The Tale of the Seamstress and Her Cat Tittle-Tat

My grandmother’s cat and me? We never get along. Every time that dang feline hisses with her fangs white and wide, I hiss right back, showing my own canines. When she chases me around the room, I go after her too, wagging my tennis shoe. Oh, and when she scratches me, drawing that tender blood deep, I just walk away cause I know she’s already won.

Every day in Maw’s home, me and that ginger cat just can’t break bread. I don’t know how I landed on the beast’s blacklist, but when I lock gazes with that rat snake stare, she’s a coming and I have to defend. With all the fighting we do Maw’s gotten real concerned over our “relationship.” She’s sitting in her rocking chair, while I’m resting on the porch’s pealing planks, and she makes a point of asking me, “Why don’t my sweet grandchildren meet eye to eye?” Why she refers to that mongrel as her grandchild, I don’t know. “Because” I said, sucking on my cheek as that sneaky thing’s tail vibrated in the tall grass. “Your cat is mean.”

“Now that’s not very nice to say, Kitty is just lacking in social niceties is all.” Maw called back with a little wrinkled smile. I merely huffed and watched as the cat ran around more. Maybe she was chasing a poor field mouse. Or maybe a squirrel. She better not bring it to me if she catches it, I thought to myself. “You know,” Maw mumbled, catching my attention again. “Have I ever told you the story about the seamstress who used to live in this town with her cat? Agatha was her name, although she always preferred Aggie when ya finally put in the time to meet her, and if I’m rememorin’ correctly her cat’s name was…” Maw pursed her lips. “Tittle-tat or something of the like.”

I shrug. “I don’t think anyone would name their cat Tittle-Tat of all things.”

“Of course, they would!” Maw lightly smacked my hand, acting all offended. “You just don’t have any imagination.” I was about to say something, but she continued rambling on. “You see I was just a girl when it happened, when those two came into town. The world was a different place back then.” She began chuckling, the squeaking of her rocking chair mixing in. “Oh, trouble always seemed to follow those two, never knew why.”

“Maw, I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not gonna—”

“Stop that. Your Maw’s reminiscing.” She quipped. “Now where was I? Oh yes…

* * *

Along the old hiking trails before they removed the hordes of long-nosed pine trees and squatting oaks with their fat trunks, Aggie the seamstress and her cat Tittle-Tat lived in a little wooden shack. It was a good way away from town, but they liked it that way, the townsfolk too. You see Aggie was a little odd, odd in the sense that she didn’t belong. Those curled, bright-eyed pleasantries you spoke at the ringing of a shop doorbell, well her lips never curved an inch, only keeping those cold eyes forward as that cat of hers twirled around her legs in a loving purr. She was never interested in the ladies’ squabbles. She come into town, grab her supplies and leave, with maybe one or two things left out of place, for that cat always followed her like she had a second tail. Some people whispered that her heart was switched out with rocks and sticks. No one could ever get a word out of the woman, unless it was about her fabrics. Every mother in town told their girls never to come near that strange Aggie. With someone so lacking in basic manners, well, a woman like that couldn’t be trusted. And it would’ve stayed that way if us girls didn’t come to her wooden shack one night.

* * *

“Why’d y’all go? Doesn’t sound like she’d give you anything?” I questioned.

“I’m getting to that!” Maw waved.

* * *

It was me, Sandy, & Sarah Lee—you know, they still come on over for Pickle ball on Thursdays—we snuck to her house while our mothers were out. We were just curious about that woman; she was a seamstress after all. No one really knew what she made.

When we knocked on that door, maybe 8 o’clock, she came on out like nothin’ was out of the ordinary. We hadn’t seen her in person before, mainly relying on them rumors, but she definitely wasn’t someone you’d call a lady. She was slouchin’ against the doorframe as her hair was whisked in a loose pony. Her hands remained in the pockets of her torn overalls with bobbies and safeties sticking through that sun spoiled denim. At first, I thought it be an orange wool scarf laying loosely along her neck, but it was her cat, peaking on through those slightly dimmed lids. Aggie chewed what seemed like a pin between her lips like a farmer’s straw. With nothing said between us, however, she began closing the door until I squeezed on through, “Wait!”

