The Black Cats

by Monica Shaughnessy

  Sissy? Could she have met Mrs. Poe? I doubted it. “I am looking for Midnight,” I said to the kitten. “Does he still live here?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Then will you get him for me?”

  “He is napping,” the kitten said with a touch of boredom.

  “He is a cat,” I said. “He is always napping, you supercilious scrap of fur. Now retrieve him at once, or I will reach into that blanket and—”

  “Cattarina?” Midnight padded onto the porch. Sunlight glistened on his long black fur, lending him a regal air I found irresistible, even today. He still wore the blue ribbon round his neck, the one I remembered from our last visit, but it had frayed at the edges.

  “Oh,” Sarah said, “she’s come for you, handsome boy.” She leapt to her feet and sang, “Midnight’s got a sweetheart. Midnight’s got a sweetheart.” She skipped into the house with her kitten-baby. As the door swung shut, the grey fur ball gave me a direct stare, ears tipped sideways. What insolence.

  “A matched pair,” I said to Midnight. “Good riddance.”

  “Sarah used to dote on me, until Lovie showed up,” he said to me. “But enough about them. Let’s talk about you and where you’ve been the last six moons.” He sat on his hindquarters and puffed his chest fur, displaying the white patch over his breastbone—the most glaring difference between him and the murdered cat. “I tried to visit you last winter, but your pal at Eastern State Penitentiary—”

  “Big Blue?”

  “Yes, that’s him. He couldn’t say where you’d gone.”

  I turned my nose to the sky. “You kept busy with other mollies, I am certain.”

  “None like you, Cattarina.”

  I paused to consider my strategy, settling on Circle and Pounce. “Perhaps my charm comes from a feral upbringing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You and I are different, aren’t we, Midnight? You have never known the hardships of street life. I, on the other hand, know them too well.” I circled him, treading with slow, soft steps.

  “Well…yes. But don’t feel bad. Not everyone is fed from a silver spoon at birth.”

  “And what, pray tell, came on your silver spoon?”

  “Oh, you know…the usual.”

  “Minced lamb? Creamed tuna? Bacon drippings?” I circled tighter.

  “Of course.”

  “Ha!” I spat. “Lie upon lie upon lie!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I faced him, hackles raised. “Why didn’t you tell me you were born a stray, Midnight? Or should I call you Crow?”

  His pale eyes shone bright, twin moons against his dark fur. “H-how did you find out?”

  “Silas and Samuel, my new neighbors.” I walked to the edge of the stoop and wrapped my tail around me. “I am sure you are acquainted with their caretaker, Mr. Eakins.”

  “Yes, I know Mr. Eakins. If not for him, I would probably be dead by now.”

  Like the cat in the tree. I dismissed the thought. “Then why did you hide the truth, particularly when we share the same heritage? To humiliate me?”

  “What? No! To impress you.” He joined me on the top stair. “There have been other mollies, Cattarina, but none with your…fire.”

  “I do have fire, don’t I?” I unwrapped my tail and cast it lazily upon the steps.

  “Yes,” he said. “Enough to burn down the whole of Philadelphia.”

  “And my ears. Do you like them? I think they are my best feature.”

  “They are, without a doubt, your best feature.”

  We brushed cheeks. All was forgiven.

  “So you came all the way to Rittenhouse to catch me in a lie?” Midnight said. “I’m flattered.”

  “No, of course not,” I countered. Many untruths had been told this afternoon; I did not mind adding to their number. “My purpose lies with another stray, hanged this very morning near Green Street. To find the tom’s executioner, I must learn his identity. So I am speaking to as many of our kind as possible in the hope that someone knows something. He looked a little like you but all black. On the small, scrawny side with a single orange eye. I shan’t tell you about the other eye.”

  Midnight swallowed. “When you say orange, do you mean pumpkin or copper?”

  “I don’t see what difference—”

  “Please!”

  “Very well, copper-ish.”

  “If it’s who I think it is, the cat’s name is Snip. I hadn’t thought about him in…” He stared at a passing wagon filled with anthracite. “Well, it’s been ages. We met during our stay with Mr. Eakins. The old man placed me in a home first, and I never thought about him or that old life until today.” He sighed. “Funny little tom. Always worked for the laugh. He ran loops around the Coon Cats. Loved to spill their water dish and watch them play in the mess. He was quite the entertainer.” Midnight faced me, his eyes narrowed. “I hope you find who killed him, Cattarina.”

