The Black Cats (9 page)

The rumple
and snap of a newspaper enticed me to the end of the bar. Leaving a trail of
greasy footprints, I walked past a row of patrons, brushing their noses with my
tail. The paper’s owner departed as I arrived, giving me full access to the
plaything. I sat on the folded pages and delighted in the crinkle under my
bottom. Between my paws, I noticed a sketch of a man with a passing resemblance
to Mr. Arnold. Bald patches covered his head and fresh wounds marred his
cheeks. If it was really the shoemaker, he’d paid for his crime.

“The
cat, Mr. Pettigrew?” Eddy asked.

Drawn
by my companion’s voice, I rejoined the men and sat near Eddy’s elbow.

“The
cat!” Mr. Pettigrew said, eying me. “Yes, the cat. Sad creature. I suspected
Abner Arnold put an end to its life, but when I visited the remnants of their
home this morning, I
knew
he’d done
it. That mystical mischief is the talk of Green Street.”

“I suspect
him as well. But why do you think supernatural forces are at work?”

He
finished the flask and slapped the bar to call Mr. Jolley, professing his need
for another round. “I suggest you visit what’s left of his home, Mr. Poe. Then
you will see for yourself.”

***

Eddy marched
up Franklin to Green Street with me tucked under his arm. Panting and wheezing
from the exertion, he arrived at the Arnold’s razed home and set me on the
sidewalk. Easily half the neighborhood had gathered to view last night’s
accident, including Mr. Cook and Mr. Eakins. The men and women clustered around
the debris, forming a wall of parasols, flat-brimmed Quaker hats, and the odd
top hat. “Pardon me,” Eddy said, pushing between them. “I must get to the
front. I am here on important business.”

I
slipped through the human fence and meowed for Eddy to join me near the alley. The
fire had blackened the bricks of the brownstone next door, but the building had
experienced no real hardship. The blaze hadn’t jumped the alley or the street
either, which meant I’d caused no harm to the innocent, unless you counted Mrs.
Arnold. The guilty, however, had paid dearly. The cobbler shop, adjacent to the
rear of the property, had suffered damage to its back wall but remained largely
intact. Little remained of the home, save for a charred timber skeleton and a
few determined walls.

“I do
not see Mr. Pettigrew’s supernatural evidence, do you, Catters?”

I
meowed and sniffed the still-wet pile of wood.

“By the
by, I feel sorry for Mrs. Arnold,” he said to me. “Though I am not sure about
Mr. Arnold. If he
did
hang the black
cat, this may be divine retribution.” He smoothed the back of his hair. “Or
maybe he went on a spree before coming home and fell asleep with candles
aflame. Mr. Arnold was quite the tippler, Catters.”

“Tippler,
indeed,” said the woman at Eddy’s elbow. A lady of some wealth—not a
Quaker—she wore a silken blue gown with a lace-paneled neckline. She
closed her parasol with a snap. “In all my days, I’ve never seen a man more
taken with drink than Abner Arnold. I don’t know how his poor wife copes. She’s
up half the night, crying and pacing, waiting for him to come home from the
tavern.” She pointed to the charred home next door with her umbrella. “I live
right there, and I see everything.
Everything
.”

“Madam,
was Mr. Arnold a cruel man?” Eddy asked her. “Capable of, say, cutting out a
cat’s eye?”

She
touched her breastbone and frowned. “He’s never been a kind man, always quick
with his fists. Many a night I’ve heard them quarrel, and many a morning I’ve
seen bruises on Mrs. Arnold’s face. But these last few months, he’s gotten
worse. Much worse.” She shook her head. “It’s the drink, I tell you. It rots a
man’s brain. And don’t tell me otherwise, because I read it in Godey’s. Thank
goodness the temperance movement is taking hold in Philadelphia.”

Eddy
pressed her. “The accident…do you think it was supernatural?”

“That’s
what Mr. Pettigrew says. He’s been in and out of the shops this morning,
spouting nonsense about ghost cats and revenge from the grave. He’s a regular
Dickens.” She huffed. “It’s got nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do
with spirits.”

Eddy
nodded thoughtfully. The woman tried talking to him a while longer, but he’d
already withdrawn into his thoughts. I brushed his leg to bring him round. “I
do not like keeping company with Abner Arnold, Cattarina. I am convinced he
killed Pluto in a drunken rage, and it frightens me that I—”

“Look!”
Mr. Cook shouted. “It’s the ghost cat!” One large, flabby arm shot forward, and
he pointed to a plaster wall near the center of the wreckage. It had fallen
straight down from the second story and remained upright, bolstered by scorched
furniture and twisted stovepipe.