Aggie stopped, watching me expectantly as well as that cat, now wide eyed from the noise. “We’d like to buy or commission a dress from you.” I signaled to the other girls to take out their allowances and piling enough money together we thought it’d be worth the fees. Aggie tilted her head, staring at the crumbled dollars and shining nickels and sauntered back inside, gesturing for us to follow.

“Place the money on the table.” she called and went straight along back to a stray purple curtain. We were hesitant at first. Who wouldn’t be with such a strange lady letting us in her home? But it was like any other place, somewhat plain to be honest. Until Aggie’s head popped behind the curtain. “You comin’?”

All of us scurried forward, and my... What a site. This woman knew her craft. Her workroom was an entire kingdom of forgotten scraps. Multicolored buttons of mismatched shapes being the inhabitants while black strings swerved their inky rivers to the varying patches of pattern lands. To the East of a brown table leg a great valley of lilac lattice piled high, and to the West, among the forgotten bobbled pins, stretched the forest of checkered gingham, shifting in shades of white, blue, black, grey, white, blue, black, grey—truly never-ending.

The girls and I were dropped from our stupor when Aggie popped in again with that grumbling thrum. “Watcha lookin’ for?” Her cat had stretched off her shoulder with his back straight and tail swishing on a nearby table. Aggie was squatting over some fabrics.

“Anything you got really.” I spoke up.

The woman hummed, finally grabbing some blue satin, “This’ll have to do then.” And she went to work with the quip of whip. It finally came to my attention that the woman was wearing no shoes, working along in her bare feet! It’s a surprise she never had her toes pricked by a pin or slipped on a sneaky piece of silk. She was in her own garment waltz. Silver scissors leading the way as she snip-snapped any stray ends, while her needle and thread twirled her to any garbs with loose hems.

And that was how it all started, once us girls brought that finished dress into town, well, the town was in quite the tizzy. More and more people came over to that little shack, asking orders left and right. And Aggie did it all. Anything that woman put her mind to, she could make it, from shawls, suits, handkerchiefs and so much more. She had magic in those fingers of hers which all the towns’ people envied dearly, but some popularity wasn’t always the best since it sometimes grabbed the wrong attention. Especially with the old mayor’s widow who lived in the mansion on the hill.

Now for the life of me I can’t remember that widow’s name. It always evaded me even when I was younger, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t to be trifled with. You see, she was the image of excellence in town. Sweet smiles, beckoning about all the comins’ and goins’, as expected of a mayor’s wife, but no one knew what happened behind closed doors, and when her husband unexpectedly died one cold evening, well, rumors started to spread that this widow had made a deal with the devil. Or rather, exchanged vows to become the Devil’s wife.

From what I heard, she got a mighty few things from that deal. From that pretty face, pretty home, and all those pretty things inside. But the Devil would have his way with her once she died, for once you become his wife your soul is his for the rest of time. That didn’t matter much to her, however, that was a future problem for a future her. She cared more about that ever-elusive recognition. The side eye, and those whispers behind cupped hands—Did you see what she was wearing? Those shoes? That lace? Why, I could never afford that!—She loved how the townspeople carved their eyes over her skin. How they wanted what she had, being the object of their desires.

However, when that same woman was walking around town square one day, she noticed not too many people were talking about her, rather they were giving all their attention to another woman of all things. The nerve, the gall! The woman’s mask creaked. But, keeping her composure, and a firm grip on her purse, she went up to some of the women who decided it was a better idea to ogle at the pest. That practiced smile crinkled on those red lips, as if they were the shriveled skin of a rotten apple. “Excuse me, ladies,” she said in that spiced honeyed tone. “What might all the fuss be about?” The two young ladies looked to one another, surprised the woman didn’t know.

“Well,” one brave-soul spoke, “there’s a seamstress in the woods who’s been making the most fetching creations. Lizzy Tarner’s just picked up hers today, it’s quite wonderful, don’t you think?” The little lady gestured to the young girl dancing in a floral sundress, very prim, proper, and much more elegant than that of the Devil’s wife. Her eyes flared, dim matches against a winter’s night, but thanked the young ladies anyway, being sure to keep her lips tight, and stalked home to the mansion.

