The Black Cat

from magic & myth

Part One - Dollhouse

June brought summer and a black cat. Not the kind you buy at the fireworks stand as you prepare for the Fourth of July—that fearsome face and open maw, red eyes, white fangs. The black cat that came into my life was small and mild, willing enough to be held and petted, carried around in the crook of my arm as I moved between the playhouse in the backyard to the dollhouse in my bedroom. One life sized, the other a miniature; my interior and outer worlds.

Onyx, as sleek and beautiful as the gemstone, green eyes alert and focused. I don't remember where he came from that summer. He was there, as if he'd always been there, a bowl of kibble in the kitchen and a litter box in the garage. I'd never asked for a pet, my mother hadn't inquired if I'd wanted one. Yet our lives were suddenly filled with the sound of the can opener whirring and his matching purr, the black body moving through the house at night, coming to lay at the foot of my bed when I slept.

He was my shadow, a companion through the hot days, a silent playmate as I served invisible tea in plastic cups. Once he let me put him in a pink ruffled baby doll dress, ears laid back, tail twitching, a time bomb tick-tick-ticking.

At night I would stand at the back door, calling his name, my mother calling mine, our voices blurring into one as bedtime was announced.

"Onyx!"

"Maria!"

"It's time for bed!"

The backyard was a tangle of plants, the forgotten space of a previous gardener, shrubs and flowering trees, paths that wound beneath and through it all. My mother had rented the house for this garden, a magical place for a little girl to spend her afternoons. At night, filled with the rustle of nocturnal creatures, it was something else. I didn't like to be outside when the sun went down. I could feel how small I was out there, under the stars, with nothing around or above my head. I kept my feet on the cement step, one hand on the door frame, leaning out, calling until I thought he'd never come.

Then Onyx would appear, trotting smoothly out of the darkness, into the yellow glow thrown by the porch light beside the door.

A cat.

A small black cat.

Nothing more.

* * *

The doll was blonde, hair an unnatural shade, pink lips, blue eyeshadow. Sometimes when my mother went out, which was rare, she wore the same color—frosted and cool toned, bringing out the azure in her green eyes.

Once I'd snuck into her room while a babysitter talked on the phone, pressed a single finger into the pan of color, swiping across my own eyelids. I admired myself in her dressing table mirror, the way I suddenly looked so adult, sophisticated and worldly. I forgot to wipe it away before my mother returned, half asleep in my room when I felt the cold wash cloth, panicking awake as she gently removed the makeup—rich, heavy perfume filling the air.

I wasn't told to keep out of it, not scolded or warned. She brought me my own the next day. "You're too young to wear makeup, Maria. But you can play with it as much as you like at home."

From then on I'd swipe shimmery blue across my face, Onyx watching as I did. Once I added some to his face, dropping a kiss on soft fur. He washed it off as soon as I pulled away,  tail twitching, back turned to me. I added it only to my dolls after that, their faces faintly blue and sparkling, as they went about their lives in the pink dollhouse in the corner of my bedroom.

Three floors and an elevator, cardboard walls covered in stickers to make it appear as if the rooms were filled with furniture and a kitchen. I had pink plastic beds, a table and chairs, a bathtub that I filled carefully with water and bubbles, dolls stripping down to soak and read the carefully folded construction paper books I made. I mimicked my mother. The way I wanted to be when I grew up, when I could sip a golden drink from a cup shaped like a tulip, and read books where women with flowing hair and beautiful dresses were embraced by handsome men.

Onyx stayed close, watching the movement of my hands intently, basking in the sun coming through the window, caught in warmth and dust motes. Sometimes I would prop a doll up against his side, pretend that he played with me, that he was a wild beast tamed and loved by a beautiful woman.

A panther as calm as a house cat; something wild domesticated.

* * *

A color I had no name for—deep and rich, vibrant and dark. Red. Reminding me of scraped knees and paper cuts, the quick flash of a needle at the doctor. But not a color I expected here, in the shadowy hall, in my house in the middle of a hot Sunday afternoon. Buzzing filled my head, my ears thrumming, and I waved my arms around to brush the noise away—sweat prickled along my forehead, scalp itching.

I hesitated, pulled forward—the open door, the red trail leading into the space beyond, out of sight, into my bedroom.

The house was quiet. My mother outside talking to the older couple across the street. Her name was Maria too. So many of us, wandering out in the world, connected by the sound of five letters. I thought about that, thousands of girls, like and unlike me. I thought of that instead of the blood in the hall. I thought of other little girls out in the sunshine, at the beach or riding their bikes down a street.

I would pretend I was another little girl.

A collection of droplets, a few here, a few there. Grouping together as if they were lonely, coming together to keep each other company. It wasn't much blood. Not really. But enough. Enough for me to know that something wasn't right. Enough for me to wonder why my mother hadn't seen it already.

