The Black Cats (3 page)

Confident
in my plan, I strode through the neighborhood, head high, gait quick and light,
in search of fellow cats. One might’ve mistaken this section of Philadelphia
for a cemetery, it was that quiet. Unlike western Spring Garden District, the people
of eastern Spring Garden District—Eddy called them
Quakers
—kept to themselves.

The
roads held carriages, but many travelers preferred to walk in silence. I hoped
their feline companions leaned more toward congeniality and that my presence
would not raise fur. I had not yet reached the Franklin intersection when I observed
two tabbies—one orange and white, the other pale gray. “Hello!” I called
to them. They did not answer and waited for me to approach their front steps. I
did so guardedly, praying I hadn’t provoked a fight with the block’s toughest
ferals. “I am Cattarina. I live in the Poe house at the end of the street.” I
waved my tail in the general direction of home.

“Pleased
to make your acquaintance, friend,” the gray tom said. “I am George, and this
is Margaret.” He nodded to the orange and white tabby. “We live with Thaddeus
Beal.”

“Welcome
to Green Street,” Margaret said. She had impossibly long whiskers. “You’ll find
a peaceful society in this neighborhood. We offer our blessings.”

My ear
twitched. I could not fathom a non-violent gathering of felines, save for one
in the bastion of my mind. Immanuel Katt’s theories of utopia are stunning; sadly,
they remain out of reach. The only semi-peaceful society I’d met had been Big
Blue’s troop near the penitentiary, and even they weren’t above aggression. “If
I am welcome,” I countered, “then you won’t mind answering questions.”

“Questions
delight the mind, miss,” George said. His dull coat had the color and density
of a thundercloud. I pictured a lightning strike in its midst.

“Do you
know of the black cat?” I asked. “The one that was hanged this morning?”

Margaret
sat and wrapped her ginger tail around her feet. “We know of him.”

“Who
was his owner?”

George looked
to Margaret then back to me. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“It is
important to my companion,” I lied. While Eddy had an interest in the tom’s
death, I had become obsessed with it. “Please.”

“Should
we tell her?” Margaret asked George.

George blinked
his approval.

“The
Butcher of Green Street,” she said. “He makes cats disappear.”

MARGARET’S DECLARATION SOURED
MY stomach more than the wooly cheese I’d pilfered from the cooling cupboard yesterday.
“The Butcher of Green Street,” I repeated. “I gather sausage is not his
specialty.”

“Unless
you mean cat sausage,” George said.

“Surely
you speak in jest,” I said.

“They
go in,” Margaret said with a tremor, “but they don’t come out.” She glanced
over her shoulder before speaking again. “The black cat disappeared into the
Butcher’s house around the quarter moon. Now he’s swinging from a tree. Draw
your own conclusions.”

“You
said ‘
They
go in.’ Have there been
others?” I asked.

“Yes. It
all started with the Water Giants.”

I
flicked the end of my tail. “That is utter hyperbole.”

“Hi-
purr
-bo-lee?” She cocked her head. “I have
never heard of it. But I am
very
sure
of my facts. The Water Giants made the mistake of sleeping on the Butcher’s
doorstep one night. The next morning, they were gone. Just ask them if you
don’t believe me.”

“If
they are gone,” I said, “how can I ask them?”

“Precisely,”
George said with a sniff. “After that, other ferals vanished. Always near the
Butcher’s home. No one knows what he does with them, but I’ve heard rumors of a
cat cookery book—”

“George!”
Margaret said. “Gossiping is most unseemly. Our Thaddeus would not approve.”

George dipped
his head.

Cat
cookery book? No matter how sorry I felt for the black feline, I would not
sacrifice my life to give meaning to his. The Poe household, namely Eddy,
depended on me, and getting ground into sausage would complicate matters. Moreover,
I have never been fond of mustard. And yet…curiosity, the cat, and all of that.
“If I wanted to see this human, where would I find him?” I asked.

“A half
block down, across the street,” George said. “The one with petunias in the
window boxes. Don’t say we didn’t warn you, miss.”

“I will
take your words to heart,” I said. “If anything, I now know which house to
avoid.”

The
door to George and Margaret’s home opened, and Mr. Thaddeus Beal—a drably
clothed man with spectacles—summoned them with a kissy sound. George
dashed inside. Margaret hesitated. “Give up this pursuit before it’s too late,”
she said to me. “Promise you will, Cattarina.”

“I
promise. Cat’s honor.” I waited for her to leave then started for home. Though
I longed to avenge the tom’s murder, I had met a villain too despicable to
hunt.
Fancy a Leg of Manx tonight, dear?
With mint jelly? No, thank you. I’d much rather dine on Tortie Pot Pie.
Cat
cookery book, indeed.

As I
neared North Seventh, I noted a grey plume rising in the vicinity of home. This
new area heralded surprises at every turn. I trotted ahead and rounded the
corner, discovering the smoke’s source—the Poe residence. Scents of char
and kerosene wafted from the rear of the structure.

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.”