Once in the privacy of her room, however, the Devil’s wife’s mask split, and she sprung into a wretched fit. Jealousy fueling her rage, she ripped her black cashmere dress, ribbons and lace scattering across the floor then puffing into a whiff of smoke, returning from whence they came. Her fingernails, black and curled, penetrated the curtains and pillows, shredding the lush fabric into bits as she seethed, her muscles tensing. If you were nearby, like the gardener trimming the bushes or the maid folding the laundry, you might’ve not thought much of it. For the Devil’s wife had her tantrums from time to time, her temper was like dry grass during a drought, ready to catch fire. But this time around, oh she was furious. This meager seamstress was attempting to steal what was rightfully hers. This seamstress would just keep on taking and taking until there was nothing left for the Devil’s wife. She needed to do something, anything.

After a few more moments, the woman finally calmed herself, breathing deeply from her nostrils. She knew what to do. From her bureau she snatched a steel knife, slightly cutting her pale, sickly skin where red ruby droplets dripped onto the carpeted floor, and with an exhausted voice, she called for her husband.

Now you know as much as I that the Devil couldn’t come into her room in his physical form, so he reflected in her vanity mirror as curls of black smoke, wisping about like the burnt edges of charcoal as his rotting eyes glowed through. “Husband,” the woman announced, shifting her spider leg bangs. “There’s a seamstress who makes the most exquisite garments, more beautiful than the ones you’ve made for me. I want her talents. I want her gone. NOW.” The woman’s eyes were wild with greed. The stares of the townsfolk only gaping at the Seamstress’s gowns, kept replaying in her mind. She was the one who deserved those gazes, not some random woman with thread.

The Devil’s voice came out in a throaty wisp, “My dear beloved,” he called. “There is one way you can steal this woman’s gifts. It is up to you, however, to follow through.” Then the mirror splintered and cracked, thin spiderwebs creeping along the edges. The woman crouched to avoid the splintering of glass, but no shards sprang about. Rather, when the woman looked up, she found a golden needle sticking out from the mirror. With a light touch, she pulled the needle out and placed it in the palm of her hand. “What does it do?” she asked, letting the golden object reflect in the muddled light.

The Devil chuckled to himself. “Once the Seamstress threads the needle and pulls it tight, her soul will be sewn into the garment, giving you control of her talents and her very being.” The woman’s smile creased sharply as it grew and grew. In mere seconds she was off in a flourish of black silk as the Devil’s smoke curled along her form. “Do not fear, Husband. Her talents will be mine.” And she left, preparing for her afternoon outing with the seamstress.

* * *

“Maw, you know none of that could actually hap—”

“Oh shush, we’re getting to my favorite part!”

* * *

Now as all of this was happening fluffy ol’ Tittle-Tat was having his afternoon nap in the Aggie’s workroom window, lulling his eyes and swinging his orange, white tail left to right. You wouldn’t guess it from his lazing about as Aggie kept herself busy, that he was a crafty little fellow. When he had the time, which he always did being a cat and all, he’d sneak into town causing havoc for any poor animal or person in his way, tricking dogs into tying their leashes onto a tree or deceiving mice into slipping into Ms. Charlotte’s home, after she stepped on his tail twice. That always sprung a Cheshire grin onto his smooshed face. He’d also steal from the vendors at times, catching them off guard as he snatched away a tasty looking trout or even a piece of chicken if he were lucky. Why should he get his paws dirty? He wasn’t going to climb a tree for some silly bird if everything was laid out before him. Pfuh. What nonsense.

But as with all ginger cats, including our dear ol’ Tittle-Tat, they never get along with the Devil. They could smell his stench pulling at their whiskers and scrunching their noses. So, when a little jingle came from the front door, Tittle-Tat felt a strange feeling go up his back, twitching through his tail.

