Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

Once outside, I followed the footprint trail to the cut-through between shops. The shifty man with fleas had stood in this very spot, making me think he might be the murderer. I glanced at Eddy and Sissy—still deep in conversation—and ducked into the opening. After a few strides, I connected with a larger alley that ran the length of shops on Franklin. The prints led me north where they eventually stopped at a paved sidewalk on the other side. A dog could’ve pursued the culprit by scent alone. But since I had the good fortune to be born a cat, I’d need to use my superior intellect to continue. A brownstone with a gabled porch lay to the left of the alley; a small clapboard cottage with shutters and a weathervane lay to the right.

“Kitty! Kitty!” a little boy squealed. “Pet kitty!”

I backed away from his outstretched hands, narrowly escaping the tot’s grasp. Had I not been focused on the rooster atop the weathervane, I would’ve seen the two children traipsing past with their mother. The shorter, pudgier whelp had been the one to reach for me. The taller one—a littermate from his coloring—slapped his brother on the head. “Dang it all, Marvin. Don’t touch it. You’ll get fleas.”

The mother slapped the older boy on the head. “Don’t cuss, dang you.”

When first born, humans are little more than plucked chickens. It’s when they learn to walk upright that they become tail-yanking, whisker-pulling monsters. And then there are birthing complications. I hoped Eddy and Sissy would abstain from reproducing in the coming seasons. In my youth, I witnessed an unhappy outcome with a baby and did not wish to see another.

Once the family passed, I emerged again. Whenever we moved to a new locale, which was often, I made it my business to memorize street names as Eddy said them out loud. This, from our daily walks, I knew to be Green Street, the road around the corner from the Poe residence. It lacked the unkempt variability I’d grown to love and expect from the older areas of Philadelphia. I licked my paw and washed my face. A murderer lived in one of these mouse holes. Yet without more clues, finding him would be impossible.

I returned to Franklin to find Eddy on tiptoe, sawing the black cat’s noose with his penknife. Sissy waited nearby, offering suggestions, the majority of which perturbed him, judging by the slant of his brow. When I reached the tree, the tom fell at our feet. I hopped back, sickened by the hollow thud of his body against the earth. His remaining eye lay open, glazed and unblinking; the other had been gouged out by the murderer. This was speculation, of course, but one supported by observation and experience from the Glass Eye Killer case. The area around the cat’s eye held no claw marks, so he hadn’t lost it in a fight. This left accident or torture. Considering the manner of death, I’d bet my whiskers on the latter. Eddy, Sissy, and I remained silent until the wind rattled the sassafras leaves.

“We must bury him,” Sissy said. “In our garden.”

“We do not own a shovel,” Eddy said.

“Borrow one from Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m sure he has several in his store.”

“Shopkeepers are not usually in the habit of lending their wares, Sissy.”

“Then we will improvise.” She knelt and lifted the tom onto her skirt, folding the floral cotton around him. With the day’s increasing temperature, the body had taken on an unpleasant aroma. Sissy carried out her task undeterred, concealing the body in the folds of her dress. For all anyone knew, she could’ve been carrying potatoes home from the market.

“My dear…” Eddy pointed to her chemise. The white hem flashed in the sun.

“Let us hurry before I’m the talk of the town,” Sissy said. “And don’t forget the rosemary.”

We arrived home to find Muddy sweeping the front walkway. The trim on her lace cap framed her face like the petals of a flower. I pitied the bee that made that mistake. I trotted ahead of the others and nudged through the unlatched gate to join the old woman.

Our new red brick home was grander than the one on Coates, though no less cozy. Eaves protruded from either side—a bit like ears—and shaded twin entrances that opened onto to allotments of grass. The parlor garden, on the eastern side near North Seventh, held flowers and a spindly weeping willow. The kitchen garden, on the western side, consisted of a vegetable patch and a small plot of dirt bordered by a fence snarled with morning glories. In temperate weather, Muddy and Sissy would pull their kitchen chairs under the western eave to shell peas or shuck corn. On the rare occasion I did not accompany Eddy to the tavern, I stayed behind to chase the errant pod or husk that slipped from their fingers. We had left Fairmount and the country, but we had not left good times, not yet.

When Muddy caught Sissy with her skirt hiked to her knees, she dropped the broom and gasped. “Virginia Eliza Poe!” she said. “What has become of you?”

“Nothing, Mother.” Sissy gathered her skirt tighter so as not to lose the carcass.

“You are half-naked. Put your dress down before the neighbors see.” Muddy’s lips disappeared beneath the press of her mouth.

“Dear Muddy,” Eddy said, handing her the herbs, “ours is a long story, and you are adding unnecessarily to the length. Allow me to edit.” He led Sissy through the gate and up the walkway to the old woman. “Join us by the vegetable patch with your largest kitchen spoon, and all will be revealed.”

“What is that smell?” Muddy asked. She held her finger under her nose.

“The cat, Mother,” Sissy said.

Muddy leaned to sniff me. Curious woman.

“No, it’s not Cattarina,” Sissy said. “It’s…well, you will see.” She set off for the kitchen garden and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Muddy retrieved her broom and squinted at Eddy. “What have you done—”

He held up his hand, stopping the conversation. “I have not done anything. This is Virginia’s scheme, and we must support her.”

They spoke a moment longer and joined Sissy. I elected to go inside. Whatever they planned to do with the remains concerned me less than the aroma wafting through the kitchen window. I leaped to the sill with some effort—the winter months had been bountiful—and entered Muddy’s domain. She’d laid out a plate of sliced ham and cheddar on the table, along with a loaf of bread, a crock of pickles, and a pitcher of water. Lunch was served. A cat of lesser intelligence would have plundered the platter. Not I. Over time, I’d perfected the art of skimming—take enough to be full, leave enough that one’s theft is not obvious. As long as Muddy considered me inept, the kitchen would remain a cornucopia.

I leapt to the table and admired the old woman’s handiwork. She’d fanned the meat and cheese in an alternating pattern. I licked the salt off the ham slices without disturbing them then peeled the top piece from the stack and ate it. A slice of cheese came next. The bread bored me, and the pickles repulsed me. I finished with a few laps of cool water from the jug and left the house through the parlor window. From what I’d gleaned, Sissy meant to bury the dead cat, as humans often did for one another at the end of life. I had no need for this unnatural ritual. I preferred to honor the tom in a more practical way—by catching his murderer.

I trotted through the garden to North Seventh where I doubled back onto Green, the same street I’d happened upon after my trip through the alley. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I’d find my prey by accident. On the contrary, I planned to seek out his potential victims and extract information from which to devise a hunting strategy.

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.