Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

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.”

Jolley Spirits

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.