Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

I spat in terror, not at his outstretched hands but at the object between them—a net.

***

The struggle had been epic—a vicious roiling of claws and teeth and tail—and one, I dare say, worthy of Eddy’s pen, yet it belonged to me alone. Once the Butcher threw the net, he stood aside and let me wind deeper into the ropes until even my whiskers could not wiggle. What a sight I must have been—Philadelphia’s only ball of yarn with a cat inside. After I surrendered, he scooped me up and dumped me into the large birdcage next to the front door. The Gazette lined the bottom of the prison, completing the indignity. What next? A cup of seeds?

The Butcher knelt and appraised me. A wave of white hair and beard covered much of his face, though his eyes remained bright. The faded green of winter grass, they shone beneath his hooded lids, suggesting a quick mind. He stood and picked up my cage with some effort. “Oh, me, you’re a heavy thing, aren’t you? They’re feeding you well.”

He took me inside where he placed me on the kitchen table next to a cutting board of diced onion and carrot. A pot of water boiled on the stove. Queasiness replaced hunger when I realized the scoundrel meant to serve me for dinner. I imagined myself, tied up like a pot roast, surrounded by vegetables. In a panic, I pawed the latch to free myself.

The Butcher bent the wire hook and fastened the cage door tighter. “Not to worry, pretty kitty.” He chuckled. “I’ll take you out when it’s time to eat.”

I settled into the corner of my enclosure and watched as he retrieved a leather-bound notebook and a stick of charred wood from the cupboard. He sat down at the table, flipped to a new page in his book, and started to sketch. I assumed I was the subject of his portrait since a handsome cat with patches of light and dark fur and the most exquisite ears took shape beneath the charcoal. To finish, he scribbled a series of notes beneath the drawing. I could not read them, of course…I swished my tail. Great Cat Above! I had been entered into the cookery book!

The Water Giants

HORRIFIED BY THE CAT cookery book, I lurched against the cage, thinking to knock it sideways and break it open. The Butcher responded by depositing my prison beneath the table and draping a large kitchen cloth over its top. I thumped my tail. I was a cat, nay, a tortoiseshell cat, and I would not be hidden away like a noisy parakeet. There I keened with great volume: yoooow, yoooow, yoooow, yoooow . I hoped George and Margaret would heed the call since they—not Eddy—lived close enough to hear it.

“Hush now, pretty kitty,” he said. “Just a little longer.”

The Butcher’s admonishment mattered not, and I continued to wail, stopping only when he banged lid and pot together. Alarmed by the noise, I ceased and prayed for deliverance. I imagined Eddy at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating gingersnaps, his shirtfront full of crumbs. With the strong connection between us, my visions usually held some veracity of mood, if not manner, so it jarred me to picture him joking with Sissy and Muddy, giving no thought to my whereabouts. Who could blame him after my spat with Mr. Jolley? I crouched in the corner, remaining quiet lest the Butcher bang another pot.

Come sundown, the Poe household would suffer if I weren’t there to help Muddy with the leftovers, warm Sissy’s lap, or coax another page of writing from Eddy. The Butcher tossed another log into the woodstove. Come sundown, I would suffer. I had but one option left: wait until the cage door opened and come out fighting like Auntie Sass. If the old man were to make a meal of me, he would earn it.

For an agonizing period, I listened to the clink of teacups and the clatter of cupboard doors as the Butcher prepared for the feast. The cadence of his footfall created music upon the floorboards that would have soothed me in brighter circumstances. Now the vibrations jarred my muscles, plucking them like the strings of Sissy’s old harp. Just when I’d become accustomed to his steps, they increased in speed, traversed the kitchen, and faded from hearing. “Goodbye, Silas! Goodbye, Samuel!” he called.

Silas and Samuel ? To whom did these names belong? The Butcher’s offspring? The wondering petrified me more than the knowing.

The front door opened and closed.

The house fell quiet, save for the crackle of the woodstove.

Clever Butcher. He’d said these names as a ruse to keep me inside my cage. He hadn’t counted on my tenacity. I reached my paw through the bars to try the latch again. The wire held fast. A second and third try yielded disappointment as well. I’d just begun to study the lock when paws padded toward me. Silas and Samuel? I ducked low to see beneath the kitchen cloth, but dash-it-all, the fabric reached the floor. I sniffed through the bars, detecting toms of middle age, perhaps from the same litter. If they supported the Butcher as I did Eddy, crisis had just given way to calamity.

“Should we say hello, Silas?” the first tom asked.

“It would be rude not to, Samuel,” the other said.

Silence.

“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” Samuel said.

“Oh, I thought you were going to say something,” Silas said.

A sneeze. More silence.

“Won’t someone speak?” I said.

A large cat ducked beneath the kitchen cloth. Dark and light gray stripes graced his fur, and tufts of white adorned his chest and underbelly, giving his coat a dapper suit-and-shirtfront pattern. Large did not begin to describe him. I had never seen a cat of such grandiose proportion. And his ears! Fur tipped their ends, swooping them even higher than mine, like those of a lynx. Had I not been scared, I would have been envious. “Hello,” he said to me. “I am Samuel.”

“Please,” I begged him, “let me out before the man comes back and cooks me.”

Samuel cocked his head. “Cooks you?”

Silas joined us beneath the cloth. His markings were almost identical to Samuel’s, save for white-tipped toes. “Cooks you?” Silas repeated. “No, no, no. He does not cook cats. He has another end in mind. He’s going to—”

The front door opened and closed.

“Our Robert returns,” Samuel said to Silas. “To the parlor, brother. At once!”

The two toms vanished from view.

“Go? Wait! What fate? What fate!” I shouted after them.

Two humans entered the kitchen, one with the gait of the old man, one with a lighter step. Splendid. A dinner party. With renewed vigor, I reached a paw through the bars and tried to bat the lock open one last time. When that failed, I sank my teeth into the metal. Imagine my surprise when a hand snatched the cloth from my cage.

“There you are, Cattarina!” Sissy said. Her face burned red beneath her bonnet. The walk to Green Street had winded her. “I’m glad you are safe.”

Sissy, dear Sissy! I yowled to state my displeasure. Then I yowled again, varying the intonation to let her know I unabashedly approved of her presence. The Butcher pulled my enclosure into the open and set it on the tabletop again. He motioned Sissy to a chair and took one for himself, placing his leather-bound cookery book on the table.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Eakins,” Sissy said. She untied the strings of her bonnet and removed it. “Cattarina wanders off with some frequency, causing my husband undue worry.” She smoothed her hair into place.

“ You do not worry?”

“No.” She winked at me. “Cattarina is a first-rate gadabout.”

“In any event, I’m glad to be of service. To all cats.” He wiggled a finger inside my cage.

It took some restraint, but I didn’t bite him. Doing so now would complicate matters, as it had done with Mr. Jolley. So I sniffed his hand instead. Great Cat Above! The Butcher’s scent varied from the one on the rope, which meant he hadn’t hung the black tom. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed before. While this conclusion reassured me, I had, nevertheless, drawn it from parrot prison.