The Black Cats

An Object of Fascination

EDDY WAS NEVER HAPPIER than when he was writing, and I was never happier than when Eddy was happy. That's what concerned me about our trip to Shakey House Tavern tonight. An official letter had arrived days ago, causing him to abandon his writing in a fit of melancholy—a worrisome event for this feline muse. Oh, what power correspondence wields over the Poe household! Since that time, his quill pen had lain lifeless upon his desk, a casualty of the gloom. But refreshment only intensified these frequent and unpredictable storms—hence my concern. Irritated by his lack of attention, I sat beneath the bar and waited for him to stir. He'd been studying a newspaper in the glow of a lard-oil lamp for most of the evening, ignoring the boisterous drinkers around him. When he crinkled the sheets, I leapt onto the polished ledge to investigate, curling my tail around me. I loved the marks humans made upon the page. They reminded me of black ants on the march. They also reminded me that until I found a way to help Eddy, it would be ages before he'd make more of his own.

"A pity you don't read, Cattarina," he said to me in confidence. "Murder has come to Philadelphia again, and it's deliciously disturbing." He tapped a drawing he'd been examining, a horrible likeness of an elderly woman, one eye gouged out, the other rolled back in fear, mouth agape. "Far from the City of Brotherly Love, eh, Catters?"

I trilled at my secret name. Everyone else called me Cattarina, including Josef, Shakey House's stocky barkeep. He'd taken note of me on the bar and approached with bared teeth, an odd greeting I'd grown accustomed to over the years. When one lives with humans, one must accommodate such eccentricities.

"Guten Abend, Cattarina," Josef said to me. His side-whiskers had grown longer since our last visit. They suited his broad face. He reached across the bar and stroked my back with a raw, red hand, sending fur into the smoke circling overhead.

I lay down on Eddy's paper and tucked my feet beneath me, settling in for a good pet. Josef was on the list of people I allowed to touch me. Eddy, of course, held the first spot, followed by Sissy, then Muddy, then Mr. Coffin, and so on and so forth, until we arrived at lucky number ten, Josef Wertmüller. Others had tried; others had bled.

"Tortoiseshell cats are good luck. Yes, Mister Poe?" the barkeep continued.

"I believe they are," Eddy said without looking up. He turned the page and folded it in half so he wouldn't disturb me.

"Such pretty eyes." Josef scratched the ruff of my neck. "Like two gold coins. And fur the color of coffee and tea. I take her for barter any day."

"Would you have me wander the streets alone, sir? Without my fair Cattarina?" Eddy asked, straightening. "Without my muse?"

"Nein," Josef said, withdrawing his hand, "I would never dream." He took Eddy's empty glass and wiped the water ring with a rag. "Another mint julep. Yes, Mr. Poe?"

At this suggestion, Eddy turned and faced the tavern full of drinkers. A conspiracy of ravens in black coats and hats, the men squawked, pausing to wet their beaks between caws. Eddy called out to them, shouting over their conversation. "Attention! The first to buy me a mint julep may have this newspaper." The bar patrons ignored him. He tried again. "I say, attention! The first to buy—"

"We heard you the first time, Poe," said Hiram Abbott. He sat by himself at his usual table by the door. His cravat had collected more stains since our last visit, some of which matched the color of his teeth. Once the chortling died down, he challenged Eddy. "A newspaper for a drink? I'd hardly call that a fair trade."

"Perhaps for a man who can't read," Eddy said.

Laughter coursed through the room, ripening the apples of Mr. Abbott's cheeks. I longed to understand Eddy the way other humans did, but alas, could not. While I possessed a large vocabulary—a grandiose vocabulary in catterly circles—I owned neither the tongue nor the ear to communicate with my friend as I would've liked. Yes, I knew the meaning of oft-repeated words: refreshment, writing, check-in-the-mail, damned story, illness, murder, madness, and so forth. But a dizzying number remained beyond reach, causing me to rely on nuance and posture to fill gaps in understanding—like now. Whatever he'd said to Mr. Abbot pricked the man like a cocklebur to the paw.

Eddy continued, "My news is fresh, gentlemen, purchased from the corner not more than an hour ago. The ink was still wet when I bought it."

"You tell a good tale, Poe," said Mr. Murray, a Shakey House regular with a long, drooping mustache, "but I've already learned the day's gossip from Silas and Albert." He jabbed his tablemates with his elbows, spilling their ale.

"I see. Then you and your quilting bee are aware of the latest murder."

Murder set the ravens squawking again. Josef, however, remained silent. He wrung the bar towel between his hands, blanching his knuckles.

"Speak, Poe!" said Mr. Murray. "You have our attention."

A chorus rose from the crowd. "Speak! Speak!" Mr. Abbott sank lower in his seat.

Eddy shooed me from my makeshift bed, folded the sheets, and waved them above his head. "The Glass Eye Killer has struck again. The Gazette tells all, in gory detail." His mustache twitched. "And for those of strong stomach…pictures on page twelve."

The portly man who'd kept his shoulder to us most of the evening lunged for the paper, knocking Eddy with his elbow by accident. I returned with a low-pitched growl. The man stepped back, hands raised in surrender, and asked Eddy to "call off the she-devil."

"I will if we can settle this like gentlemen," my friend said.

The man tossed coins on the bar, prompting Josef to deliver a julep and Eddy to calm me with a pat to the head. But I had more mischief in mind. I sprang for the glass, thinking to knock it sideways and end our evening early. Muddy would be expecting us for dinner; she worried so when we caroused. But Eddy's reflexes were still keen enough to prevent the "accident." Disappointed, I hopped to the floor in search of my own refreshment.

