The Black Cats

by Monica Shaughnessy

  When I wiggled, she released me and left the bed to tidy her hair in the mirror over the dresser. “I give this secret to you and you alone, Cattarina. We must never, ever tell Eddy that any means other than the bottle moved Mr. Arnold to violence.” She slid another pin into her bun. “I have my reasons. And besides, it won’t make a bit of difference to Mr. Arnold since he will live out the remainder of his days in an asylum. And I do mean days.” She finished by giving the back of her head a partial look in the glass.

  We arrived downstairs to find Dr. Leabourne at the door. Eddy tried to press a few coins into his hand, but the good doctor refused and took a handshake instead. Once we were alone, Muddy revived us with a suggestion. “Who would like an early supper? If you don’t expect fixins, you can have it now.”

  Supper? Yes, I would take piece of chicken skin, dear Muddy. I’d already smelled it from upstairs.

  “For once, I have an appetite,” Sissy said. “Let’s eat.”

  “That is no wonder,” Eddy said, guiding his wife by the small of her back. “Dr. Leabourne says you are in good health.” He ushered her into the kitchen, along with the rest of us, and sat her at the table. “And to celebrate, I’d like to present my story, ‘The Black Cat.’”

  “You finished it?” Sissy asked.

  “I will leave that to your conclusion, wife.” He produced a scroll from inside his coat. “You broke my heart after the first draft. See if this one is to your liking.” He handed the curled page to her.

  The story had taken but an instant to finish after the horror in the Arnolds’ cellar. That very night, once Sissy and Muddy had been put to bed, he and I worked at shaping the letters, staying up until dawn to finish them. My crime solving had yet again inspired him to write. As his muse, this thrilled me since I had begun to feel my importance slipping as of late, at least with regard to his work. The document stayed on his desk another day while he considered it. I likened it to a pie on a windowsill. He must have thought it cool enough to bring down this morning.

  Muddy stoked the cook stove with a piece of kindling. “Read the story aloud, Virginia.”

  Once Eddy took his seat, Sissy unrolled the paper, her fingers shaking, and recited his words: “‘One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat—a very large one—fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.’”

  Muddy floured and fried the chicken while her daughter read, nodding at parts of the story. When the old woman turned her back, Eddy took down a tin of jerky from the pantry and fed me a piece. And then another. I came back again, but he waved me away. So I settled next to his feet and contented myself with the sound of Sissy’s voice. I realized now that Eddy could not live without either one of us. To thrive, a writer must have a muse to bring the story and an audience to appreciate it. Sissy and I were not exactly a team. But to quote Ariscatle, “Our whole was greater than the sum of our parts.” Constable Harkness would have to agree. We’d helped him, too.

  “Oh, Eddy,” Sissy said at the end, “this is a marvelous eulogy.” She handed the scroll back to him, and he replaced it in his jacket.

  “So you like it?” Eddy asked.

  “How could I not?” she said.

  “I liked it, too,” Muddy said. “Even if it parts from the truth here and there.”

  “Some of the circumstances have been changed to protect the innocent,” he said. He reached down and patted the top of my head.

  “Mother? Can you give us a minute?” Sissy asked. “I need to talk to Eddy, alone.”

  “Watch the stove,” Muddy said before leaving. “I don’t want it to get too hot.”

  After a quiet period, Sissy spoke. “Your writing had more depth than usual.”

  “It did?” Eddy’s shoes shifted beneath the table. The elation in his voice heartened me. “I simply paid the black cat the kindness he deserved—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “Mother may not have heard it between the lines, but I did. How the main character’s drunkenness led to the ruination of his sanity? And took away his wife?”

  Eddy did not answer.

  “I will always be with you, Edgar, in life and in death. Do not fear. But our kingdom by the sea needs a strong ruler. Will you try again? For me?”

  “Yes, Virginia, of course.”

  A light scratch at the kitchen door stirred me. I hopped on the sideboard and peeked through the window. Midnight sat at the backdoor, waiting for it to open. I looked to Eddy and Sissy, still in the midst of their talk. Though from her smile, it had turned to lighter subjects.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you for weeks, Sissy, but we’ve been so busy,” Eddy said. “I heard from William again about the collection. The Prose Romances of Edgar Allan Poe will soon be for sale. I am the luckiest man alive!”

  When they embraced, I jumped down to visit with my pal, causing the tom to leap with fright. “I only meant to startle you, not set your heart afire,” I said to him.

  “It’s just been a few days since my Tabitha’s death, and my nerves are still mending,” he said. He stared back at me with both eyes. “My infection is mending, too. Mr. Eakins applies a cream every morning and every evening. But I can open the lid now.”

