Моника Шонесси - The Tell-Tail Heart

The constable patted her shoulder. "Our secret, madam."

We arrived home in time for tea, and I'm not sure who was happier: my stomach or me. With all the weight I'd lost, I felt practically malnourished. Sissy entered the kitchen and kissed Muddy on the cheek without any mention of the constable or our harrowing escapade. The old woman yawned, causing me to do the same. I opened my jaws wide and curled my tongue in a fantastic yawn.

"How was your nap, Mother?"

"Fine, fine. And yours?"

"Splendid."

Sissy winked at me. I winked back.

The woodstove burned too hot for me today, so I hopped into my friend's chair instead. The women set about their preparations, making tea sandwiches from the breakfast ham and biscuits. When they finished, Sissy requested they make "strong coffee, the strongest possible." Muddy set a kettle on to boil. Not long after, Eddie entered, his cape half flung round his shoulders, his hat misplaced.

"What glorious weather!" he said. "Abbot says it's going to change next week. He's got a sore toe that tells him these things." He produced a bag of licorice cats and handed them to Sissy. She curtsied. "I asked if his toe knew whether the Whig party would win in '44, and he kicked me. Kicked me! Can you believe it?" He twirled Sissy around the room, humming one of the songs she liked to play on the piano.

Muddy ignored them and sat down, helping herself to a sandwich. "Tea's on."

Eddie set me on the floor, thanked me for warming his chair, and joined the women at the table. He frowned at the coffee pot. "If it's tea, then where is our tea?"

Sissy poured him a cup. "We're out, remember?"

"Yes, I had forgotten. The neighborhood quilting bee." He stole a piece of ham from the serving plate and handed it to me. The world was right again. "How was your rest, Sissy? Do anything of note while I was away?"

"Oh, nothing to bother you with," Sissy said. "Listen, Eddie, about your story…" She put a sandwich on his plate and took one for herself.

"The Tell-Tale Eye?" He took a sip from his cup.

"Well, I—" She giggled. "You'll think me childish and more than a bit nosy."

"Never." I rubbed against his leg, angling for another piece of meat. He obliged.

"I think I have a better title." She clasped her hands and put them in her lap. "And even a few ideas about the plot."

"You?" Muddy asked. Her mouth was full of biscuit. "That was quite a nap you took."

Eddie ignored the old woman. "Do tell, dear wife. I await your every suggestion."

She topped off his coffee and smiled. "I have much to tell, my husband. Join me in your office?"

"I shall be delighted."

Some days later, Eddie sat on the stoop outside our house, chatting with Mr. Coffin. The season had begun to turn, and November graced everyone's lips. I lay in the dry grass near them, along with Snow. We soaked up heat from the earth.

"How are you liking Mr. Coffin?" I asked her.

"We are getting on," she said. Her coat gleamed in the morning light. "I am his 'sometimes cat.' He sometimes owns me, and I sometimes own him. I still go home at night to Blue and Killer and the rest of our troop. But Mr. Coffin—I call him Pudge—and I have a special bond. He feeds me and plays with me, and in return, I lie about his cushions like a queen. He likes this. He says it 'tickles him,' though I'm not sure what that means."

"Humans."

"Humans," she agreed.

I turned my belly to the sun. I liked the sound of Pudge . It was a good word, a slumpy word, much like Mr. Coffin. Eddie laughed, and I twitched my ear at the merry sound. I worried his writing would suffer after Sissy and I caught the murderer. But he'd gone on to finish his story at a frenzied pace that lasted for days. True, Sissy may have stoked the fire, but I had lit the kindling. Let us not forget that. The two men droned on about Abbott's toe, whatever that may have been, until Mr. Coffin produced a newspaper from his toolbox.

"I read about the Glass Eye Killer," he said. He shook the paper at Eddie. "I didn't catch your name, even though you found one of the victims."

"Yes, they left it out. Chalked it up to good police work, of all things." Eddie smoothed his mustache. "I was surprised to learn that the barkeep at Shakey House had suspicions as well. He confided in me yesterday."

"That right?"

"Yes. Josef works the morning shift at Wills. He'd seen Caroline's new eyes, too, but kept quiet out of fear." Eddie shrugged. "I can't say as I blame him."

"A shame Gideon Ferris lost his anthracite mines in a poker game. If not for that tragedy, he might never have killed. Or, I should say, Owen Barstow might never have killed. And that cripple at the Wills Hospital never stood a chance, did he?"

"Once a man passes the point of reason, madness overtakes him," Eddie added. "Gideon Ferris must have discovered how suggestible Owen was during his frequent trips to the Allegheny mines and pushed him into doing his bidding. I'm just glad Caroline didn't suffer at the hands of that lunatic."

"Ferris must've felt a deep responsibility to his niece, having gone to those lengths. What will become of her?"

"I called upon a friend of mine, Dr. Mitchell. You met him last week." Mr. Coffin nodded, and Eddie continued, "He says he may be able to arrange for her care at the hospital for the blind."

"Nicely settled, Poe." Mr. Coffin folded his newspaper and tucked it away. "And what of your story?"

"I am in talks with The Pioneer . Publication is immanent." Eddie buttoned his coat and blew out his breath in a white cloud. "Sissy helped with a few details, adding a certain—" he wobbled his hand back and forth "—depth to the story, but I provided the mastery. Though the woman amazed me with her foresight."

I tired of their talk and closed my eyes. I did not know it at the time, but Sissy would become very ill in a matter of days, and the cream of our happiness would thin until spring. Right now, however, we had enough to fill all of Philadelphia. I curled my tail round my body and nestled into the grass. I may not have belonged to a troop like Big Blue's or lived free like a feral, but I had my liberties. I could run about all day and return home to warmth and food and my beloved Eddie—the best life imaginable. Reassured by this thought, a purr rose deep from within my chest.

I peeked one eye open and watched my friend joke and talk with Mr. Coffin. Now that he'd finished the manuscript, everyone knew of his elation, even a passing bird. Yet the lull between stories would come—a certainty not unlike death—and a storm would once again settle over the Poe house. At least now I knew how to change the weather. But please don't think me a selfless cat, for Eddie was never happier than when he was writing, and I was never happier than when Eddie was happy.

Dear Friends:

I submit to you, in its entirety, "The Tell-Tale Heart." Consider my indispensible role in its telling, but do not mistake my genius for Eddie's. He is the true Master of Macabre. For those interested, my friend has other fine stories for sale, and any purchase would keep me in shad and ribbons for quite some time.

Gratefully yours,

Catters

P.S. - Muddy would be glad of a few coins as well.

THE TELL-TALE HEART

by Edgar Allan Poe

January, 1843

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.