Weaving through the forest of legs, I sniffed for a crust of bread, a cheese rind, anything to take the edge off my hunger. If I didn't find something soon, I'd sneak next door to the bakery for a pat of butter before they closed. I could always count on the owner for a scrap or two. Above me, the room returned to its usual cacophony.

"Read! Read!" a man in the back shouted. "Don't keep us waiting!"

Once the tavern settled, the gentleman who'd received Eddy's paper spoke with solemnity. "The Glass Eye Killer has claimed a second victim and a second trophy, striking terror in the hearts of Philadelphians." He paused, continuing with a strained voice. "This afternoon, fifty-two-year-old Eudora Tottham, wife of the Honorable Judge Tottham, was found dead two blocks north of Logan Square. Her throat had been cut, and her eye had been stripped of its prosthesis—a glass orb of excellent quality."

"Mein Gott!" Josef said. "Another!" He left his station at the bar and began wiping tables, all the while muttering about "Caroline." I didn't know what a Caroline was, but it troubled him.

The reader continued, "Mrs. Beckworth T. Jones discovered the body behind Walsey's Dry Goods, at Wood and Nineteenth, when she took a shortcut home. Why the murderer is amassing a collection of eyes remains a mystery to Constable Harkness. The case is further hindered by lack of witnesses. Until this madman is caught, all persons with prostheses are urged to take special precaution."

I jumped from Hiram Abbott's path as he neared, his strides long and brisk. "Let me see the picture," he said to the portly gentleman. "I want to see the picture on page twelve. I must."

"I paid for it, sir. Kindly wait your turn."

"Do you know who I am?" Mr. Abbott asked. "I am Hiram Abbott, and I own acres and acres of farmland around these parts."

The portly man faced him, their round bellies almost touching. "Do you know who I am? Do you know how many coal mines I own?" he replied.

I yawned. I didn't know either one of them, not really. They jostled over the newspaper, bumping another drinker and pulling him into the argument. Three pair of shoes danced beneath the bar: dirty working boots, dull patent slip-ons, and shabby evening shoes with a tattered sole. Fiddlesticks. All this over ink and paper. Eddy turned and sipped his drink in peace, ignoring the row.

"Watch it, you clumsy simpleton!" Mr. Abbott yelled.

I wiggled my whiskers and held back an impending sneeze. The men had stirred the dust on the floor, aggravating my allergies.

"Git back to your table, Abbott, or eat my fist!" the man in boots said. Then he struck the bar. I needed no translation.

Nor did Mr. Abbott. He scurried to his seat, his head low.

Now that the entertainment had ended, I returned to my food search and discovered an object more intriguing—a curve of thick white glass—near the heel of Eddy's shoe. It had seemingly appeared from nowhere. My heart beat faster, railing against my ribcage. Bump-bump, bump-bump. A regular at drinking establishments, I'd found numerous items over the years. A button engraved with a mouse, a snippet of lace that smelled more like a mouse than the button, and the thumb, just the thumb, mind you, of a fur-lined mitten that tasted more like a mouse than the other two. But I'd never found anything of this sort. It reminded me of a clamshell, but smaller.

I sniffed the item. A sharp odor struck my nose, provoking the chain of sneezes I'd staved off earlier. The scent reminded me of the medicine Sissy occasionally took. In retaliation, I batted the half-sphere along the floorboards where it came to rest against the pair of working boots I'd seen earlier. Their owner wore a short, hip-length coat and a flat cap—a countrified costume. Mr. Shakey's alcohol must not have been to his liking, for a flask stuck from the pocket of his coat. "The guv'ment's gonna make the Trans-Allegheny a state one day," he said to the gentleman who'd won Eddy's paper.

"It will never happen," the portly man said. "Not as long as Tyler's in office."

"Tyler?" Eddy whispered. He kept his back to the two, half-aware of their conversation, and spoke to himself. "I should like to work for Tyler's men. I should like to…" He rubbed his face. "Smith said he would appoint me. Promised he would."

The man in boots didn't bother with Eddy. "You'll see," he said to the portly man. "One day we'll split. Then there'll be no more scrapin' and bowin' to Virginia."

"Leave it to a border ruffian to talk politics," he replied.

The man in boots thumbed his nose. "My politics didn't bother you before, Mr. Uppity."

Humans typically followed mister and miss with a formal name. I'd learned that from Sissy when she called me Miss Cattarina and from Josef when he addressed Eddy as Mister Poe, pronouncing it meester. Muddy, too, had contributed to my education. Always the proper one, she insisted on calling our neighbors Mister Balderdash and Miss Busybody, though never to their faces. Out of respect, I surmised. At least now I knew the older, fleshier gentleman's name.

"You think we need a Virginia and a West of Virginia?" Mr. Uppity huffed. "Not hardly."

Weary of their jabber, I hit the lopsided ball again. It spun and ricocheted off Eddy's heel. Then I wiggled my hind end and…pounced! When the object surrendered, I sat back to study its curves. It studied me in return with a sky-colored iris. I thought back to the picture Eddy had showed me in the paper and the word he'd uttered—murder. The rest of the tavern had certainly used up the subject. And while details of the crime hovered beyond my linguistic reach, I knew my toy was connected. If not, some other numskull had lost his eye. Either way, humans were much too cavalier with their body parts.

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