The Black Cat 1

"If cats could talk, they wouldn't."

-Nan Porter

***

Selima found the black cat the same day she moved into her new apartment, which was also the day she broke up with her boyfriend, and the day that she met Arabella.

The apartment was an undersized basement studio on Hyde Street that was almost completely underground, the only natural light coming from narrow windows just beneath the ceiling that opened up right onto the sidewalk and a steady stream of footwear outside.

She didn't like it, and the move meant giving away a lot of things she didn't have space for now. But it was almost half the price of her old place, and she hadn't worked in a while, and besides, she needed to be somewhere new.

It was an old building, six stories tall with one apartment on the north and south sides of each floor, plus the basement studio she'd taken—"our lucky number 13," the ad called it. John promised to rent a truck and help do all of the lifting for the move, and Selima had reminded him three times about it, but then when the morning came of course, no John to be seen, and he didn't answer his phone either.

Eventually (only two and a half hours late) he sent a sheepish text apologizing that he hadn't done the rental in time. So Selima moved everything herself in the backseat of her own car, which was so small it didn't even have a trunk, and when John tried to call to apologize again—five times—she ignored the voicemails.

She'd already decided this was the last straw, but she didn't feel like having the fight about it now, when there was so much else to do.

Moving one tiny carload at a time took all day, and her body felt sore all over. But she couldn't rest, because with everything she owned piled to the ceiling in cartons there wasn't room to lay a mattress down or even squeeze to the couch in the corner (the only furnishing that was here when she moved in) for a nap.

So, being very gentle with herself, Selima started unpacking, just as the light on the dirty pavement outside her windows was turning long and golden and signaling sunset. The first box she opened had some of John's things in it too, and this annoyed her so much she wanted to hurl it out into the hallway.

Instead she carefully unpacked his stuff, took her own things—picture frames, a decorative teapot that had belonged to her mother and never once contained a drop of tea, and a mug her old college roommate had given her—then put John's back into the box and set it by the door, to be taken out to the dumpster later.

Yes, she thought, might as well just throw it all away. She'd been in a throwaway kind of mood all year: school, her job, her apartment, and now John too, one thing after another that she'd left by the curb.

Well, John had in effect thrown himself out, she decided—thus saving her the trouble of inventing a reason to dump him later. That was sort of convenient. In the year they'd been dating, it was the first thing he'd ever done that made less work for her.

She'd mope about him for a couple of weeks, but mostly just for show. And after that...

Who the hell knew about after that? She didn't feel like she had the energy for meeting and dating someone else. The future, Selima decided, was overrated. And the past was all mostly gone now.

That left only the present, which for the time being consisted of a purgatory of unpacking, a drafty basement apartment, and a nagging feeling that something somewhere has been let unresolved, although she couldn't imagine what in the world it might be.

And that's when she discovered the black cat.

It was a lanky beast with wide shoulders, a shiny coat, and huge, expressive yellow eyes that were already staring up at her.

The black cat sat right inside the door—which Selima had left open a crack because she couldn't get to the windows, and so this was the only way to circulate air while she worked—and it had the demeanor of someone that had been waiting to be noticed.

It was the type they call a Bombay cat, and it was so black that Selima imagined if she turned out the lights it would become one with the shadows of the old apartment building immediately.

She expected it to run away when she knelt down, but instead it all but leapt into her arms. It didn't purr or rub itself against her, but instead continued to stare with its bright yellow eyes, like two full moons side by side. The look made Selima feel like something was expected of her.

"Well what are you?" she said, running her fingers through the animal's smooth coat. The black cat didn't have a collar or tags on, but it looked too groomed and well-fed to be a feral cat or a stray. In fact Selima thought this very much looked like a cat that had never had a hard day in its life, and never would.

After a few seconds more it dropped out of her hands and walked into the little basement apartment like it owned the place, poking its nose a few times at nearby boxes but mostly ignoring everything. Then it curled up on one of John's hoodies and immediately fell asleep.

If only it were that easy for the rest of us, Selima thought. The late sunlight tinged the animal's sleek black hairs with gold. She thought it might be purring now, but realized it was just the sound of the building furnace on the other side of her wall.

