I’m sitting in the living room, staring at the TV remote, when I notice that Mr Whiskers is lying unusually still beside me on the couch. He isn’t even twitching his tail, which he normally does whenever he’s watching birds outside the window. Usually he crouches there pretending the glass is the only thing preventing him from becoming one of nature’s greatest predators, but today he’s just lying there, perfectly stationary. His eyes are open, so he’s definitely awake. He just seems to be waiting for something, and once I notice it, I can’t stop noticing it. The apartment is strangely quiet too. John Mercer was in the living room earlier, but he disappeared into his room a while ago. Pandora had been reading on the couch, and her favorite book is still lying open on the coffee table, exactly where she left it when she went into the kitchen. I can hear her moving around in there occasionally, so at least I know where she is. Mrs Jenkins dropped off a couple bags of groceries earlier after accidentally buying more than she needed, and they’re still sitting beside the front door because nobody has bothered to put them away yet. None of these things is particularly strange on its own, but taken together with Mr Whiskers’ sudden refusal to move, the whole apartment feels like it’s holding its breath.
I reach over and scratch Mr Whiskers behind the ears. He acknowledges me with one slow blink but otherwise doesn’t move. That’s when I start wondering what he knows. Cats notice things. Everybody knows that. They hear things we don’t hear and smell things we don’t smell, and Mr Whiskers has demonstrated repeatedly that he pays attention to absolutely everything happening in this apartment while maintaining the appearance of someone who couldn’t care less. If he’s waiting for something, there’s probably a reason. I try to remember whether anything unusual happened this morning. John seemed normal. Pandora seemed normal. Mrs Jenkins seemed like Mrs Jenkins, which means she spent five minutes explaining why the tomatoes she bought were superior to the tomatoes we buy before leaving the groceries with us. Nothing about the morning suggested an impending crisis. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something changed while I wasn’t paying attention.
Pandora’s book bothers me next. She always leaves it open when she intends to come right back, and she has been in the kitchen considerably longer than it should take to get whatever she went in there for. Maybe she started doing something else. That would be perfectly normal. On the other hand, maybe she heard something in the kitchen and went to investigate. I listen carefully but hear only a cabinet closing. A few seconds later, water starts running. Nothing suspicious there. Unless she wants me to think there’s nothing suspicious there. I tell myself I’m getting worked up over nothing, but then Mr Whiskers lifts his head and his ears turn toward the front door. I freeze and look toward it too. Nothing happens. Mr Whiskers continues staring at the door with the concentration of a bomb technician trying to decide which wire to cut. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Nothing. Eventually he lowers his head again, but now I’m definitely interested.
Maybe he heard Mrs Jenkins outside. She lives next door, so that would make sense. Then I remember I haven’t seen her car since yesterday. That seems odd because it’s normally in her driveway whenever she’s home, although I suppose she could have gone somewhere after dropping off the groceries. Maybe Mr Jenkins picked her up. Maybe she walked somewhere. Maybe the car is being serviced. There are probably fifty reasonable explanations, but the fact remains that Mr Whiskers heard something outside immediately after I started wondering where everyone was. I get up and look through the window, but Mrs Jenkins’ driveway is empty, the sidewalk is empty, and nobody is standing near the building. I’m about to sit down when Mr Whiskers suddenly jumps off the couch and trots toward the kitchen. I follow him because at this point pretending I’m not investigating would be dishonest.
Pandora is standing at the counter making coffee when Mr Whiskers walks directly over to her and rubs against her ankle. She reaches into a cabinet, pulls out his treats, and gives him one. Suddenly his entire mysterious behavior makes considerably more sense. He wasn’t sensing an intruder or detecting strange energy. He was waiting for Pandora because Pandora has treats. That should settle the matter, but it doesn’t, because now I’m wondering how he knew she was about to give him one. Pandora catches me watching them and asks why I followed the cat into the kitchen. I tell her I came in for water. She points out that there’s already a glass of water beside me on the coffee table. I look at it, then back at her. She has me there. I get another glass anyway, because retreating without one would make the whole thing look suspicious.
I take my unnecessary water back to the living room and sit down. Mr Whiskers stays in the kitchen with Pandora, which means I’ve apparently been abandoned by both of them. John’s bedroom door is closed. Mrs Jenkins is gone. The groceries are still by the door. Pandora’s book is still open on the table. Once again, I’m alone in a room containing several things that probably mean nothing, which is when I remember something John said last night. He asked whether Pandora and I had plans this weekend. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. Roommates ask each other about schedules. It’s normal. Except he specifically asked whether we would both be gone Saturday afternoon. Why did he need to know that? Maybe he wants the apartment to himself, which is perfectly reasonable, but why Saturday afternoon specifically?
