man marched back and forth across the kitchen with large, angry strides. Soup and crackers lay on the table, untouched. Mrs. Arnold cowered in the corner. The grave situation grew worse when Mr. Arnold snatched Midnight and deposited him on the kitchen table, upsetting a soup bowl. “I see it! I see it!” he yelled.

  Midnight quivered on the tabletop, no longer play-acting. I leaned in closer and bumped my nose on the window frame. Dash it all, I’d never catch the brothers in time.

  “What is it, Abner? What do you see?” Mrs. Arnold said from the corner.

  “The pattern on the cat’s chest.”

  She joined him. “For pity’s sake, have you lost your mind?”

  “It’s a gallows and hangman’s noose.” He turned Midnight around. “See for yourself.”

  She inspected the white fur. “I see no such thing.”

  “Look again,” he demanded. “It’s a sign from the devil. I know it. He’s come to make me pay for killing the black cat.”

  Killing the black cat. I didn’t need his admission of guilt but got one all the same. I paced the sill. George and Margaret could not be expected until morning, and the brothers were half way to Green Street by now. If Midnight ran afoul, I’d have to save him by myself. I inspected the cracked glass in the window. Should I break it and give my pal passage? Or should I go round front and create a diversion first? If the old man saw me, he would recognize me from the fire, and—

  “You’re drunk,” Mrs. Arnold said, crossing her arms.

  “No! No! Not a drop since lunch! I swear it!” Mr. Arnold clasped his hands and pleaded with his wife. “Oh, Tabitha, relieve this misery and confirm my greatest suspicion, that this cat is from the underworld!” He fell to his knees and grabbed his ears. “I am weary from the meowing and hissing and spitting—it follows me everywhere! I cannot escape it! The fire, the ghostly imprint upon the plaster… There is no corner of Philadelphia safe from four-legged demons, not even my home!”

  “You need to rest, dear,” she said. She brushed Midnight from the table and tried to push him into the next room. I think she meant to save him, except the stubborn tom refused to leave and hid behind the washstand instead. The old woman turned to her husband with an insincere smile. “Abner, why don’t I fix—”

  “No more tea! No more cats!” He sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the throat. “Mark my words, Tabitha Arnold. This hell ends tonight.”

  Ravages of the Storm

  THE BROKEN PANE SHATTERED with my charge, scattering glass to the kitchen floor. “Flee, Midnight!” I screeched. “He’s going to kill you!”

  Abner Arnold twisted toward the window, fingers tight around his wife’s throat. His bottom lip trembled. “The hell c-cat lives! She’s b-back from the fire!”

  Hell cat? Fire? All hope of anonymity vanished. This mattered less compared to a much bigger fix. Midnight had not moved from behind the washstand. “Have you lost your wits?” I said to him. “Run, you fool! Run!”

  “I can’t leave without her, Cattarina,” he said. “She’s my companion now.”

  “Tabitha Arnold?”

  Abner Arnold released his wife and lunged for the window. I could not risk another go-round with this madman. As his hand burst through the jagged hole, I jumped from the sill, escaping his fingers at the last instant. He withdrew and slapped the window, depositing bloody handprints on the glass. “I will kill you, hell cat! I will strangle you with my own two hands!”

  But these were not the words that haunted me on my race to Green Street. They were Midnight’s. “Save me, Cattarina!” he pleaded as I left. “Save us both!”

  ***

  The wind blew me south toward my own neighborhood, shortening the time to Mr. Eakins’s home. I reached his front garden with scant daylight remaining. As luck would have it, the Coon Cats sat at the parlor window and witnessed my approach—from inside the house. “Silas! Samuel!” I yowled to them. “Midnight is—”

  Bang, bang, bang.

  I looked skyward. Mr. Eakins sat astride the roof peak, a hammer in his hand and nails between his teeth. Bang, bang, bang. He brought the tool down again and again, striking a board that spanned a hole…just big enough for a cat to escape through. “Rain’s coming, mister,” he muttered to himself. “Better hurry or you’ll have your indoor plumbing yet.”

  I bounded up the walkway and laid my paws on the large front window. “Midnight’s in trouble!” I said to the brothers. “You’ve got to help me!”

  “We can’t,” Samuel said. “Our Robert found the hole and is sealing our route as we speak.”

  Silas hung his head. “We are sorry, Cattarina.”

