The Black Cats Read Online Free Page A

Butcher’s
doorstep one night. The next morning, they were gone. Just ask them if you
don’t believe me.”
    “If
they are gone,” I said, “how can I ask them?”
    “Precisely,”
George said with a sniff. “After that, other ferals vanished. Always near the
Butcher’s home. No one knows what he does with them, but I’ve heard rumors of a
cat cookery book—”
    “George!”
Margaret said. “Gossiping is most unseemly. Our Thaddeus would not approve.”
    George dipped
his head.
    Cat
cookery book? No matter how sorry I felt for the black feline, I would not
sacrifice my life to give meaning to his. The Poe household, namely Eddy,
depended on me, and getting ground into sausage would complicate matters. Moreover,
I have never been fond of mustard. And yet…curiosity, the cat, and all of that.
“If I wanted to see this human, where would I find him?” I asked.
    “A half
block down, across the street,” George said. “The one with petunias in the
window boxes. Don’t say we didn’t warn you, miss.”
    “I will
take your words to heart,” I said. “If anything, I now know which house to
avoid.”
    The
door to George and Margaret’s home opened, and Mr. Thaddeus Beal—a drably
clothed man with spectacles—summoned them with a kissy sound. George
dashed inside. Margaret hesitated. “Give up this pursuit before it’s too late,”
she said to me. “Promise you will, Cattarina.”
    “I
promise. Cat’s honor.” I waited for her to leave then started for home. Though
I longed to avenge the tom’s murder, I had met a villain too despicable to
hunt. Fancy a Leg of Manx tonight, dear?
With mint jelly? No, thank you. I’d much rather dine on Tortie Pot Pie. Cat
cookery book, indeed.
    As I
neared North Seventh, I noted a grey plume rising in the vicinity of home. This
new area heralded surprises at every turn. I trotted ahead and rounded the
corner, discovering the smoke’s source—the Poe residence. Scents of char
and kerosene wafted from the rear of the structure.
    Egad,
the house was on fire!
    Nothing
distracted Eddy from writing. Nothing. I envisioned him looking up from his
desk, pondering aloud about the warmth of his bedroom floor, and dipping his
pen to resume work. Muddy must have fallen asleep at the stove again! I leapt
over the picket fence and dashed toward what I feared would be a raging kitchen
fire. I collapsed with relief at the small blaze in the kitchen garden.
    Clad in
her brown checked everyday dress,
Sissy stood over the burning remnants of the rose print frock she’d worn to
market, tending the flames with a rake. Eddy stood next to her, arm around her
shoulder. A heap of stones had been piled beneath the morning glory vines in
the corner of the yard. The final resting place of the victim, I surmised.
    “Mother
said it was beyond repair, and Mother would know,” Sissy said.
    “I don’t
have the means to replace it,” he said, looking at the dress.
    “Do not
fret, Eddy,” she said. “I would give a hundred gowns to know his soul is at
peace. And now that he has a memorial,”—she gestured to the mound of
stones—“he will not be forgotten.”
    Eddy kissed
her forehead. “He will never be
forgotten.”
    The
breeze lifted a cinder into the air. It popped and flashed, clinging to life, before
vanishing into the firmament.
    “You
are too good for this world, Virginia. Too good.” He tucked his thumbs in his
vest pockets. “I will buy you another dress when I can. In the meantime, I will
give the black cat a fine eulogy—a story of his own. Will that satisfy
you?”
    “Yes.
Very much.” She smiled, her face wan. “When will you begin?”
    “At
once,” Eddy said. He looked to me with lifted eyebrows. “Catters? Where have
you been?” He snapped his fingers. “Lunch can wait. We have work to do.”
    On our
way into the house, Eddy tripped on a nail head protruding from the threshold.
“Don’t tell Muddy,” he said to me, “or she’ll be after me to fix