Then there’s Dave. He made a strange comment at work a few days ago about how sometimes it’s better not to know what people are planning for you. At the time we were talking about office birthdays, so I assumed that was what he meant. Now I’m wondering if the birthday conversation was simply a convenient way to introduce the concept without making me suspicious. Dave is my coworker, and he spends enough time around Karen at the office to know how quickly information moves through the place. Karen has been acting oddly too. Yesterday she asked whether I had anything special planned for the weekend, and when I said no, she gave Dave a look. It was brief, but I saw it. At the time I assumed they had some private joke going. Now John is asking whether Pandora and I will be gone Saturday, Karen wants to know whether I have weekend plans, and Dave is giving unsolicited philosophical advice about people planning things without your knowledge. That is three people independently showing interest in my weekend. Four if you count Mr Whiskers. I’m not counting Mr Whiskers yet.
Pandora comes back into the living room carrying her coffee and picks up her book. I watch her sit down and find her page before asking whether we have plans Saturday. She pauses for half a second before saying no. Half a second. I ask why she hesitated. She says she didn’t hesitate; she was trying to remember what day Saturday was. That doesn’t make any sense, but when I point this out, she tells me it makes more sense than whatever I’m currently thinking. That response seems suspiciously defensive considering I haven’t accused her of anything. I ask whether she has talked to John about Saturday. She says she talks to John every day because he lives here. Technically true, but not an answer. I ask whether she has talked to him specifically about this Saturday, and she says she doesn’t remember. Again, not a denial. I’m starting to see the outline of something here.
John emerges from his room carrying a laundry basket, so I ask him what he’s doing Saturday afternoon. He stops walking for just long enough that I notice before asking why I want to know. Interesting. I tell him I’m just asking, and he says he doesn’t know. I remind him that he asked whether Pandora and I were going to be home, and he gives me a confused look and asks if he did. Pandora looks over the top of her book at me. John looks at Pandora. Pandora looks at John. There. I saw that. It lasted maybe a second, but there was definitely a look between them. John continues toward the laundry room like nothing happened, Pandora returns to her book like nothing happened, and Mr Whiskers walks back into the living room, jumps onto the couch, circles twice, and settles beside Pandora like nothing happened. Everyone is behaving like nothing happened, which is exactly what people do after something happens.
I sit there pretending to watch television while assembling the evidence. John wants to know whether Pandora and I will be gone Saturday. Karen wants to know whether I have weekend plans. Dave has suddenly become an expert on people secretly planning things. Pandora hesitates when I mention Saturday. John and Pandora exchange a look when I question him. Mr Whiskers has been behaving strangely all morning, although admittedly the treat situation weakens that particular piece of evidence. The obvious explanation is that they’re planning a surprise for me, but that raises another problem: there is absolutely no reason to surprise me. It isn’t my birthday. It isn’t an anniversary. I haven’t accomplished anything recently that requires cake. Unless I’ve forgotten something important, which introduces an entirely different category of problems.
Maybe this isn’t a surprise celebration. Maybe it’s an intervention. That would explain everything. Karen and Dave could be coordinating the work side while John and Pandora handle the home side. Mrs Jenkins might even be involved, which would explain the groceries. Maybe those aren’t extra groceries at all. Maybe they’re supplies. I glance toward the bags by the door, and suddenly they seem considerably more significant than they did five minutes ago. The only problem is figuring out what the intervention would be about. Coffee consumption? Leaving dishes in the sink? Forgetting appointments? Spending too much time analyzing completely innocent behavior? I dismiss that last possibility immediately.
Mr Whiskers opens one eye and looks at me. I look back at him and tell him he knows something. Pandora lowers her book and asks if I just accused the cat of withholding information. I explain that I said he knows something, not that he’s withholding it. There’s a difference. Pandora stares at me for several seconds before going back to reading, but I know something is happening. Maybe I don’t have enough evidence yet, and maybe every individual clue has a perfectly reasonable explanation, but there are too many coincidences accumulating around Saturday afternoon. Karen. Dave. John. Pandora. Mrs Jenkins’ mysterious grocery bags. Even Mr Whiskers, who has somehow positioned himself in the middle of everything while maintaining plausible deniability.
I still can’t prove anything, but I know something is wrong. If everyone really is planning an intervention about me reading too much into things, they’re going to feel pretty stupid when I uncover it first.