I stood in the doorway of my room, going over each piece, looking for the out of place thing. The window blinds were open, pulled all the way to the top, the glass covered in painted plastic sun catchers; flowers and watery paint, the sun shining through them to cast multicolored patches of light across my bed, the carpet littered with toys, and the dollhouse.

Struggling for breath, I gasped, unsure, not knowing, but feeling the wrongness of it all. An unnamable thing. A thing. In my bedroom. Where I slept. I turned to my bed, the darkness beneath it, so cool and complete, a wasteland beneath my box springs.

Anything could be under there.

But the blood led to the dollhouse. It stood between the window and the bed, the front turned to me, the façade printed to look like a real house. Pink brick. Bright green rose bushes. Windows tinted light blue, white reflections painted on them. Vibrant, unreal.

I crept forward, pulled, unable to turn away.

The sun warm on my skin, yellow and blue tinged, the carpet beneath my feet, the sound of a lawnmower starting up in the distance as I came around to look at the inside. I stood motionless, going over the interior. All of it so familiar, a known structure, a known place.

The dolls were gone. In their place, sitting in chairs at the table and lying on the bed, were mice. Brown. Small. Long tails. Pink hands and feet. Black eyes open. Some looked whole, untouched, as if they'd come out of the walls to play house and gotten caught—frozen, fearful. Others had puncture wounds, fur bloody, a deflated quality to their bodies, as if air were leaking out like it would from a balloon.

The mouse on the bed was the bloodiest, throat ripped wide, pale raw flesh exposed. The creature's head was almost detached. If I reached out, if I touched it, it would roll away, fall out of the house . My hand twitched, skin crawling. It would be soft. Almost no sound when it hit the floor, blood seeping into the carpet fibers.

Onyx appeared, rubbing against my legs, purring.

I ran from the room, panting, chest tight, leaving him behind. Out through the front door, flying down the steps and across the lawn to where my mother was laughing. Laughing, as if my room weren't full of dead things.

"Mom! Mom!"

She turned to me, still smiling, holding out an arm so that I could squeeze in close, press myself to her hip, feel her arm settle over my shoulders.

"You have to come see."

 The neighbors chuckled, the other Maria sharing a look with her husband, a glance as if they knew what I was talking about.

"You go on in. We'll catch up later," said the other Maria. "Looks like she's got something important to share."

I nodded, swallowing.

"What is it baby?" she asked, following me, a half smile lingering.

"You just have to see."

I didn't want to tell her. I didn't know what to say, how to explain.

Air conditioning hit us as we came through the front door, the house dim, blinds and curtains pulled over the windows. I hesitated in the entryway, on the tile, searching for more blood.

"Maria," my mother said, voice hardening, an edge of worry creeping in. "What's going on?"

I shook my head, taking her hand, guiding her toward my room. She stopped in the hall, seeing the red droplets. Frowning, forehead wrinkling, brows coming together, she moved me aside, dropping my hand to hurry ahead.

I knew what she would see. The room a rainbow of color, the pink dollhouse, the dark wet spots, the mice. The hall seemed so quiet and dark compared to that space, a reprieve, a safe space. I wanted to stay here, to put off seeing what I knew to be true, the growing horror of it sneaking up behind me, great clawed hands reaching, ready to take me gently by the shoulders.

"Maria," my mother said. Invisible from where I stood, a figment, my name coming from a place I couldn't see. "Come here."

Stepping forward, shoulders back, I entered the room. There was nothing I could say, nothing to explain, she had seen everything I had, she would understand why I'd come running out of the house, desperate to show her something that shouldn't be there.

"Baby, I'm so sorry." She held out her hand, inviting me to cross the distance between us. "Onyx must have brought this in. Sometimes cats do that."

I didn't look down, didn't want to see all of those dead mice sleeping and sitting—pretend dinners and sweet dreams. She seemed so casual, her words soft, nothing anxious or scared. Not the emotions I'd been expecting at all.

"You know," she said, taking my hand. "Cat's usually bring you things because they love you and think you're unable to take care of yourself. That you're not grown up enough yet to hunt."

"Because they love you?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He's brought you lunch."

"Lunch?"

"I'll get a bag and get it cleaned up. It'll just take a moment and then it will all be good as new."

A bag? Would that be enough for all of those tiny bodies, the blood all over the printed cardboard and plastic. I sucked in a deep breath, pulling it all the way into my lungs, holding it, my cheeks puffed out, and looked down.

A single mouse. Just the one. Bloody but whole, no missing limbs, the fur wet and matted. It was on the bottom floor of the house. Not in a chair. Not in a bed. Just lying there, as if it had been casually dropped—an offering, a gift.

I jumped as something brushed against my leg. Looking down at Onyx as he turned to brush against me again, arching his back, soft fur to bare skin. Soft, so soft. His purr filled the room, vibrating, and he squinted his green eyes as he looked up at me, something like a smile on his cat face.

I love you.