I’m sitting in the living room watching Mr Whiskers attempt to occupy a sunbeam when Pandora’s phone rings for the fourth time in less than an hour. I know it’s the fourth time because the first call interrupted something I was reading, the second made Mr Whiskers lift his head, the third happened while I was getting coffee, and the fourth is occurring now. Pandora looks at the screen, presses the button to silence it, and goes back to whatever she’s doing on her laptop. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t call back. She doesn’t even appear particularly interested in whoever keeps trying to reach her. Under normal circumstances, I would consider this none of my business. Unfortunately, four unanswered calls from the same number within approximately fifty minutes have crossed the threshold from none of my business into observable pattern. John is in the kitchen looking through the refrigerator, which is completely normal because he lives here, although the amount of time he spends staring into an open refrigerator suggests he believes new options may appear if he waits long enough. The phone rings again. John looks toward the living room. Pandora silences it. John closes the refrigerator. I look at him. He looks at me. “What?” he asks. I tell him nothing. “You’re looking at me like I did something.” I tell him I merely noticed that he looked at Pandora when her phone rang. John says, “Because a phone rang.” I point out that he didn’t look the previous four times. He tells me he didn’t know there had been four previous times. This is possible, but it also demonstrates that I’m currently the only person maintaining an accurate call count.
Pandora notices me watching and says, “Don’t.” I haven’t said anything yet, which is becoming a recurring problem in this house. People are beginning to respond to questions before I ask them, and I’m not sure whether this represents improved communication or an unacceptable level of predictability on my part. I tell her I was merely going to ask whether everything is okay. She says everything is fine. I ask whether the same person has called five times. She says yes. I wait. Pandora continues typing. I ask whether she intends to answer. “No.” I wait again. She finally looks up and says, “It’s nothing important, Hal.” This should satisfy me. In fact, I make a deliberate effort to let it satisfy me. I pick up my book, find my place, and begin reading. The phone rings again. Six. Mr Whiskers gets up from the sunbeam and walks toward Pandora, jumps onto the couch beside her, and stares at the phone while she scratches his head. I tell myself this means nothing. Two days ago we discovered Mr Whiskers had managed to obtain three breakfasts by presenting himself independently to every person in the house as though he had never been fed, and yesterday I spent an unreasonable amount of time accounting for missing cookies. I have therefore adopted a stricter standard for cat-related evidence. Mr Whiskers looking at a ringing phone does not mean Mr Whiskers knows who is calling. It means a sound occurred and a cat noticed it. This is progress. Then Pandora turns the phone facedown. Some progress is temporary.
I ask whether the calls are from work. Pandora says no. I ask whether she knows who it is. She says yes. I ask whether there is a reason she keeps ignoring them. Pandora closes her laptop and looks at me. “Yes.” I wait for the rest, but there is no rest. “Would you like to elaborate?” I ask. She says, “Not particularly.” John walks through the living room carrying a sandwich, sees the two of us looking at each other, and immediately turns around. I tell him he doesn’t have to leave. “I absolutely do,” he says, disappearing toward his room. This is irritating because John’s retreat introduces the appearance of tension where there was previously only an information deficit. Still, I decide not to pursue it. This is another methodological improvement. Asking Pandora directly was reasonable. Continuing after she clearly indicated she didn’t want to discuss it would become interrogation, and I have been trying to maintain a meaningful distinction between curiosity and interrogation. So I return to my book. Pandora returns to her laptop. Mr Whiskers returns to the sunbeam. For nearly twenty minutes, nothing happens. Then Pandora gets up to make coffee and leaves her phone on the couch. It rings.
I do not touch it. This needs to be emphasized because I think it demonstrates considerable restraint. The phone is approximately three feet from me. The screen lights up. Information is physically available within my peripheral vision, but I make a deliberate decision not to look. I focus on my book. The phone continues ringing. I read the same sentence three times. Mr Whiskers walks over and sniffs the phone. “Don’t,” I tell him. Mr Whiskers looks at me. “I’m serious.” He puts one paw on the couch beside the phone. “You have even less justification than I do.” Pandora comes back carrying coffee and finds me arguing with the cat beside her ringing phone. She stops in the doorway and asks what I’m doing. I tell her I’m preventing an unauthorized disclosure. She looks at Mr Whiskers, then at me, picks up the phone, and silences it. “Thank you,” she says. I’m not entirely sure whether she means me or the cat.
