Моника Шонесси - The Tell-Tail Heart

We toured the stately homes around Rittenhouse Square, a park not unlike Logan Square, looking for Mr. Abbott. Along the way, we debated the contradiction of domestic life: how it both liberates and hobbles cats. We also spoke of our commonalities, including a shared interest in piano strings, clock pendulums, and needlepoint cushions. And while we'd spent our kittenhoods differently—mine on the streets, his on a velvet pillow—we couldn't deny our harmony. When we didn't find Mr. Abbott in or around the green space, my guide took me to the livery stables to look for the dappled mare and gig I'd told him about.

Alas, I didn't find my quarry that day.

Hungry from the search, we crept into the grocer's to steal a snack—Midnight's idea, not mine, but one to which I agreed. Having conquered both Claw and the Spider this morning, my confidence had soared to an untold zenith. War may have been human folly, as Big Blue suggested, but we cats suffer no less from bravado. To wit, I volunteered to liberate a rope of sausages from a hook inside the door. Once we agreed on a plan, Midnight and I hid behind a sack of potatoes in the corner—the perfect spot to study the hook and its proximity to a soap display. The clerk, a young man with a mustache I first mistook for a dead caterpillar, had just finished stacking a table with the lavender bricks.

"What are you waiting for, Cattarina?" Midnight nudged me. "Just give it a jump."

"I should say not." I thumped the end of my tail. "The physics involved are staggering. One doesn't 'give it a jump' and succeed with any poise. That is for rabbits. Besides, I'm waiting for the right moment." And it had arrived. When the clerk turned to help a woman load turnips into baskets, I sprang to the table, scaled the soap pyramid, soared to the hook, caught the sausages between my teeth, and arced to the ground where I landed—there should be no doubt—on all fours. Not one bar of soap fell. Not one . The look of admiration on Midnight's face was worthy of any aches and pains these acrobatics would earn me in the morning.

"Well done, Cattarina!" Midnight shouted. "Now run!"

The Thief of Rittenhouse

Sausages in tow, I took Midnight's advice and ran from the shop. Yet in my haste, the links caught in the door's hinge, sending me catawampus and snapping my confidence back into place. Midnight came to my aid, but not in time, for the clerk and woman turned round and caught us at our little game. Upended baskets and rolling turnips and high-pitched screams came next. My accomplice gnawed through the meat casing near the hinge, allowing us to escape with our remaining plunder. The clerk, nevertheless, gave chase. Our luck returned when I accidentally knocked over a cluster of brooms by the front window. They clattered to the sidewalk, tripping the young man and granting our freedom.

Behind the grocer's, we split the links and feasted on the dry, waxy beef, commending each other between chews. Then, full of meat and mischief, we stretched our limbs and groomed ourselves in the sun-bright strip between buildings. I wiped my face with my paw. It still held floral notes from the soap.

"You've never stolen anything before, have you?" Midnight asked.

"No, never," I said. "But it's just as thrilling as hunting. Maybe more so."

"I rid my home of mice long ago. But now I occupy myself in other ways. I'll bet I'm the best thief in Rittenhouse. Maybe even the city. Name anything, and I can take it." He puffed out his chest, expanding the small white ruff around his neck.

"A whole chicken."

He offered a bored expression, lids half closed.

"A leg of lamb."

"Give me a hill, and I'll roll it home."

"A side of beef. Now you couldn't possibly—"

"Oh, I'll steal it. One bite at a time if I have to." He raised his face to the sun, looking more regal than the embroidered lions on Eddie's slippers. Ah, the glorious Thief of Rittenhouse. Even if he hadn't led me to Mr. Abbott, Midnight might still be able to give me insight into the man's behavior.

"A good thing you're qualified, because I need your opinion." I paused, considering the best way to phrase my question. "What do you make of humans who steal body parts?"

"Arms? Legs?"

"No, no…eyes. And not real ones. Fake ones made of glass."

"Would this have anything to do with Mr. Abbott?" His ears twitched when I didn't answer. "Very well, Cattarina. There are two types of pilferers—those who steal for necessity and those who steal for pleasure. Get to know your man, and you'll know why he does what he does."

I gazed upon Midnight's black fur, admiring its luster in the full light. He'd stolen my admiration as easily as the wind steals leaves from a tree. But he wasn't, as he stated, the best. Eddie held that title, having chastely taken my heart long ago. As a man of letters, he cares about language, nay, the proper use of language more than any other human I've ever met, which thrills me because for some time, I've fancied myself a cat of letters. No, not of written ones, but of ones passed down in the oral tradition. To say that Eddie and I are sympathetic to one another's needs is a grotesque understatement. For his sake and his alone, I ended my Rittenhouse adventure. Besides, teatime was nigh, and I yearned for the comfort and ritual of the Poe house. Muddy would be putting on a kettle, laying out salted crackers and jam and, if I were lucky, cheese.

With reluctance, I called an end to our hunt and asked Midnight if he would escort me part of the way home. Ever the gentlecat, he took me as far as Logan Square, the uppermost reaches of his roaming ground. I paused at the entrance of the park and examined the pale stone building across the street. Yesterday, Mr. Limp had taken great interest in the structure. "Do you know anything about that place?" I asked Midnight.

"I've never been inside, but I've heard rumors. It's where they keep the broken humans," he said. "The ones with shriveled legs or missing arms. The ones that bump into things."

The ones like Mr. Limp.

Our tails overlapping, I sat beside Midnight in the waning afternoon. Clouds of clotted cream drifted over the Home for Broken Humans, cushioning the white marble façade. Above it, a brilliant stretch of sky—eyeball blue, to be exact. "It's been a lovely day," I said. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. We didn't find your man."

"There is always tomorrow."

He stared at me with eyes as wide and pale as the moon. "Will I see you again?" he asked.

"When I'm in need of a whole chicken or a leg of lamb, I'll know whom to call upon."

We touched noses and parted—a sad but necessary event. While I hoped to come across Midnight again, Eddie was my world, and it would take more than the cleverest, handsomest thief in Rittenhouse to change that. I waited until Midnight became a black smudge in the distance before approaching the home. I climbed the stone steps, fearing the horrors inside. Broken humans . The very thought of it thickened my blood. Still, if Mr. Limp lived here, it would be rude not call on him and thank him for saving my life. To quote the ancient philosopher, Ariscatle, "Without propriety, we are but dogs."

Tucking myself into a loaf, I balanced at the edge of the small porch and waited for the door to swing open. I'd give it half a catnap, nothing more. If no one appeared in that time, I would depart for the Poe house and be home in time for tea.

A rattling harness stirred me from slumber as a closed coach pulled alongside the curb and stopped. The horse team danced back and forth, eager from the brisk air, but the driver set the brake and settled in to wait. Unless I missed my guess, someone would eventually exit the building and climb into the conveyance. I stood and stretched, readying my limbs. Just as I'd surmised, the door opened, revealing a man with a wooden leg and a lady in a long white apron and cap. I'd seen similarly dressed women before at the hospital Sissy visited, so I concluded this building served a similar function. Thankfully, this drained most of the terror from my visit. I waited for her to help him down the steps, then darted inside without notice.