Selima loved cats, but none of her previous landlords had allowed them. And John was allergic; if she even looked in the direction of a cat during the day he'd break out in hives later.

This one must belong to one of her new neighbors; or maybe it was a kind of a building cat, those half-feral things that don't belong to anybody but hang around to be fed by everybody. Well, Selima decided, time to put you out before someone comes looking for you.

The cat did not protest at being picked up again; in fact, it didn't look at Selima at all, but instead pointed its big searchlight eyes at the still-open door, where it itself had appeared only a few minutes ago. And Selima started when she realized that someone else was there.

It was a woman—perhaps Selima's age, but probably older—with her hand raised in a posture as if she'd been just about to knock on the doorframe, but instead now she was standing almost frozen, staring in what looked like shock. Her mouth was open in the vague shape of a greeting that had turned into a parody of surprise instead.

Not until another moment passed did the visitor finally speak, but what she said was so totally unexpected that Selima wasn't sure she really heard it:

"Trullibub!" the woman cried.

Selima realized she was talking to the black cat. The stranger came as far into the apartment as she could—there were still a lot of things in the way—and reached out for the animal. It didn't resist when taken.

Looking at Selima directly now, the woman said, "Where in the world did you find her?"

Blinking, Selima said, "She was here already. I mean, she just came right in. Is she yours?"

Shaking her head, the woman said, "Trullibub belonged to the last girl who rented this apartment. She went missing—the cat, that is, not the girl—and we all thought she might be...well we were worried."

She was looking the black cat over now, perhaps checking to see if it was healthy, but her face had a probing demeanor that suggested slightly more than just compassionate interest.

"The poor thing," Selima said, reaching out to give it another scratch between the ears. "Can you call her? The old tenant I mean. She must be worried sick."

The other woman paused, picking her words carefully. "Angela—she's the one who used to live here—she died. Very unexpectedly. It was a great shock for us. For everyone in the building, I mean."

The woman stopped to wipe the cat hairs off her hands, and then she seemed to remember herself. "Where are my manners: I'm Arabella, I'm your upstairs neighbor. Actually I'm everyone's upstairs neighbor, except Maurice. I live on the top floor."

Arabella was an ordinary looking woman with coppery hair. She dressed almost entirely in black, her clothes too loose and billowy to really give an impression of her build, but accented here and there with bright colors and patterns—a scarf that hung limp around her neck, and another one looped around her waist like a belt—and she wore more jewelry than Selima had ever seen on a woman, including silver rings on almost every finger.

She took Selima's hand and then, instead of shaking it, squeezed it just once, in what felt like a very affectionate, even intimate gesture in spite of the brevity.

"I knew we had a new girl moving in today, so I came down as soon as I got home," Arabella said. "EVERYONE else is out tonight, but I volunteered specifically to stay behind and welcome you. My what a charming teapot," Arabella said suddenly, taking it from where it sat on top of a carton nearby. "I think my mother had one just like it."

"That one was my mom's too."

"Then we should make some tea in their honor. Do you have a minute?"

Selima opened her mouth to say no as politely as possible—she still had everything in the world to unpack, and for some reason she was anxious about this stranger having her hands on one of the only things left from her mother.

But suddenly she thought maybe it sounded like a nice offer, and hadn't she just been thinking that the pot had never been used?

The black cat rubbed against the back of her calf and seemed almost to be nudging her toward the door.

"I think I do," Selima said, and even smiled, even though she wasn't usually the sort to smile at strange women. Arabella's return smile was just like her handshake: more intimate than it seemed.

They walked up all the flights of stairs between Selima's apartment and Arabella's. "There's an elevator, but it breaks down so often nobody dares get into it—you might be sacrificing your entire evening," Arabella said. "They say a woman who lived her fell down it in the '60s and that's why it's cursed. Anyway, always take the stairs, you'll thank me."