Aggie stopped her hemming, pushing her scissors into her pocket and stretching her back as she stood. “Probably another customer,” she mumbled beneath her breath, “hopefully it’s not Herald, I refuse to patch his trousers a third time this week.” Tittle-Tat followed suit, flexing his paws, and jumping from the window, following close behind. But as they both drew closer to the front of their home, Tittle-Tat already jumping on the counter, the Devil’s wife stood in her new black gown, extravagant in its construction but still not enough to match the seamstress’s touch. Tittle-Tat shifted his paws. He didn’t like the presence he felt from this woman.

Aggie stepped on forward, her shoulders slumped to the side, and hands deep in her pant pockets, her fingers playing with the bits of loose string and maybe a thimble or two. Her eyes lay expectantly on the new customer, not saying a word as she waited for the woman to list her wants. From the look of the gown, it seemed to the seamstress that she’d have to make something to the same pedigree, which would take much time. Lovely, she thought, even more work to add to her load, although she didn’t mind the bustle as long as she got to her own more private works. These kinds of women had no creativity. It’s always straight, straight, straight. No free will or looseness in her stitching. Aggie merely huffed.

Now to say that the Devil’s wife was a touch taken aback by the seamstress’s unseemly appearance was an understatement. Still beaming that stretched smile, the Devil’s wife couldn’t help but notice Aggie’s feet, especially her exposed toes. At the least she could’ve worn slippers, the Devil’s wife wailed in her mind. And that outfit, if she actually crafted such breathtaking dresses and gowns, why did she dress like the gap-toothed men by the railroad? And don’t let her get started on that awful posture! But the Devil’s wife pushed these thoughts aside.

“Hello, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m a big fan of your work.” The Devil’s wife replied in a cool tone, her smile poised perfectly, gloved hand laying genteelly over the other. Not even acknowledging Tittle-Tat who continued to stare.

Aggie let a single eyebrow raise.

“I was wondering,” the Devil’s wife continued, drawing out the last syllable. “Would you be so kind as to fix my shawl?” From her purse she pulled out a plain black shawl and placed it on the counter. It seemed fine at first except for a rather large hole in the middle. “It’s a family heirloom, you see, and I hate to see it so damaged.”

Still casting a wary gaze at the woman, Aggie slowly pulled her hand from her pocket, and gingerly picked up the shawl. The fabric lay on Aggie’s hands like thick spider webs, catching themselves on her fingers. Tittle-Tat sniffed the black thing and let out a little cough. Something wasn’t right, not one bit. And so, he dropped down and his little feet pattered around the strange woman, but again, the Devil’s wife did not acknowledge him in the slightest. Aggie looked up to the woman in black, “Are you sure there is nothing else you want?” Usually, these kinds of women want something more, she thought.

“No, that’s all I need! I would dearly appreciate your help.” The woman’s lips curved.

Aggie nodded her head, looking back down to the fabric, “Well, I can get this done in about a week or so, if you like-”

“I’m SO sorry,” the Devil’s wife interjected, making Tittle-Tat jump and his tail go fumph. Even the Seamstress’s eyes widened. “But is there anyway, you could do it today?” The woman pointed to the hole in the shawl, “It’s only one hole. Can’t you fix it now? I would be forever in your debt, truly. I could give you anything you desire: from more fabrics, thread, and gems, all the like” She listed one after the other, then gasped with a great intake of air. Tittle-Tat scurried behind the seamstress, sporadically looking in all directions. “I know!” And the Devil’s wife reached into her purse again this time pulling out the golden needle with her silk glove. “How about I give you this needle as a gift, of course. My grandmother used to sew, and always used it, saying it was imbued with some kind of magic. It would probably be useful to you.” Not finding much use in observing the woman for much longer, Tittle-Tat hopped back on the counter and stalked near the Devil’s wife’s hand.

This woman was already giving Aggie a headache with all her flourishing calls. She should be at a theatre, rather than this shop, Aggie thought rubbing Tittle-Tat’s head to comfort her growing nerves. Aggie removed her hand from Tittle-Tat’s fluffed head and finally looked closer at the needle and grimaced. “I’m not sure.” The seamstress replied, scratching the back of her head, and avoiding the Devil’s wife’s intense gaze. It was as if she were burning two piercing holes into her head. Aggie just preferred to go back to her workroom and get back to sewing. Why was she making such a fuss? She already had the materials she needed.