  “As do I.” I arose and paced the stoop. “The black cat— I mean, Snip’s death has proved most discomforting to Sissy, the mistress of Poe House. And my Eddy can scarcely think of anything else. I am hunting for them, you see, as well as Snip.”

  “Now who’s the liar, Cattarina?” Midnight said. “I see the excitement in your tail.”

  I looked back at the aforementioned item and found it sticking straight in the air. I lowered it, dusting the limestone. “Very well. It is exhilarating to hunt for big game. But my family is no less the reason. Nor is retribution for a fallen brother.”

  “Maybe I can help,” he said. “When you called on your neighbors, Silas and Samuel, did you happen to see a large leather-bound book in their home?”

  “The cookery book?”

  Midnight cocked his head.

  “Never mind. I know of it.”

  “Midnight!” Sarah screeched from the front hall. “Let’s play hopscotch!” The sound of her voice flattened Midnight’s ears. It had a similar effect on me, driving me back to the steps.

  “Mr. Eakins scribbles things inside it,” he said quickly.

  “That’s what humans do,” I said. “It’s how they communicate. Though I cannot read the marks, they are of great importance to Eddy.”

  “It’s possible Mr. Eakins wrote about Snip’s new owners in the book.” The door opened, banging against the inside wall. Sarah snatched Midnight under the ribcage, his back legs dangling. “Find Snip’s entry, and find your answers,” he wheezed. “Charmed to see you, Cattarina. Do come ag—”

  The door slammed, cutting our conversation short. Fiddlesticks. I longed to heed his advice, except the memory of this morning’s capture troubled me. Then I had to overcome the small problem of my illiteracy, at least in the ways of human writing. Even if I located the book, its contents would be indecipherable. I arched my back, releasing the crick in my spine, and left for the omnibus stop.

  The carriage trip home gave me an opportunity to reflect on Midnight’s advice, enough so that when I reached Spring Garden, I’d talked myself into visiting Mr. Eakins. Heading north, I reached the Butcher’s dwelling and climbed to his kitchen windowsill. I peered through the glass. The old man sat at the dining table, charcoal twig in hand, doodling in his leather-bound cat-pendium. Dash it all. Before I could snoop for clues, Mr. Eakins would have to set his drawing aside, a difficult task given the allure of the feline form. I watched him a while longer, fascinated by the movement of his hand on the paper. Eddy usually frowned as he worked; I think it helped him. But Mr. Eakins smiled—a fool’s grin, toothy and without reason—as he sketched. The task consumed him such that the folly of his Coon Cats passed unnoticed.

  Behind him, Silas and Samuel crept to the sideboard where they plundered a near-empty soup pot. The brothers took turns, each allowing the other a few licks of broth. It was a polite affair until Silas—in a fit of gluttony—butted Samuel out of the way, jumped into the vessel, and upended himself by accident. His back legs punched the air as he tried to extract himself fro
m the stew he’d gotten himself into. Stew. I twitched my whiskers, pleased with the pun. Samuel elected to escape trouble and dashed into the parlor out of view.

  Mr. Eakins laid down his twig and closed his book. When he rose to help Silas, he brushed the tablecloth with his leg, revealing the cage hidden beneath it. I could not be an inmate of parrot prison again! Terrified, I leapt to the ground and ran straight home. There had to be another way to help Snip.

  For Sale: One Muse

  “THAT IS NO WAY to hammer a nail,” Muddy said. She stood under the western eave, surveying her son-in-law’s handiwork. Eddy, meanwhile, had removed one of his shoes and was using it to chastise the threshold. He brought it down repeatedly on the board, much to Muddy’s consternation. “You’ll never fix it,” she said.

  I approached them, fresh from Mr. Eakins’s house, to observe the undertaking.

  “I will fix it,” Eddy said. “You will see.” He raised his shoe again, laces swaying, and smacked a protruding nail head. Everyone in Poe House had either tripped over the errant barb or snagged clothing on it since moving here this spring. Though physical labor disagreed with my companion, he persisted in a manner most enthusiastic. Sweat formed on his brow, and his hair flopped forward into his eyes. Smack! Smack! With every blow of his shoe, he grunted.