Apartment 11 was Arabella's—she nodded to number 12 across the hall as she fiddled with the locks. "That's where Maurice lives. He's our resident gentleman—EVERYONE else in the building is a woman, and we like it that way, but Maurice is all right. He's lived here longer than anyone and he's very harmless. You said you were having man trouble yourself?"

"I did?" said Selima, pausing for a moment as the black cat darted into Arabella's apartment before both of them. It parked itself next to the door, not deigning to go in any further but making sure it was firmly inside when the door shut.

Arabella's apartment was bigger than Selima's and (of course) brighter, and it was decorated like the home of a seemingly older woman, all Bohemian bric-a-brac and antique odds and ends.

But it seemed homey, and everything smelled strongly of incense, and something else that reminded Selima somehow of the street on a hot day. "Yes, you mentioned it downstairs," Arabella said, taking the teapot to her little kitchen and putting the kettle on.

Settling into an extremely comfortable chair, Selima said, "It's my boy—my ex-boyfriend. He's my ex but he doesn't know it yet. He was supposed to help me, but I guess why should today be different when I'm always doing everything myself, right?"

Arabella made noises of agreement, and the sound provoked a cat to jump up on the table. Selima thought at first it was Trullibub, but it turned out to be a much bigger animal, whose black fur stuck out in every direction and whose eyes were the dim green color she'd imagined the moon to be when she was a little girl.

"That's Behemoth," Arabella said from the kitchen. "He's harmless too. Do you take sugar?"

"I...don't know, I don't remember the last time I even had tea."

"You take sugar then."

Selima was examining Arabella's cat, and it seemed to be examining her back. Imagine two women in the building owning black cats—but she guessed it wasn't all that unusual. Since the landlords apparently allows pets maybe she should get one of her own?

"They don't really," Arabella said, coming back with two cups filled with steam. Selima blinked again and, seeing her confusion, Arabella said, "The building owners don't really allow pets. In fact I think a lot of things go on around here that they don't know about—but what they don't know won't hurt them."

Blowing on her cup for a long time before taking a cautious sip—it was sharp and tasted like ginger and cinnamon—Selima said, "I didn't realize I'd said that out loud."

"People do that a lot around me. It's because I put their guard down. Do you like it?"

"It's good. What's in it?"

"Tannis root mostly—the recipe's another thing I got from my mother. Yours isn't with us anymore?"

"No. She was someone I counted on. In fact ever since she died—"

"Five years ago you said?"

"Yeah, ever since then life has just been, you know, drifting out of place." She held the cup near her face so that the steam and vapors filled her nostrils when she wasn't drinking. "Does it sound weird to say that I think I use relationships as a substitute for Mom?"

"Lots of people do that very thing. Eventually we learn the only ones we really need to count on are ourselves—although everyone needs at least a few friends for backup I guess."

"Who backs you up?"

"Behemoth, of course." Arabella scratched the big cat on its neck. "And the other girls in the building. And for a long time Angela, before she...I'm sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"It's all right," Selima said, putting her tea down for a second. "You said she died?"

"About two months ago. She stepped right out into the street and was hit by a car."

"Holy shit," Selima said. "I'm so sorry. Were you two close?"

"Very. I wouldn't quite say she was like a daughter, but it was something like that. And the worst part is we had a fight just before. Has anything like that ever happened to you—losing someone and never getting the chance to say goodbye or you're sorry?"

"I—no, it never has."

"Sometimes it seems like nothing's more tragic. Anyway I'm sorry to dwell on it. It's just that I can tell you're still very upset about your mother even though it's been all these years, and that couldn't help but make me think about someone I've lost—you without a mother and me without a daughter of sorts, imagine that. But tell us more about yourself—you don't look like a student?"

"I was in grad school, but I dropped out last year, around the time I met John. Like I said, drifting out of place."

"Your heart was never really in that school."

Sighing, Selima said, "Nope, I guess not."

"Just like it was never really that much into that boy."

Sinking further into her seat, Selima groaned. "I must sound so pathetic."

"Most people try the wrong thing a million times before they find where they really belong."

"Did you?"