  Bad luck, indeed. I left without goodbyes and ran to Mr. Beal’s home down the block to fetch George and Margaret. They, too, had been locked inside. They stood at the front window, their faces forlorn. “It’s the rain, Cattarina. Our Thaddeus wants to keep us safe,” Margaret said. She sneezed. “And warm. I am sicker with this weather.”

  “There’ll be no talking him out of it,” George said. “It’s up to you to save Midnight.”

  His words choked me, and I experienced—if but partially—the anguish Snip must have felt as the noose tightened around his neck.

  ***

  As I entered the Arnold’s neighborhood, the magnificent ball of yarn disappeared from the sky, ushering in the night. We cats operated best in the dark, so I prayed this would be to my advantage. My heart pounded, more from my mental state than my physical, as I dashed past rows of houses. If anything had happened to Midnight while I’d gone for help, Mr. Arnold would pay with his life, if not tonight, at some point in the future. I reached the familiar front gate and skidded to a stop near the post.

  Great Cat Above! Would this night of horrors never cease?

  Mr. Fitzgerald stood at the couple’s door with Mrs. Arnold’s hand axe—the object of their continued bickering. He knocked with the back of the metal head and waited, his tall, gaunt frame mirroring the gables on either side of the eaves. The wind blew again, lifting his thin hair. I did not move for fear of drawing attention to myself.

  Mrs. Arnold answered, her hair tangled and about her shoulders, the skin under her eye swollen. The fight between her and her husband had raged on in my absence. “Mr. Fitzgerald?” she said. She wiped her face and straightened her dress.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Arnold.” He raised the axe and spoke in monotone. “I think we should bury the hatchet once and for all.”

  In her fear, she committed the unthinkable. She opened the door and let him into her home. As the door closed behind them, sealing Midnight inside, I thought of our salvation: Eddy.

  ***

  Sissy’s protestations echoed down Minerva. “How could you?” she wailed from inside the house. “How could you go back on your word?” Her voice carried far enough to give Mr. Cook something to gossip about tomorrow. Raindrops pelted my fur, urging me up the walkway and into our home through the open kitchen window. I located husband and wife in the parlor. Eddy lay on the settee, his suit coat turned inside out, his hair brushed onto his forehead. Sissy stood in the center of the rug, arms crossed.

  “You promised you would stop, Edgar,” Sissy said. “Promised.” She stamped her foot.

  I slunk into the room and sat on the hearth, pondering this new turn
of events. If Eddy had taken ill, I couldn’t engage his help. The front door opened and closed, and Muddy entered the parlor still wearing her straw bonnet, the one with faux cherries. Much too gay a hat to be paired with her somber black dress, it nonetheless suited her. She’d always been a woman at odds with herself. “The storm is coming, Virginia. We’d better latch the shutters and—” She spied Eddy on the settee. “What’s this?”

  “It’s what it looks like, Mother,” Sissy snapped.

  The old woman approached her son-in-law, laying a hand on his forehead. “Don’t be too hard on him, dear. You can’t expect him to shed his condition in a single month. Not without help.”

  Sissy sighed. “I suppose all the money from ‘The Gold Bug’ is gone.”

  “I saved a little back. We are not destitute.”

  Sissy knelt and shook Eddy’s shoulder to no effect. “Husband! Wake up!” she cried.

  I would not be so delicate. I trotted past Sissy and jumped on my companion’s chest. He did not stir. At this very moment, Mr. Arnold or Mr. Fitzgerald could be turning Midnight to mincemeat. With great vigor, I sharpened my claws on Eddy’s shirtfront, catching, I hoped, a bit of skin in the process. He giggled. Curses.

  “There is no waking him, Cattarina,” Sissy said to me. “He is beyond help.” She offered her mother a weak smile. “How is Mrs. West? Still complaining about President Tyler?”

  “His Accidency? Yes, ad infinitum.” She removed her bonnet and laid it on the mantle. “Let’s get him ready for sleep,” she said.

  I slunk to the hearth to think while Sissy and Muddy removed Eddy’s jacket and shoes. Midnight needed a human’s help, but that human would not be Eddy. Sissy had proved handy during the Glass Eye Killer affair, and she might again, I reasoned. As I watched the dear girl drape Eddy with a crocheted blanket, I settled on a new plan. Once Muddy went to bed, I would lure Sissy outside and to the Arnold home where she would intervene on my behalf. Midnight could stay here for one night and return to Rittenhouse in the morning. I got my wish when the old woman announced, “It’s bedtime, Virginia.”