Tittle-Tat kept his eye on the golden needle, something was emanating from it. His tail twitched, and his eyes darted back and forth to the strange woman and then to the needle. The clogs moving quickly in his little head.

“Please,” the Devil’s wife smiled, and her white teeth shined unnaturally against her red lips, “I insist.”

But as the seamstress was about to grab the needle, Tittle-Tat swatted the horrible thing away. It bounced onto the floor with a twing and arrived by the Devil’s wife’s laced shoes. But Tittle-Tat didn’t stop there. Whatever the golden needle was, he wouldn’t let Aggie use it and so he fell to the floor and scooped the needle in his mouth, skittering to the workroom in a blur of orange, white.

“Tittle-Tat!” Aggie called, cold exterior melting to a state of shock, but it was the Devil’s wife who chased after the tricky feline.

“Come back here, you!” She screamed at the top of her lungs; her composure completely lost as she fell into a fume of rage.

Now Tittle-Tat had to act fast, but he had a plan. Diving into the scraps of loose fabrics on the floor, he ruffled the materials and hid the golden needle. And just as the raving woman in black came stomping through the workroom, he slipped a normal needle between his teeth. The Devil’s wife saw the mischievous cat beneath the workbench and attempted to pry him from his hiding place. Acquiring some thin scratches instead, as she lay in a puddle of silk on the floor. Thankfully Aggie came running after, and seeing his chance, dashed to her.

Aggie caught the fluffy feline in her arms and grasped the needle, drawing it easily from his mouth. “Tittle-Tat, what has gotten into you?” Aggie’s brows raised and let Tittle-Tat land softly onto the floor with a ripe flourish of his tail. Stepping towards the woman who was huffing heavily and having to hold her side, Aggie reached out a hand, “I’m sorry ‘bout that. I’ve never seen him do—”

“Just fix. The shawl,” the Devil’s wife simmered and slapped the seamstress’s hand away. Aggie clenched her fist but let that calm exterior flow back over her. Once she finished the shawl the strange woman would be gone. Just focus on that, she thought. Aggie just hoped she wouldn’t have another tantrum along the way, she huffed to herself.

Tittle-Tat hopped back up on the windowsill, turning himself into a puffy loaf. The Devil’s wife kept her eyes on that feline. When she got home, she would ask her husband to turn that cat into a coat, or better yet a hat. Tittle-Tat just stared right back, a hint of a smirk on his round face.

Aggie laid the shawl on a nearby mannequin and grabbing a piece of black string got to work. She remained silent as she worked, but the Devil’s wife didn’t mind, keeping her attention strictly on the seamstress’s meticulous movement. The woman circled Aggie at times, observing from every angle, waiting for something, anything to happen. But nothing did, and Aggie continued to sew. Although, Aggie had to admit she felt rather uncomfortable by all the peculiar stares she received from the Devil’s wife. She would need to take a bath tonight. A long one.

The Devil’s wife twitched. She pulled at the end of her gloves, pushing them back on, and repeating the cycle. Why wasn’t it working? She reflected, watching as the seamstress stabbed the needle through once more. Finally having enough, the Devil’s wife asked the seamstress, in a calmer tone I might add, “Do you mind if I look at your needle?” Not wanting another outburst scarring her mind, Aggie went along with the woman’s wishes and gave her the needle. At that exact moment, however, from the windowsill Tittle-Tat’s eyes widened, behind wagged, and he pounced, catching the needle in midair.

“Not again!” the Devil’s wife growled, and just in time, grabbed Tittle-Tat by the end of his tender foot. Clinging on to any fabric nearby, Tittle-Tat attempted to shake the crazed woman off, but her grip was too strong. Tittle-Tat hung upside, needle still in his mouth. “Hand it over,” the Devil’s wife demanded, attempting to pull it out of his mouth. Tittle-Tat wouldn’t let go. Aggie, seeing the events unfold, came at the woman attempting to pull at her arm, but the woman merely pushed her away with inhuman strength and Aggie was knocked against the table hard. Aggie could swear she saw stars.