  “Cats are his business, you know.” I sat near the nail head that once vexed Eddy. Muddy had knocked it flat with a rock and a curse in recent days. “Do you mean to stay with the old man?”

  “That’s one of the reasons for my visit.”

  “We are the others!” Silas said, skirting the corner with his brother. His fur shook as he trotted. “Greetings, Cattarina! We found a new escape hole in the cellar!”

  “You are looking well,” Samuel said to me.

  “I am resplendent with victory,” I said. “I trust you heard our haunt was successful?”

  “All of Spring Garden has heard!” Silas said.

  “Join us?” Midnight asked.

  Eddy and Sissy would not miss me if I returned by moonrise. I followed the toms to the now-familiar courtyard on Franklin. Near the base of the sassafras tree, George and Margaret waited next to a coiled snake of sausage links. “Hello, Cattarina!” they said in unison.

  “How marvelous!” I said. “Where did the meat come from?”

  “You may be the Huntress of Spring Garden,” Midnight said, “but I am the Thief of Rittenhouse.”

  And so he was. He would steal part of my heart this night, the part I considered feral and free and utterly feline, and he would never return it. We tore apart the links and ate them by the tree that started it all, honoring Snip with our camaraderie. Mr. Fitzgerald’s shop was closed this time of day, and Mr. Arnold’s shop stood vacant and boarded. Aside from the lamplighter working his way along Franklin, we had our privacy.

  When we’d finished our repast, my pals offered their goodbyes, along with assurances of future meetings. While our friendship had just begun, I could not say the same of Midnight. He and I stayed behind, nestled among the roots of the tree. “Thank you for the gift,” I said to him.

  “The sausage? It was nothing.”

  “No, the gift of memory. I love this tree, and I will be glad to think of pleasanter things when I pass it. There are so few scaling trees left in this part of Philadelphia. It’s all in the bark, you know. If it’s too smooth—”

  “Cattarina, I’m leaving.”

  Twilight settled into the courtyard, blending with the tree’s shadow until they became one. �
��Yes, I know,” I said at last. “When Sissy took you to Mr. Eakins’s house, I predicted the outcome. Will you be very far away?”

  “I will be with a family on a wagon. From the way it’s packed, I think they mean to travel a great distance. They need a mouser for the journey, you see. I put that much together. Though I still don’t know what a Missouri is.”

  “Mizzzzouri. The word that tickles my tongue,” I said. “Are you pleased with your family?”

  He stood and arched his back, giving it a stretch, then walked into the open. “Very pleased. My new companions are a young man about Sissy’s age and his wife—Ben and Aggie.”

  “Any children?” I followed him and brushed along his side.

  “No. But I expect that will change. By then, I will be king mouser and will have earned a good place in their home.” His pupils grew very large. “Think of it, Cattarina, I will have a job. A purpose.”

  “All cats should be so fortunate,” I said.

  “Come with me?” When I did not answer, he licked my cheek. “Then I’ll visit you one day.”

  “Or I will find you.”

  We were both terrible liars.

  Once he left, I climbed the tree and watched the black cat, my black cat, vanish between the darkened buildings of Green Street. I would miss him, but I could not leave Eddy, for my companion held the other part of my heart, the part that was constant and pure and completely devoted. From here, Poe House was no bigger than Sissy’s red trinket box, so fragile and small. Oh, how I longed to protect that little dwelling and keep its occupants safe and merry, if not for all time, then for as long as possible.

  And I did until fall, the season of the raven.

  Dear Friend:

  Soon after our adventure, the newspaper printed the black cat’s eulogy. I surmised as much from the stack of copies Eddy brought home and from the fuss he made over one particular page. Nothing escapes this cat of letters. Speaking of me, and I am always speaking of me, I considered the papers splendid napping material.

  In the meantime, we do hope you purchase one of Eddy’s works. Winter is coming, and we are in need of mutton.

  And chicken feathers.

  Yours truly,

  Cattarina Poe

  “The Black Cat”

  by Edgar Allan Poe

  Originally published in the United States Saturday Post, August 19, 1843

  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. But tomorrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified -- have tortured -- have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror -- to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place -- some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.

  From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

  I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.

  This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point -- and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.

  Pluto -- this was the cat's name -- was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.

  Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character -- through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance -- had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but illused them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me -- for what disease is like Alcohol ! -- and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish -- even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.

  One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a penknife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket ! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.

  When reason returned with the morning -- when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch -- I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.

  In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart -- one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself -- to offer violence to its own nature -- to do wrong for
the wrong's sake only -- that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; -- hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; -- hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; -- hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin -- a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it -- if such a thing were possible -- even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

  On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.

  I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts -- and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire -- a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.