Моника Шонесси - The Tell-Tail Heart

I wriggled to escape the man's arms, but he held me fast in the folds of his black-smudged coat. "Good thing I took the long way home, kitty cat," he said. He examined me with soft brown eyes, not unlike Sissy's. Moonlight filtered through the branches and glowed along the edges of his clean-shaven face, bouncing off the tip of his up-turned nose. Though he was fully grown, his skin, teeth, and sun-touched hair still held the assurance of youth. "Wait. Haven't I seen you before?" He pushed back his cap to get a good look at me. "I declare! In the tavern! I would've said hello—I like cats, you know—but that old man wouldn't let up. Kept running his mouth about President Tyler. Gets into a fella's brain until he can hardly think straight."

I offered a feeble and helpless meow, hoping he'd show me mercy.

Brow furrowed with uncertainty, he looked through the trees to the pale stone building across the street. After a brief rest, he started back up the trail, traveling deeper into the park. I hadn't noticed in the tavern, but he walked with a limp. Drag-step-drag-step . Despite not knowing our destination, the warmth of his coat lulled me into complacency, causing a purr to rise from my throat. Any man who used the term "kitty cat" couldn't be that bad, I reasoned. Unsure of his true name, I gave him my own for the duration: Mr. Limp.

We soldiered on through the cold air until the canopy of trees gave way to a man-made canopy of shop awnings. As we strolled, Mr. Limp opined at length about digging and graves and diseases, giving me insight into his occupation—gravedigger. His choice of employment would have fascinated Eddie. My stomach lurched at the thought of my friend. Was he now, this very instant, pacing the floor with worry? The smell of baking bread interrupted this useless line of inquiry, and my purr grew louder. Now I understood where we were headed. A half block later, my savior set me on the steps of Shakey House—not home, but close enough. "There you go, kitty cat," he said. "Safe as wet dynamite."

I meowed in both gratitude and apology. In my fervor to free myself, I'd smeared the collar of his coat with blood. That tabby would pay for puncturing my neck. At least she hadn't struck a vein.

Mr. Limp acknowledged my meow with a tip of his cap, then left the way he'd come. As I watched him go, I wondered if he'd end up in that building by the park. I licked my paw and cleaned my face. Strange that a shabby, unkempt man lived in such a grand abode. Yet Eddie, the dandiest man I knew, cohabitated with a family of cockroaches, a number of silverfish, and three—correction—two mice. Human manner and human condition didn't always coincide. The clank of pans inside the bakery reminded me of the time. I wanted to be home before sunup lest Eddie send a search party for me.

A leap ahead of the sun, I arrived at our home on Coates, panting and wheezing from my run along the railroad tracks. What a foolish cat I'd been. No eyeball was worth the risk of Claw or Mr. Abbott ending me for good. I would have to find another way to lift Eddie's spirits. Or he could darned-well lift his own. I pushed through the still-cracked door—no one had shut it—and entered the hallway to a mournful wail.

"No! No! No!" Eddie shouted. "It's all wrong!"

I trotted to the front room to find my companion at his desk. He sat in much the same position as before, but he'd rolled up his sleeves and kicked off his shoes. His hair stood on end from, I assumed, being tugged by frantic hands, and his cravat lay on the floor like a dead snake. He'd allowed the fire to burn out, letting an autumn chill into the room.

"It was so easy with the Rue Morgue story, Catters," he said to me. Judging by the occupied look on his face, he had no idea I'd been missing for half the night. Perhaps it was better that way. "That plot came to me as if in a dream. But this new story vexes me beyond comprehension. It's not the who or the what , but the why ." He stood and pulled the eyeball from his pocket. "And this trifle is doing me no good. It's lost its magic." He crossed to the fireplace and set it near the mantel clock with a finality I hadn't expected. Then he turned and dropped to one knee. "Come here, my Cattarina."

I obliged him, taking pleasure in the rug beneath my paws. It had been a long night of cobblestones and brick.

"Did you sleep well?" He stroked my fur. "Did Sissy?"

I arched my back at her name and curled into his hand. I hoped she'd fared well last night without my company.

Eddie picked me up and sat us in Muddy's empty rocking chair, stretching his stocking feet toward the hearth. "If I knew more about the murder, Catters, I might be able to fix things on the page. But as it is…" He held me up to his face and repeated that word again, murder . "Cats know nothing of the kind, you lucky soul. Alas, I must dwell on such atrocities." He settled us into the chair and began to rock. "Madness, Catters. I know madness is the cause. It must be." The rocking slowed, he whispered murder one more time. Then his lips parted in sleep.

Silly of me to think the glass orb had intrigued my friend. On the contrary! The means by which it had been acquired fascinated him, and this conundrum had evidently overwound his brain. Eddie had the mutability of a boundless sky: he could blind us, almost burn us, with his brilliance one day, then fall into a black and starless despair the next, never lingering too long at dawn or dusk. And no one in the Poe household was immune to these changes. Why, last full moon he broke one of Muddy's dragon plates after merely reading a newspaper article. He'd read it aloud, but it muddled my ears with strange language like supercilious and commonplace . I had a hard enough time keeping track of our current vocabulary. Today, however, I sensed a difference. This riddle gripped him from the inside, as it did me. I wound tighter in his lap to keep from falling since his arms had gone limp, and though I shut both eyes, sleep did not come. I had a feeling we wouldn't get much until I solved the mystery that plagued us both.

The Fickle One

Some time before dawn, I left Eddie's lap and crept into Sissy's bedroom to lie next to her. Even after old Muddy rose to stoke the kitchen fire, we stayed in bed a while longer, lingering in the relative warmth of the thin blanket. When a shaft of sunlight lit the room, I stretched and flexed my toes. My tail still smarted from last night's mishap, but less so than before.

Sissy yawned and pushed an errant lock of hair from her face. Pinpricks of blood dotted the neck of her white chemise, yet her cheeks held color—a good sign. "Where were you last night, Miss Cattarina?" she asked. "I was so cold without you." She rubbed the space between my eyes and smiled. "You were sleeping with Eddie, weren't you?"

I rolled onto my back and offered her my belly. She took my suggestion and smoothed the fur on my stomach. After breakfast, I'd devise a plan for bringing Mr. Abbott and his alleged crime to Eddie's attention. While I hoped some measure of justice would come to that pernicious tail runner, my primary concern was my friend's writing. As long as the ink began to flow again, the Poe house would be set to rights, and I would have fulfilled my job as muse.

Before long, the scent of frying mutton roused us from the covers. Sissy crossed to the wardrobe to dress, while I hopped into the chair by the door to supervise. I had no idea what humans did before cats crept from the primordial forest to observe them. Whatever the activity, it couldn't have been that important.

"Can you keep a secret, Cattarina?" Sissy opened the tall wooden chest and withdrew her corset—an item she reserved for her "good days" when coughing spells were at their lowest. "I intend to look into this eyeball business. I know Mother would object, and Eddie, too, but I want to prove that I'm useful. That I'm not just a consumptive invalid. You understand me, don't you?" She winked at me, then laced the corset around her chemise, keeping it loose. Petticoat and gown followed. I watched with fascination as she twisted her long, dark locks and secured them to the back of her head with a comb. I never tired of that hairstyle. It reminded me of a snail's shell.