The Black Cats

Big Game Haunting

MR. AND MRS. ARNOLD lived a few blocks north of Green Street, in an area filled with shanties. The destruction of their old house and the partial ruin of their cobbler shop had put them in league with humans of low means. The wooden cottage had but a single story, no shutters, cracked or broken panes in almost every window, a walkway made of hand-dug stones, and a lopsided chimney I wagered kept more smoke in than it let out. Mr. Arnold staggered up the walkway, opened the door for Midnight, and shooed him inside with his boot.

The door shut behind them, sealing my friend inside.

A window ledge provided a perch from which to observe the interior. This proved less than fruitful since Abner Arnold slumped to the front hall floor after entering, too drunk to stand. There he fell into a deep slumber, allowing Midnight and me the full range of his property. “Hurry!” I said to my friend through a broken pane. “Explore every door and window. You may need an escape route later. I have some experience with this.”

“I’ll look inside,” he said to me. “You look outside.” With this, he vanished into the next room, but not before bumping into the doorframe.

The cottage had more in common with a produce crate than a home, yet I turned up no extraneous portals, save for a locked back door. On to the cellar. The home’s lower environs opened onto the street, guarded by a set of wooden panels warped by rain. I slipped through the crack between them, certain I could escape again if necessary, and descended to the flagstone floor below.

Abner Arnold’s cellar contained nothing of interest, save for a bag of quicklime, a bag of crushed rock, and a tower of bricks in the corner. The earthen room bore but one interesting detail—a recess in the wall near the kitchen stairs. The alcove had the makings of a fireplace, abandoned in early stages by bricklayers. Coincidentally, our cellar at home had a similar niche. Muddy had lined it with boards to store her summer canning.

A door opened and shut above me. “I’m home, Abner!” Mrs. Arnold shouted.

I left the cellar and retraced my steps to the rear of the home. With growing concern for Midnight, I became more brazen, alighting to the kitchen windowsill in full view. On this fine and fair day, the sun on my back, the cobblers would never catch me. Mr. Arnold had arisen from his stupor and sat with his wife at the kitchen table. They stared not at each other but at their new guest, who’d situated himself in the dry basin on the washstand. At first Midnight did not notice me. So I scratched one of the intact panes, loud enough for him and no one else to hear. Our gaze met briefly.

“Where did you find him?” Mrs. Arnold asked.

“Outside of Jolley’s,” Mr. Arnold said.

The window glass blunted their words.

She tilted her head. “Except for the white fur on his chest, he reminds me of—”

“Don’t say it.” Mr. Arnold crossed his arms. “Not sure if we should keep him.”

“Of course we should keep him,” she said. “It’s your chance to make amends.” Mrs. Arnold rose, poured a pitcher of water into a kettle, and set the kettle on the cook stove.

Mr. Arnold and Midnight eyed each other with an unbroken gaze. The room bristled with confrontation, though Mrs. Arnold seemed oblivious. When the teakettle whistled, the man reached for a pot of ointment in his pocket and applied it to the wounds on his neck, chin, and hands, turning his skin shiny. I thought of the salve Muddy put on my paws and licked my lips. “I liked the look of him before,” he said. “Now I don’t know.”

“He’s a fine cat, even if he’s missing an eye,” Mrs. Arnold said. “You didn’t do it…did you, Abner?”

“No. I swear it. It was missing when I found him.” He rubbed his stomach. “Don’t know why I eat at Jolley’s. Makes me sick every time.”

“I’ll fix you up.” Mrs. Arnold put several heaping spoonsful of loose tea in a cup and poured boiling water over the top of it. Then she set the refreshment on the table before her husband.

Mr. Arnold sat forward and pushed the cup aside. “Do you see a picture in his fur?” He pointed at Midnight. “There, on his chest.”

“Now that you mention it, the white does make a pattern.”

“What do you see?” he asked.

Mrs. Arnold chuckled and said, “Roast chicken on horseback!”

“Bah,” he said, rising from his chair. “You think too much about food. I’ll be in the parlor.”

Mr. Arnold left the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Arnold and her tea tray a short while later.

Midnight hopped to the floor and approached the window. “They’re keeping me, Cattarina, just as we planned. Let the haunting begin.”

