I was sitting on the couch watching television with John Mercer when I noticed Mrs Jenkins standing outside our living room window. Under normal circumstances, seeing our neighbor walking past the house wouldn’t have attracted much attention, particularly since she frequently stopped to admire the flowers near our front walkway or exchange a few words with Pandora. Today, however, she wasn’t admiring the flowers. She was staring directly through the window with an expression that suggested she’d witnessed something deeply troubling. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened slightly, and she leaned forward as though trying to get a better look. Then, just as suddenly, she straightened up and hurried away. I sat there holding the television remote, wondering what on earth she could have seen that warranted such an extraordinary reaction.
John, who had been sprawled across the other end of the couch, appeared completely unconcerned. He was watching a program about people restoring old houses, occasionally offering opinions about electrical wiring despite having absolutely no intention of renovating anything himself. Pandora was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and the smell of something delicious was drifting into the living room. Mr Whiskers had claimed my lap approximately twenty minutes earlier and was now lying on his back with his white paws curled against his chest, purring as though he’d personally negotiated a favorable peace treaty. Everything seemed perfectly normal, which made Mrs Jenkins’ reaction even more difficult to explain. I looked around the room, searching for anything that might appear suspicious from outside, but all I could see was an ordinary living room containing two men, a cat, and a television. Admittedly, one of the men was wearing mismatched socks, but I doubted Mrs Jenkins considered that a matter requiring immediate attention.
“Did you see that?” I asked John, keeping my voice low in case Mrs Jenkins was still somewhere nearby. He glanced toward the window and asked what he was supposed to have seen. I explained that Mrs Jenkins had been staring into the house with an expression of unmistakable alarm before disappearing down the walkway. John considered this information for approximately three seconds before returning his attention to the television. “Maybe she saw something interesting,” he suggested. I pointed out that this was precisely what concerned me, since I couldn’t identify anything remotely interesting enough to justify her reaction. He shrugged and said that perhaps she was looking at the cat. I looked down at Mr Whiskers, who was now stretching one hind leg toward the ceiling with a complete disregard for personal dignity. While I acknowledged that the cat was capable of attracting attention, I didn’t believe his current position warranted the sort of expression I’d just witnessed.
I should explain that I had recently promised Pandora I would stop turning ordinary household events into elaborate investigations. This promise had followed several incidents involving a missing toy mouse, an abandoned coffee mug, and a perfectly innocent afternoon during which Pandora had been reading a mystery novel on her phone. Each situation had initially appeared suspicious to me, and each had eventually been explained by something so ordinary that I was beginning to suspect the universe had developed a personal interest in making me look ridiculous. I was determined not to repeat those mistakes. Unfortunately, Mrs Jenkins’ expression had been unusually specific, and I felt that ignoring it entirely might constitute negligence. There was a considerable difference between inventing a conspiracy and responsibly considering why a friendly neighbor had looked through your window as though she’d discovered a body. At least, that was how I justified continuing to stare at the place where she’d been standing.
Pandora emerged from the kitchen carrying a wooden spoon and asked whether either of us wanted to taste the sauce she’d been making. John immediately volunteered, which I considered a suspiciously enthusiastic response from someone who had been pretending not to hear my concerns. Pandora handed him the spoon, waited for his approval, and then turned toward me. I asked whether she’d noticed Mrs Jenkins outside a few minutes earlier. She said she hadn’t and wanted to know why. I explained that our neighbor had appeared unusually interested in the living room and might have seen something that concerned her. Pandora looked around the room, taking in the television, the coffee table, and Mr Whiskers, who had rolled onto his side and was now attempting to wash his stomach. “Maybe she was looking at him,” she said. I informed her that John had suggested the same thing, although I remained unconvinced. Pandora smiled, told me not to start another investigation, and returned to the kitchen before I could explain that I was merely conducting a preliminary assessment.
For the next several minutes, I tried to concentrate on the television, but my attention kept drifting toward the window. I began mentally reconstructing the scene from Mrs Jenkins’ perspective. She would have approached from the sidewalk, passed the flower bed, and looked through the glass at approximately the same angle from which I could now see our reflection. Depending on the sunlight, she might have been able to see the entire living room or only certain parts of it. I wondered whether the television had displayed something alarming at precisely the wrong moment. Perhaps she’d mistaken an actor on the screen for someone actually standing in our house, or maybe she’d seen John waving his arms while criticizing the wiring in the renovation program. I briefly considered going outside to examine the view from the walkway, but John noticed me shifting toward the edge of the couch and asked where I was going. When I told him I was thinking about checking the window, he pointed out that the window had been there for years and was unlikely to have changed significantly in the past ten minutes.