“I said. Hand. It. Over.” The Devil’s Wife seethed. But in that moment, Tittle-Tat swung his free paw along her pristine cheek, leaving a deep scarlet line.

The Devil’s wife howled over the scratch, terrified it would scar, ruining her precious face, and ultimately dropped Tittle-Tat to the ground. Tittle-Tat rummaged through the fabrics again and found the golden needle. And as he came out from beneath the workbench, the desperate woman clambered over to him, and yanked the pin from his mouth.

“Why didn’t it work?” She screamed. “It was supposed to work.” And she picked herself up, and in her anguish, pushed the needle into the shawl and jerked it through.

Once she did so, she knew something wasn’t right. Her fingers felt numb, eyes beginning to blur, and she had the strangest feeling she was being twisted, wrapping round and round until she was no longer just the Devil’s wife, but the woman of the shawl. Her soul and body became the last piece of thread that made the shawl whole.

After a moment of disorientation and rubbing her poor head, Aggie found the estranged woman nowhere in sight. Rather, her finished shawl lay on the floor as Tittle-Tat casually licked behind his ears with a flick of his white paw.

Failing to push herself up, Aggie decided to sit a while longer as her head pulsated more. She promised herself she’d never go to the theatre. Stay at home and avoid any women in black that’s for sure, Aggie thought. But as she laid there, Tittle-Tat tiptoed among the scattered materials along the floor and situated himself in her lap. Aggie rubbed his little orange head, and he began to purr. “I don’t know what you did,” Aggie replied with a huff, “but I’m glad she’s gone.” Tittle-Tat let out a loving mer. Then the front doorbell jingled.

“We’re closed!” Aggie yelled “I know it’s you Herald, go find someone else to hem your pants.” And both Aggie and Tittle-Tat lay on the floor a little while longer, a single golden light reflecting on the black shawl, laying limply on the floor.

* * *

“Maw, your cat still doesn’t like me. This doesn’t change that.” I reply, pulling at the skin on my elbow.

Maw merely hummed, still rocking back and forth. “Well, I guess that means you have too many demons in ya!” Maw smirked.

“I do not!” I called. “I am nothing like that weird demon lady in your story!”

“Then why do you think Kitty doesn’t like you?” She asked, looking back at the grass.

“I don’t know?” I breathe through my nostrils. “She just doesn’t.”

“Hmm…I’ll let you think about it a little while longer.” Maw lifted herself up, her back cracking like a new batch of popcorn. “I’m gonna start making supper.” And she went back inside the house, leaving me fuming.

“I definitely haven’t made any deals with the Devil.” I mumble under my breath, and stared at the blue ceiling above my head, when I felt somethin’ staring at me. That cat was right in front of me. I think it had a dead squirrel in his mouth. My face squinched.

That cat just continued to stare, her tail swishing from side to side, her haunches firmly on the floor. “What do you want?” I ask, wondering if she would pounce on me like that woman. But she didn’t do anything of the sort, just continued staring with that squirrel in her mouth. Right when I was about the ask somethin’ else, out of nowhere the cat started climbin’ on my legs.

I was about to push her off, expecting she was gonna scratch me. But I paused and waited, allowin’ myself to watch for a moment. She pushed herself in the crevice of my legs, her paws stretched out, and I could feel those claws contracting and uncontracting. It made me clench a little as it pressed lightly against my blue jeans, but I still didn’t do anything.

We just sat there. I don’t think I was even breathing, but it seemed that thing was having the time of its life, using me as pin cushion. However, as time seemed to pass us by, I stared at the feline, thinking a little more.

Carefully, I tried to place my hand on her rump, but she started to growl, and I pulled it away quick. Sucking in some more air, I then attempted to let my hand rest on her head. Moving one finger in a little circle on her head, and, to my surprise, she pushed her head up to my touch.

I think we were like that for a pretty long while, me spinning thin circles on that cat’s tousled head, until Maw called us both for dinner.