  “I told you,” Muddy said. “It will never work. You need something harder.”

  “Your head, perhaps,” Eddy muttered under his breath. He struck the nail again.

  “A shoe is no substitute for a hammer,” she said.

  “We don’t have a hammer, Mother,” Sissy called from the open kitchen door. “And the Poyners aren’t home, so we can’t borrow one from them.”

  “Then tell your husband to buy one.” Muddy crossed her arms over her stomach and addressed Eddy. “I’m sure the Irishman deals on credit.” She turned and disappeared into the house.

  Eddy stood and slipped his foot into his shoe. “Catters, old girl, why don’t we visit Fitz together?” He reached to stroke my back, releasing a puff of fur. “Muddy won’t let up until the nail is fixed. What’s more, ‘The Black Cat’ isn’t coming along like I’d hoped. I think fresh air and a trip to the store would help with both. But we’d better hurry. He’s closing soon.”

  We journeyed down Minerva, the westward sun on our faces. As we walked, I recalled the day’s events: a murder, a catnapping, a romantic rekindling. Why, I’d had enough adventure to last the summer! I glanced at Eddy, his dark silhouette a comfort. The life he provided was thrilling enough; did I need to seek diversion elsewhere? No, in this happy moment, I was content to leave the affairs of the black cat to the black cat himself.

  The feeling lasted until we reached the sassafras tree.

  Snip’s body had long since been removed, yet sorrow marred the courtyard, thickening the air like chowder. I pictured the little tom, running circles around Silas and Samuel, working, as Midnight said, for the laugh. I swished my tail. I could not overlook his murder now that I’d come to know him. But I needed to find a way to help that didn’t involve Mr. Eakins.

  Eddy entered Fitzgerald Hardware with a spry hop. Humans were a pitiable species, but I envied their dull senses at times like these. I stepped inside the narrow store, pausing behind my friend. Glass cases stocked with an assortment of nails, metal fittings, and hinges lined the space. Atop the cabinetry, more items had been arranged: lanterns, tin funnels, boxes of gunpowder, downspouts, cast iron spiders…almost too much to behold. We found Mr. Fitzgerald in the back, dusting a row of pot-bellied stoves. The floorboards creaked, announcing our arrival.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Poe.” Mr. Fitzgerald laid down his duster and winked at me. “If you’ve come for the craic about the cat, sir, I don’t know a thing about it.”

  My ear flicked at the mention of cat.

  “No, Mr. Fitzgerald, this call is strictly business.” Eddy clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m in need of a hammer. Do you carry them?”

  “I have claw, mallet, sledge, tinner’s… What kind are you looking for?”

  “The kind that punishes nails.”

  “I have just the one.” The man stepped behind a long glass case and pointed to a row of tools inside. I joined the men, hopping to the counter to peruse the objects below me. I was no expert, but they looked better at pounding nails than Eddy’s shoe. The men spoke at length, exhausting the topics of hammers and hardheaded women. Since I did not think Mr. Fitzgerald sold the second, I decided the implements in the case must be the first. I had no interest in either. My attention drifted, settling on an attractive box of twine balls at the end of the counter.

  And then I saw it.

  The now-familiar rope hung on a peg near the pot-bellied stoves. I traversed the cabinetry and studied the cord’s composition: brown and tan jute, the former dyed with a bitter solution that smelled of walnuts, the latter left au natural. Great Cat Above, I’d located the source of the murder weapon! I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Fitzgerald and watched him share a joke of some sort with Eddy. The two men laughed. It baffled me that a human of gentle demeanor could commit such a cruelty. But Mr. Fitzgerald, indeed, had been the one to kill the black cat. I yowled to catch Eddy’s attention.

  “We will leave soon, Catters,” he said. He gave the shopkeeper a somber look. “Now about your store credit…”

  Mr. Fitzgerald had already killed one cat this morning, and I, for one, didn’t want to be the second. So I nudged the box of twine balls from the counter to accelerate my plot. They bounced and rolled along the floor, coming to rest beneath the pot-bellied stoves. The men stopped speaking and looked at me. Splendid.