***

Throughout the waxing moon, Samuel, Silas, George, Margaret, and I kept watch over Midnight as he performed his otherworldly duties. This effort alone wouldn’t convince a man like Abner Arnold to abandon cats, so we all played a part. In the morning, I would follow him on errands, usually to the tavern, hissing and spitting from the shadows. If he stayed home, I’d dart to his bedchamber windowsill, careen off the glass, and leap to the ground in a continuous arc, performing this action over and over until he lifted the sash. “W-who’s there?” he’d say, followed by, “Is it the g-ghost cat?” Come afternoon, Silas and Samuel would sneak out of a hole in Mr. Eakins’s roof and gallop across the Arnold’s roof. The pitty-pat of the brothers’ footsteps kept Mr. Arnold on the threshold of insanity until dinnertime, when George and Margaret would take over. They caterwauled from the garden to upset Mr. Arnold’s digestion.

These efforts supported Midnight’s real work inside the home. Eye ablaze, “Snip’s ghost” would stalk our victim room to room, unnerving him with an eerie low-pitched growl. I’d heard the sound more than once during my rounds, and it chilled even me. If the man tried to sit—in the parlor, in the bedchamber—Midnight would linger in the doorway and gaze at him with a hypnotic stare we cats reserve for mice and birds, the kind that turns prey into pudding. “What do you want from me? Leave me alone!” Mr. Arnold would shout.

Whenever the man of the house left, our pal turned into a different feline, different even from the one who lived in Rittenhouse. I’d never seen Midnight so vulnerable, so kitten-like. Over the days, he endeared himself to Tabitha Arnold, becoming an indispensible companion by warming her bed, catching her spiders, and listening to her stories. She did the same for him, scratching him just so, moving his blanket to follow the sun, even squiggling the odd piece of yarn for him. “There’s a good boy,” Mrs. Arnold would croon when he sat on her lap. Yet as soon as the man returned, Midnight would assume his role as specter.

And these exertions worked. I’d never seen a twitchier human than Abner Arnold. In a misguided attempt to restore her husband—I’d witnessed my share of useless home remedies—Mrs. Arnold plied her husband with tea every morning and every evening. But it was little use against the liquor he consumed and the mental anguish we doled out. Each day, his eyes grew yellower, his neck redder, and his stomach greener, the latter evidenced by daily purging.

Our “ghost’s” health fared only slightly better. Though the pomade had worn off days ago, Midnight’s eyelid remained closed. Poor thing. The infection I dreaded had become a reality. He’d showed me one afternoon while the Arnolds attended church. “Does it look bad?” he asked. “Will I lose the eye and become like Snip? Tell me the truth.”

“If you do, you will be even more handsome,” I told him.

I should state here that these shenanigans came at no expense to the Poes. Muddy supervised the house during my absences, but I always—always—returned home to Sissy each night to warm her. The other cats took turns sleeping in the Arnold’s front garden so night duty wouldn’t fall derelict. Eddy didn’t write much these days and had no need for a muse, though a secretary might have been useful. He departed the house on more than one morning with a messy satchel of manuscripts and scrolls, scattering a paper trail up and down North Seventh. The first time, I tailed him as far as the omnibus stop, and overheard him tell the driver, Mr. Coal, he was off to file a libel suit. I couldn’t hazard what became of this libel suit for Eddy never wore anything other than his somber black uniform.

While pulling these capers at the Arnold house, the loose friendship I had with Silas, Samuel, George, and Margaret tightened into a genuine troop—the Green Street Troop—and I began to think of them as family. Midnight, however, I thought of as more than family.

***

Around mid-summer, I met the Coon Cats by the Arnold’s garden gate as they headed home for dinner. I’d just finished my own meal and had come to fill in for George and Margaret since Margaret had caught a cold and could not rid herself of it. Even though this upset our schedule, the impending storm would’ve been the death of her. “Smell the rain? It’s coming,” I said to them. “It’s been so dry lately, I can’t complain.”

“I hope we make it home before the downpour,” Silas said. “It takes my coat ages to dry.”

