The Black Cats (11 page)

MR. AND MRS. ARNOLD lived a few
blocks north of Green Street, in an area filled with shanties. The destruction
of their old house and the partial ruin of their cobbler shop had put them in league
with humans of low means. The wooden cottage had but a single story, no
shutters, cracked or broken panes in almost every window, a walkway made of
hand-dug stones, and a lopsided chimney I wagered kept more smoke in than it let
out. Mr. Arnold staggered up the walkway, opened the door for Midnight, and shooed
him inside with his boot.

The
door shut behind them, sealing my friend inside.

A
window ledge provided a perch from which to observe the interior. This proved
less than fruitful since Abner Arnold slumped to the front hall floor after
entering, too drunk to stand. There he fell into a deep slumber, allowing
Midnight and me the full range of his property. “Hurry!” I said to my friend
through a broken pane. “Explore every door and window. You may need an escape
route later. I have some experience with this.”

“I’ll
look inside,” he said to me. “You look outside.” With this, he vanished into
the next room, but not before bumping into the doorframe.

The cottage
had more in common with a produce crate than a home, yet I turned up no
extraneous portals, save for a locked back door. On to the cellar. The home’s
lower environs opened onto the street, guarded by a set of wooden panels warped
by rain. I slipped through the crack between them, certain I could escape again
if necessary, and descended to the flagstone floor below.

Abner Arnold’s
cellar contained nothing of interest, save for a bag of quicklime, a bag of
crushed rock, and a tower of bricks in the corner. The earthen room bore but
one interesting detail—a recess in the wall near the kitchen stairs. The alcove
had the makings of a fireplace, abandoned in early stages by bricklayers. Coincidentally,
our cellar at home had a similar niche. Muddy had lined it with boards to store
her summer canning.

A door
opened and shut above me. “I’m home, Abner!” Mrs. Arnold shouted.

I left
the cellar and retraced my steps to the rear of the home. With growing concern
for Midnight, I became more brazen, alighting to the kitchen windowsill in full
view. On this fine and fair day, the sun on my back, the cobblers would never
catch me. Mr. Arnold had arisen from his stupor and sat with his wife at the
kitchen table. They stared not at each other but at their new guest, who’d
situated himself in the dry basin on the washstand. At first Midnight did not notice
me. So I scratched one of the intact panes, loud enough for him and no one else
to hear. Our gaze met briefly.

“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 left. “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—