"Well...I'm an unusual case. You know I was just about your age when I moved into this building. Everything got better for me after that. These days—why I practically run things around here. I know we just met, but I think a place like this is just what you need. If you don't mind my saying so."

She kept scratching the cat as she talked. "And I think what you said before about a cat of your own is a good idea. I'll even help you adopt a kitten if you like—I know a wonderful breeder."

"Do you think it's a good idea? I can barely take care of myself."

"You don't give yourself enough credit. Besides, cats take care of us really. And it'd be a good new start for you. It's the kind of thing that will make your problems—the boy, all of your moving, everything—a lot easier, I think."

"Sure," Selima said. Suddenly aware that she'd drank all the tea, and she put down her empty cup. She felt very sleepy—not bone-exhausted, as she had been before, but instead a kind of comfortable, hazy drowsiness, a feeling she associated with long mornings sleeping in.

Standing and waving off Arabella's offer of help, Selima said, "I'm sorry, but I think this entire day just caught up with me."

"I was rude to keep you so long. But now that we're friends you can call me anytime—anytime you need anything at all."

Their conversation tickled Selima's memory, and she looked over at the corner near the door—it was empty. "Where's...Trullibub?"

"She must have gone out. That cat gets in and out of everything; she must know the building better than I do."

They stopped to hug at the door, something else that Selima rarely did but in this case suddenly felt very comfortable with.

The stairwells were shockingly dark—the lights were on, but so dim that barely anything besides the bulbs themselves became visible when illuminated—but she found her way back easily enough. She'd left her door unlocked, but anyone who came in to rob her would have had to unpack whatever they stole first. Groaning, she realized she still had work to do before she could even sleep.

But, surprisingly, the mess was not as bad as she'd thought when she'd left—she had enough put away to at least make her way to the couch all the way in the corner and flop down on it.

Lying with her eyes open in the dark, she listened to the sound of cars on the nighttime streets right outside her window. Her entire life she'd had trouble falling asleep in strange places. She was sure that she wasn't going to get any sleep at all tonight...

But the next thing she knew she was surfacing from a deep, cozy rest, disturbed by the unfamiliar sensation of something pressing down on her chest.

It was the black cat, sitting on her in her sleep, and pushing its face so they were practically nose to nose.

The cat felt heavy, but that wasn't why Selima felt she couldn't get up. Instead it was the eyes; Selima could swear they were all but glowing, as if the animal had illumination all inside of it, and its eyes were the two windows the light escaped from...

Selima imagined something else when she looked into the black cat's eyes: That it was telling her something.

It felt urgent, in fact. She wanted to ask the cat what it wanted...but of course she wouldn't get any answers that way.

All at once the black cat leapt off of her and landed with a sound as soft as a moth's wings. In the ruinously dark night—it was nearly three in the morning, Selima saw now that she was able to turn her head—the only sound was the cat's paws on the floorboards; even the street outside was silent as a church.

Selima felt the back cat pulling her almost physically after it. It was as if an invisible string was tied to each of its paws, tugging at her over and over again. Not understanding why, she got up and followed it, keeping perfectly in the cat's tracks even though she couldn't see a thing.

Maybe I'm dreaming, she thought, and although she instantly knew that it wasn't true it was enough to keep her from questioning what was happening.

Her door was open, even though she was sure she'd closed and locked it after coming in. Upstairs, the building lobby was silent and empty except for the sound of the old furnace below—the noise of the building's restless breathing.

The black cat was on the main stairs now, pausing just long enough to make sure that Selima was following and then springing all the way to the landing in just a few steps.

One flight of stairs at a time, Selima followed it to the top of the building. (Never take the elevator, she reminded herself...) It didn't take long to figure out where they were going, of course; the door to Arabella's apartment was wide open when she got there, and, improbably, a single candle burned in the doorway, a tiny sentry in the night to greet her.

As Selima watched, amazed, the black cat walked by and extinguished the flame with a single flick of its tail.

Cautiously, Selima followed. There seemed to be more light inside, and the old brass numbers one and one on Arabella's door gleamed as that light flickered. The scent of the apartment was stronger than it had been during the day—because the incense was burning right now, Selima realized.