The
woman in blue shaded her eyes. “Wait! I see it! Mr. Pettigrew was right.” She
caught her breath. “And it’s got a rope around its neck!”

Try as
I might, too many legs prevented me from seeing the ghost cat.

“Oh,
me! A sign from the Other Side,” Mr. Eakins said above the crowd. “I knew Abner
Arnold killed the poor creature, and this proves it!”

A
series of exclamations rose from the men and women: “Strange!” and “Singular!” The
neighbors of Green Street pressed closer to look at the curiosity.

Eddy whisked
me from harm’s way and sat me on his shoulder. A lady with a coalscuttle bonnet
darted in front of us, causing my companion to stand on tiptoe for a look. “Oh,
Jupiter!” Eddy said. He covered his mouth with his hand. “Can it be, Catters?”

On the
lone piece of wall, I glimpsed the apparition in question—the outline of
a hanged cat. Egad!
I
had been the
one to make the impression. The heat from the fire must have reacted with
materials in the plaster, softening it enough to accept my mark when Mr. Arnold
dashed me against it. Soot from my fur added depth and shadow to the gruesome likeness.
The curtain cord that tangled my neck last night had been preserved, too, and
looked very much like a noose. I hadn’t just caught and punished the murderer; I’d
announced his wrongdoing to all of Philadelphia.

The
Hundred-Dollar Bug

A MIRACLE OCCURRED AFTER Eddy
and I left the Arnold house that day. He gave up spirits, home and away.
Sissy’s mood and overall health improved, too. I cannot say that Eddy’s
sacrifice caused the upturn—it may have been the dry weather—but more
and more time passed between her coughing spells. This, in turn, lifted Muddy’s
spirits. For the next half moon, Poe House took on a breeziness I could not explain
but enjoyed nonetheless. Sissy filled our home with piano music and laughter
again, Muddy whistled during chores, even waltzing with her broom on occasion,
and Eddy wrote. He took up a quill pen each morning, prepared his ink and
paper, and wrote to my heart’s content.

Musing occupied
me most days. There were papers to weight and desktops to tail-dust and curtain
cords to be batted when Eddy needed distraction. But when my companion took a
much-deserved break, so did I. During one such respite, I caught an omnibus to
Rittenhouse and told Midnight about Mr. Arnold and the penalty he’d paid for
killing Snip. Midnight and I decided to remain friends and nothing more since
neither of us fancied a long-distance relationship. I also made several trips
to Green Street to gossip about the ghost cat, giving the facts of the case to
George and Margaret, Silas and Samuel. During one such visit, I learned that
while Mr. and Mrs. Arnold still ran their shop, they had taken up residence a
few blocks north. As for the Snip’s grave, one could scarcely see it through
the morning glory vines.

One
summer afternoon, after a long session at his desk, Eddy and I entered the parlor
in search of Sissy and Muddy. The two women sat on either side of the hearth in
their rocking chairs—the elder knitting, the younger darning. “It is
official,” he said to them. “I have finished ‘The Black Cat.’ It is an
excellent eulogy, if I do say so myself.”

Sissy
set down her mending and took the scroll he offered. She unrolled it and crossed
to the open window. The sheer curtains blew into the room, fluttering against
the page.

Eddy
put his hands on his hips. “You don’t have to read it now, my—”

“Shhh!”
Sissy said. “It has been weeks, and I cannot wait any longer.”

Eddy
left to pace the hallway. I stayed, alighting to Sissy’s square piano. Certain we’d
turned in our best work, I wanted to receive congratulations first. Sissy read to
herself for a spell then finished by speaking aloud. “‘The falling of other
walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the
freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia
from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.’” She glanced
at me, her eyebrow arched.

She
continued, “‘Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether
to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less
fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself
of the
phantasm
of the cat; and,
during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that
seemed, but was not, remorse, and this lack of regret sentenced me to a hell
beyond any imagined. The Black Cat had taken his revenge!’”

Muddy
stopped knitting. “Is that it?” she asked.

Sissy
flipped the scroll over and found it as Eddy had left it—free of letters.
“Yes, that’s it.” She dropped into her rocking chair and gave her mother a
troubled look.

The
creak of wood called Eddy into the room. His hair stood on end, as if he’d been
pulling it again. “Well?” he asked.

“It is…amusing,”
Sissy said.

Muddy resumed
her knitting. The needles clicked furiously.