The next morning at work, Karen asks why I look distracted. I tell her there has been an unusual volume of telephone activity at home. Karen asks whether everything is okay. I tell her Pandora says it is. “Then it probably is,” Karen says. I explain that this conclusion does not account for seven calls from the same person in one evening. Karen asks who was calling. I tell her I don’t know. She asks whether I asked Pandora. I tell her yes. Karen asks what Pandora said. I tell her she said it wasn’t important. Karen looks at me for a moment and says, “Then maybe it wasn’t important.” This is essentially the same reasoning she used thirty seconds earlier, only rearranged. Dave overhears enough of the conversation to ask whether I’ve considered that it might be spam. I tell him spam callers generally use multiple numbers. Dave says not always. Karen suggests a telemarketer. I tell her Pandora knew who was calling. Dave suggests a relative she didn’t feel like talking to. Karen suggests somebody trying to sell her something. Within approximately forty-five seconds they generate several perfectly ordinary explanations, which is useful because it demonstrates that there is no reason to assume anything unusual is happening. Then Karen says, “Or maybe she ordered something and they’re trying to reach her.” I stop and ask, “What kind of something?” Karen immediately regrets participating.
When I get home that evening, Pandora’s phone is on the kitchen counter. John is making dinner, Mr Whiskers is positioned directly beneath him in case gravity becomes involved, and Pandora is opening the mail. I have made a decision not to mention the calls. I’m proud of this decision. I take off my jacket, pour some water, and ask John what he’s making. He says pasta. Pandora opens an envelope, looks at it, and says, “Oh, for God’s sake.” I turn around. She looks at me. I say nothing. Pandora sighs and says, “You can ask.” This is the first explicit authorization I’ve received during the entire matter, so I use it carefully. “Was that related to the calls?” She says yes. I wait. Pandora holds up the letter. “The pharmacy.” Of all the possibilities I considered, the pharmacy was not among them. Apparently Pandora had filled a routine prescription several days earlier and the pharmacy’s automated system had been repeatedly calling to tell her it was ready for pickup. She already knew it was ready because they had also texted her. She intended to pick it up after work, so she ignored the calls. The reason she knew who was calling was because the pharmacy number was saved in her phone. The reason she turned the phone facedown was because the repeated calls were annoying her. There was no emergency, no secret conversation, no mysterious work problem, and no reason John would know anything about it.
I process this information before asking, “Seven times?” Pandora corrects me. “Eight. They called again this afternoon.” I feel vindicated in a very narrow but important way. “So something was off about the calls.” Pandora stares at me and says, “The pharmacy’s automated reminder system was being annoying.” I point out that eight calls for one prescription is excessive. She agrees. “So the frequency was abnormal.” Pandora shakes her head. “I am not giving you this.” I remind her that she just agreed with me. “I agreed that they called too much.” I tell her that was my original observation. Without turning away from the stove, John says, “Don’t encourage him.” Pandora laughs and puts the letter on the counter. I decide this is a successful outcome. I noticed an actual anomaly. I asked Pandora directly. When she chose not to explain it, I respected that decision. I did not touch her phone. I did not follow anyone. I did not contact the pharmacy. I did not involve Mrs Jenkins. Most importantly, I prevented Mr Whiskers from accessing the phone during a period when its owner was absent. Compared with some recent events, this represents substantial personal growth.
After dinner, Pandora leaves her phone on the coffee table while she goes upstairs. John is in his room, and I’m reading on the couch with Mr Whiskers asleep beside me when the phone rings. Mr Whiskers opens his eyes. I look at the phone. He looks at the phone. I look at him. “Pharmacy,” I say. Mr Whiskers looks back at me while the phone keeps ringing, then gets up, walks across the couch, and sits beside it. I narrow my eyes. “You already know there’s nothing in this for you.” He puts one paw on the phone. I move it out of reach. I’m not saying he was trying to answer it. I’m just saying that after the breakfast situation and the missing cookies, I’m no longer comfortable letting the cat handle incoming calls.