“Cattarina?” Samuel asked. He rubbed against the picket post and scratched his back. “Do you think Midnight has taken a liking to Mrs. Arnold? The comfort he gives her seems more genuine these last few days.”

“And not at all pretend,” Silas added. He licked his nose.

“I am not sure,” I said. I did not wish to voice my concern to the others. “But I can tell that Mrs. Arnold has taken a liking to him. When she is with Midnight, her face shines.”

“Changed by the love of a good cat,” Silas said.

Samuel trilled in agreement.

“Until Mr. Fitzgerald enters the picture,” I said. “They fight like couple of rabid dogs. Oh, the fist shaking and screaming! Axe this and tree that. Humans.”

“The heat drives them insane,” Samuel said. “Makes them do things they normally wouldn’t. They should try weathering it with a coat.” He turned and bit his rump, as if mentioning the coat caused the itch. “How much longer will it take Mr. Arnold to give up cats I wonder?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I shan’t expect much longer,” I said. “What’s the report?”

“Mr. Arnold’s mood is fair to poor,” he replied. “He’s been pacing a lot.”

Silas chimed in, “They are just about to dine—beef stock and crackers. If the haunting doesn’t do them in, starvation will, right brother?” His stomach rumbled. “Speaking of starvation, our Robert will be serving dinner soon. We must be home by then.” He nudged Samuel toward the street.

“I will be back for the overnight shift,” Samuel said as they left. “Until then, Cattarina!”

As I watched the brothers disappear down the street, I, too, wondered how much longer it would take to break Mr. Arnold of his “fondness” for cats. Soon, I hoped. I couldn’t see keeping this pace until fall. And Midnight’s eye needed to be washed and cared for lest he lose it. I approached the house and jumped to the kitchen sill to observe the goings-on.

Tragically, the answer to “how much longer” presented itself this very night.

During my brief conversation with the Coon Cats, Mr. Arnold had turned hysterical, evidenced now by his tortured expression and gnashing teeth. Perspiration darkened the shirt fabric under his arms, and his skin gleamed with sweat. Just as Samuel said, the man marched back and forth across the kitchen with large, angry strides. Soup and crackers lay on the table, untouched. Mrs. Arnold cowered in the corner. The grave situation grew worse when Mr. Arnold snatched Midnight and deposited him on the kitchen table, upsetting a soup bowl. “I see it! I see it!” he yelled.

Midnight quivered on the tabletop, no longer play-acting. I leaned in closer and bumped my nose on the window frame. Dash it all, I’d never catch the brothers in time.

“What is it, Abner? What do you see?” Mrs. Arnold said from the corner.

“The pattern on the cat’s chest.”

She joined him. “For pity’s sake, have you lost your mind?”

“It’s a gallows and hangman’s noose.” He turned Midnight around. “See for yourself.”

She inspected the white fur. “I see no such thing.”

“Look again,” he demanded. “It’s a sign from the devil. I know it. He’s come to make me pay for killing the black cat.”

Killing the black cat. I didn’t need his admission of guilt but got one all the same. I paced the sill. George and Margaret could not be expected until morning, and the brothers were half way to Green Street by now. If Midnight ran afoul, I’d have to save him by myself. I inspected the cracked glass in the window. Should I break it and give my pal passage? Or should I go round front and create a diversion first? If the old man saw me, he would recognize me from the fire, and—

“You’re drunk,” Mrs. Arnold said, crossing her arms.

“No! No! Not a drop since lunch! I swear it!” Mr. Arnold clasped his hands and pleaded with his wife. “Oh, Tabitha, relieve this misery and confirm my greatest suspicion, that this cat is from the underworld!” He fell to his knees and grabbed his ears. “I am weary from the meowing and hissing and spitting—it follows me everywhere! I cannot escape it! The fire, the ghostly imprint upon the plaster… There is no corner of Philadelphia safe from four-legged demons, not even my home!”

“You need to rest, dear,” she said. She brushed Midnight from the table and tried to push him into the next room. I think she meant to save him, except the stubborn tom refused to leave and hid behind the washstand instead. The old woman turned to her husband with an insincere smile. “Abner, why don’t I fix—”

“No more tea! No more cats!” He sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the throat. “Mark my words, Tabitha Arnold. This hell ends tonight.”