“Amusing?”
His eyes turned dull. “Is it not to your liking, Virginia? I worked so hard on
it. I thought for certain—”

She
rose to take his hands. “It was a good story, Edgar. I liked the supernatural
elements. And the main character is sufficiently mad. I’m just not sure of the ending.”

“Did it
not satisfy you?”

“It
lacked your usual…well, your usual severity.”

He let
go of her and crossed to the piano. I nudged his fingers. They remained limp. From
the furrow on his brow, I knew we had more writing ahead of us. “Since the story
is for you, wife,” he said. “I will try again. It must be perfect.”

“Don’t
make it too perfect,” Muddy added. “You need to sell it and make rent.”

Sissy joined
him. “The parts about the cat were realistic.” She tousled the top of my head.
“Perhaps a little too realistic, considering Cattarina’s involvement in the
fire.”

“
Alleged
involvement,” Eddy corrected
her. He chucked me under the chin.

“Yes,
yes, alleged. But the ending felt, I don’t know, incomplete, as if the horror
hadn’t run its full course yet.”

“Did
you at least like the beginning? Because I spent—”

A knock
at the door cut him off.

Eddy
left to greet the visitor and returned a moment later, his teeth in full view.
“I have done it, ladies! I have won the
Philadelphia
Dollar
contest with ‘The Gold Bug.’” He waved the torn envelope, and I
wondered if someone had mailed him a bug and if they had, why it pleased him
so.

“Husband,
I could not be prouder!” Sissy said. She clapped her hands.

Eddy
handed the mail to Muddy and bowed. “Mr. Alburger’s rent, Mrs. Clemm. One
hundred dollars ought to cover it!”

***

The
gold bug turned our lives catawampus, and Eddy forgot about the black cat
story. After the letter, Poe House overflowed with goodness. The first night,
we celebrated with a feast to shame Christmas: corned beef with brown gravy, cod
cakes, potato whip, succotash, cold slaw, rolls, and teacake. I could not
attest to the vegetables or the sweet finish, but the beef and cod were
delicious and their supply plentiful.

In the
following days, Eddy lavished everyone with gifts. Muddy, he bought a brass
soup ladle. He called it a
scepter
,
and told the old woman to
go forth and
rule the kitchen
when he gave it to
her. I did not pretend to understand this. Sissy received a new dress to
replace the one she’d burned after burying Snip. Sewn from grey-green silk, the
frock rippled about her frame as she walked, mimicking the current and hue of
the Delaware River. Tiers of bows, crafted from the same fabric, adorned the
skirt hem and neckline. She called it her new
town
dress. But I thought it more a river dress. Eddy also gave her
a mother-of-pearl cameo that she pinned at her bosom and a red leatherette box
in which to store the trinket.

And me,
he bought the most wonderful gift of all.

One
hot, prickly afternoon, Eddy snuck from the house and left me napping on the
settee. When he returned, he called Muddy and Sissy into the parlor and set a cat-sized
wooden box on the floor in front of me. “Watch and be entertained,” he said to
the women.

Sensing
the chest had been purchased for me, I obliged him and jumped to the floor to
investigate. Wonder of wonders! The smell escaping the interior drove me wild. I
bounced straight in the air and chattered my teeth. Had Eddy bought me a hen? When
I pawed at the lid latch, he unfastened it, revealing the treasure
inside—chicken feathers, heaps and heaps of glorious chicken feathers. I
dove into their midst, sending the smaller, lighter ones into the air.

Sissy
and Eddy laughed.

Even
Muddy laughed and stamped her foot. “Where did you buy such a thing, Eddy?” she
asked.

“I
bought the box from Fitz. But the feathers came from the butcher. Didn’t pay a
penny for them.”

I poked
my head above the box rim and let the feathers cascade around me like falling
snow. I loved the smell. I loved the squish. Far and away, this was the best
gift I’d ever received, outside of Eddy’s love. I dove again and buried myself
amidst the Poe family’s laughter. Sissy laughed loudest until a coughing spell
overtook her, and she had to be led upstairs to bed. The gold bug had fixed
many ills but could not right the one that mattered most.

Alas, our
joy lasted only until the next wave of misery. After Sissy’s health scare, Mr.
Cook gave a copy of the
Daily Forum
to Eddy that sent my companion into a rage. “‘The Gold Bug,’” he read from the
paper, “a decided humbug? What rot!” I wanted to understand the new words that
surfaced in the wake of Mr. Cook’s delivery—
accusations
and
plagiarism
—to
comfort Eddy. But alas, I could not. Then things got worse, proving once and
for all that misery plagued
every
member of the Poe family.