  “Catters?” Eddy said. “What on earth are you doing?”

  I knocked a tin of thingamabobs to the floor. One needed a glossary just to shop here.

  “Catters!”

  When both men approached, I leapt to the rope to draw notice. Naturally I brought it down on top of myself. Rationation is not without peril. I poked through the heap of loops and meowed for Eddy. He would recognize this as the same material from which the killer had made this morning’s noose, and Mr. Fitzgerald would be exposed as a torturer and a fiend. The neighbors might turn against him, but this mattered less than the truth. Three cheers for me, the greatest cat in all of—

  “Cattarina, stop this tomfoolery at once!” Eddy said.

  Mr. Fitzgerald stood behind Eddy and peered over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll be graveled. Think she’s chasing a mouse?”

  “I think she’s chasing her sanity,” Eddy said.

  I sank my teeth into the jute and held fast to the clue. To quote the famous philosopher, Cato, “We are twice armed when we bite in faith.” I had just become a formidable opponent.

  Eddy tried tugging the line from my jaws. Then he pulled me around the floor like a child’s toy—a wooden cat on a string. When he paused to rethink this strategy, I doubled my efforts, tangling and winding into the coil until I’d knotted myself to the bitter end. With enough tortitude, any problem could be solved, I reasoned. Soon, Eddy would appreciate the significance of the rope, and I could let go of the blasted thing. I hoped it happened before dinner.

  “Well, that is that, I’m afraid. Good day, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Eddy placed the hammer in his pocket and dragged me toward the door, my teeth still grasping the clue. To my horror, my fur cleaned a path on the dusty floor behind us. Still I did not let go.

  “Wait! Mr. Poe!” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “Don’t mean to start a chafe, but I can’t let you to leave without paying for that item.”

  Eddy paused near the entrance. “I have already purchased this hammer on credit. Perhaps we can make a similar arrangement for the rope?”

  “We have a limit, and you’ve reached it.”

  Eddy scowled at me, his cheeks red. “Then would you like to buy a cat?”

  The shopkeeper eyed me. “At the moment, no.”

  “A barter, then.” He took a deep breath. “The hammer for the rope.”

  “That I ca
n do, Mr. Poe,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “That I can do.”

  Eddy left the hardware store, dragging me belly up in the dirt behind him. At least we were no longer in the company of a murderer. Tabitha and Abner Arnold watched us from the doorway of the shoemaker shop next door. Abner appeared to have recovered from his trip to Jolley Spirits and stood a little straighter. Tabitha, meanwhile, hadn’t changed a whit. She scowled at us, unamused by our conduct. Throughout the courtyard, I wished for street. When we reached Franklin, I wished for soft earth. Cobblestones are for paws, not backs. The entire trip home, Eddy did not speak to me. And he certainly did not speak to the neighbors, try as they might to engage him.

  “You’ve got an odd anchor, Poe!” Mr. Cook shouted from his front stoop. “It’s got teeth and tail!”

  Mrs. Cook stuck her head out of an upstairs window and pointed. “Look! He’s caught a catfish on his line. I know what Mrs. Clemm is cooking for dinner!”

  Their jeers held no meaning. I had a job to do, and nothing would stand between me and my quarry, not even my pride. Just the same, I hoped I wouldn’t encounter the tabbies, George and Margaret, or the Coon Cats, Samuel and Silas. Vanity aside, I still prized my dignity.

  Eddy continued in silence, stopping every few houses to see if I’d let go of the rope. But he never once looked—really looked—at the object between his fingers. With each passing stone that scraped my back, my course grew more certain. Midnight was right. To help Snip and protect the cats of Philadelphia from Mr. Fitzgerald, I had to steal Mr. Eakins’s book.

  Buried Secrets

  JUST AS I LICKED the last twig from my tail, Muddy served dinner. Unfortunately, my harrowing drag was for naught. Nothing came of these heroics, save for a bruise in a very delicate place; my bottom had polished every cobblestone on Franklin. In the absence of a hammer, Eddy pressed a candle stub onto the nail head, preventing Sissy or Muddy from tearing their skirt again. But what skills he possessed in shirking handiwork, he lacked in hunting. To snare Mr. Fitzgerald required the cunning of a cat, nay, a tortoiseshell cat.