Page 22 of Beneath the Poet's House

“Saoirse,” Roberto says with deadly seriousness, “please, for the love of Mother Earth, and of great literature, youmustsee this man again. It’s Emmit Powell! The guy is a goddamn genius. Of course he’s going to be eccentric.”

“I think Roberto has a crush on him,” Lucretia teases. She smiles and winks at Heather, who gives her a confused smile in return.

“Of course I have a crush on him,”Roberto shouts. “He’s Emmit freakin’ Powell, as Saoirse herself accurately described when she told us they had lunch. I’d date him in a second.”

“It was tea,” Saoirse clarifies.

“He does seem really cool,” Lucretia offers. “Did you get his number?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Saoirse asks. She nods in Heather’s direction.

“Have you decided on a cat who would be a good fit for you, Ms. White?” Heather asks. “Or did you want to interact with a few of them before making your decision?”

Lucretia starts to say something, but Saoirse holds up her hand. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” She gestures to Midnight. “This little guy and I have a connection.”

Heather nods cautiously. “Do you have experience caring for a cat with diabetes?”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.” Sensing she needs to say more to convince the shelter worker, Saoirse adds, “I’m currently in a position whereI can afford to step away from work for a bit, so I have the resources and the time.”

Heather smiles. “That sounds like a great fit for Midnight. Let’s go back to my office. After a few more questions and some paperwork, Travis will give you a crash course in low-carbohydrate diets and fast-acting insulin therapy.”

Lucretia hooks her arm into Roberto’s and forces him around in a little circle. Roberto tries to rebuff her but can’t help himself and breaks into a smile. Saoirse shakes her head in mock exasperation and ushers them toward the corridor.

“Great timing by the way,” Heather says as she closes the door behind them.

“Were there others interested in adopting Midnight?”

“I just meant it’s almost Halloween. Isn’t there a spooky story about a black cat that’s really famous? I read it in high school. By that guy who wrote a lot of spooky stories, what’s his name again ...?”

Saoirse, Roberto, and Lucretia exchange a look.

“Edgar Allan Poe?” Roberto offers wryly.

Chapter 14

After a tedious trek home lugging the cat carrier—Roberto and Lucretia insisted they walk so they could further analyze her decision not to take Emmit’s phone number—the black cat settles himself into the house on Benefit Street with far less fanfare than Saoirse anticipated. She sets up the litter box and dishes of water and cat food she’d ordered—along with a volume of Sarah Whitman’s poetry—from Amazon, smiling as Midnight finds a patch of sunlight in which to curl up.

He’s not completely at ease with her and his new surroundings, but she can tell it won’t take long. Heather had said the reason he’d been surrendered had nothing to do with behavior or temperament; his owners had simply grown tired of the daily tasks associated with managing his diabetes. They’d told the shelter when they dropped him off that Midnight was four years old.

A cat,she thinks, still not quite believing she’d gone from casual mention to full-on pet ownership in less than a week.Writing again. Friends. And at least a cursory attempt at finding a new job.Despite the past continuing to weigh down on her like a suffocating blanket and the fear that Aidan is going to turn up at any moment, she’s doing all right.I guess moving back to Providence was the right idea.

That’s why it’s so irritating when she can’t shake Emmit Powell from her mind. Were Lucretia and Roberto right? Had she been shortsighted in refusing his phone number? Sure, he’d lied about running into her on the sidewalk, claiming it was an accident. And she can’t forget theweirdness he’d displayed at the Ath and Carr Haus, regardless of having spun those interactions so thatshecame across as the weird one.

But he was also the most captivating person she’d met since ... well, since Jonathan. She hates to admit it, but it’s the truth.Yeah, and look how well that turned out for us both,Jonathan says from her head.

“Shut up,” she says aloud. Midnight lifts his head from the floor and looks at her curiously, ears twitching. “Sorry,” she says in a soothing voice. She paces the kitchen.

“Should I have taken his number?” she asks the cat. “I would have been the one with all the control. Like when I took Mia’s, Lucretia’s, and Roberto’s numbers before inviting them back for the séance. The decision to call them had been in my hands.”Great,she thinks.You’ve gone from arguing with your dead husband to asking for advice from a cat.

The house seems claustrophobic and stuffy. Regardless of whether it was the right decision to refuse Emmit’s number, there’s nothing she can do about it now.Except maybe get out of this house and get some fresh air.

She turns her attention back to Midnight. “What about your name?” she asks. “Midnight? Is that what you’d like me to call you?”

With his coal-black fur and glittering eyes, it’s about as inventive as calling him Cat. Lucretia’s vote had been for Catterina, but Saoirse’s hesitant to encourage additional connections to the past; this house, this city, the sun-dappled alcoves in the library, they’re enough of a portal to Edgar and Sarah. Naming her new housemate Catterina—though she’d seen when perusing articles on Poe and Whitman that Poe’s own cat had been tortoiseshell, not black—might be akin to speaking Bloody Mary three times into a darkened mirror: an explicit invitation to the deceased to come on in.

But ... thereisthe Poe story Heather referred to. Saoirse grabs her phone and googles “black cat story, Edgar Allan Poe.” And there it is, the black cat of the eponymous tale: Pluto. Poe’s work seems a safer bet than a detail from his actual life. And Pluto is a cleverer moniker than Midnight, taking the endless night sky analogy a step further.

“Pluto?” she asks the cat, watching with amusement the quick, twitchy jerk of his tail. “Do you like that?” She walks over to him and lays a hand on his back. He’s purring, so she takes this as an acquiescence. “All right. Pluto it is. Pluto, I’ve got to get out of here for a bit. Take a walk. Clear my head.”Of Jonathan,she doesn’t add. “You could probably use some alone time anyway. Get used to the lay of the land without me breathing down your neck.”

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