That was when Mr Whiskers decided to complicate matters. He suddenly sat upright on my lap, stared toward the kitchen, and produced a low, questioning meow. I followed his gaze and noticed Pandora moving something from the counter to the stove. Mr Whiskers stood, stretched, and jumped down, apparently deciding that whatever was happening in the kitchen deserved his immediate attention. I watched him trot away with his tail held high and wondered whether Mrs Jenkins might have been reacting to something involving the cat. She was particularly fond of Mr Whiskers and had been known to bring him salmon treats, a practice that had done nothing to discourage his already impressive sense of entitlement. Perhaps she’d noticed him behaving strangely and wanted to make sure he was all right. Then again, she’d looked alarmed rather than concerned, and I couldn’t remember Mr Whiskers doing anything more unusual than exposing his stomach to the television. I was beginning to run out of plausible explanations, which is usually the point at which my imagination becomes dangerous.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. John looked at me, and I looked at John, because we both knew who I was hoping to find on the other side of the door. I got up with what I hoped was an appropriately casual expression and opened it to discover Mrs Jenkins standing on the porch, holding a small paper bag. She greeted me cheerfully, although I noticed that her eyes immediately moved past my shoulder toward the living room. This confirmed that her earlier interest hadn’t been imaginary. I asked whether everything was all right, and she assured me that it was. Then she leaned slightly closer and lowered her voice. “Hal, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what on earth was going on in your living room earlier?” I felt an immediate surge of vindication. Whatever John and Pandora might have believed, Mrs Jenkins had clearly witnessed something that required an explanation.
I invited her inside, partly because it seemed polite and partly because I wanted to understand exactly what she’d seen. She stepped into the entryway, glanced toward the couch, and began laughing before she’d even finished her sentence. Apparently, she’d been walking past when she noticed what looked like an enormous orange creature lying upside down across my lap. From her angle, Mr Whiskers’ head had been hidden behind my arm, leaving only his fluffy stomach, four white paws, and a tail sticking out at an unfortunate angle. At first, she’d thought I was holding some kind of oversized stuffed animal. Then one of the paws had moved, and she’d briefly wondered whether I’d brought home an injured animal or was attempting to restrain something that didn’t want to be restrained. The more she described what she’d seen, the more difficult it became to maintain my serious expression. Mrs Jenkins finally admitted that she’d come over because she couldn’t stop wondering what she’d been looking at.
John had been listening from the couch, and by this point he was laughing so hard that he had to put down his coffee. Pandora appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and asked what was so funny. Mrs Jenkins repeated her explanation, complete with a demonstration of the mysterious creature’s dangling paws, and Pandora immediately began laughing too. I attempted to point out that Mr Whiskers had been perfectly comfortable the entire time and that there had been no reason to suspect anything unusual. Unfortunately, this only made John laugh harder. He reminded me that I’d spent the better part of half an hour trying to determine what Mrs Jenkins had witnessed, while the answer had been sitting directly on my lap. I felt this was an unfair simplification of events, since the cat had been lying upside down and therefore wasn’t technically sitting on anything. Nobody seemed interested in discussing that distinction.
As if summoned by the sound of his own reputation being discussed, Mr Whiskers emerged from the kitchen and walked directly toward Mrs Jenkins. He stopped at her feet, looked up at the paper bag in her hand, and gave a small, hopeful meow. She immediately smiled and explained that she’d brought him a few salmon treats because she hadn’t seen him in several days. This struck me as an interesting development. Mrs Jenkins had supposedly come over because she was concerned about what she’d seen through the window, yet she’d arrived carrying treats specifically intended for the cat. I considered whether this suggested she’d already suspected his involvement before approaching the house. Perhaps her concern had been genuine, but perhaps Mr Whiskers had somehow managed to turn an innocent misunderstanding into another opportunity for food. I looked at him carefully. He was now rubbing against Mrs Jenkins’ ankles with the enthusiasm of someone greeting a wealthy relative whose will had recently been revised in his favor.
Pandora took the treats and thanked Mrs Jenkins, promising to give Mr Whiskers one after dinner. The cat appeared deeply dissatisfied with this arrangement and followed the bag toward the kitchen, apparently hoping to negotiate an earlier distribution. Mrs Jenkins stayed for a few minutes to chat, and the conversation eventually turned to the little neighborhood pet calendar she’d been putting together. Pandora mentioned that she’d sent over the photograph of Mr Whiskers the previous afternoon, and Mrs Jenkins said she thought it was wonderful. In fact, she was considering using it on the cover because he looked so dignified. I glanced toward the kitchen, where the proposed cover model was currently attempting to open a cupboard by pushing his face against the door. I suggested that perhaps Mrs Jenkins should see him in person before making any final decisions about his professional suitability. She laughed and said that his personality was part of his charm.
After Mrs Jenkins left, I returned to the couch feeling both relieved and mildly embarrassed. The mystery had been resolved without anyone being arrested, interrogated, or accused of operating a secret organization from our living room. Mrs Jenkins hadn’t witnessed anything incriminating. She’d simply seen our cat in a ridiculous position and become curious enough to ask about it. John, however, seemed unwilling to let the matter rest. He asked whether I planned to prepare a written report explaining the incident, complete with diagrams showing the angle of the window and the position of Mr Whiskers’ paws. I told him that such documentation would be unnecessary because the facts were now clear. He nodded thoughtfully and suggested that I might at least want to interview the cat, since he was the only participant who hadn’t provided a statement. I considered responding, but Pandora was standing in the doorway with an expression that suggested I would be wise to let the joke pass.
Dinner was ready a short time later, and we gathered around the table while Mr Whiskers settled into his usual position nearby, hoping someone would accidentally drop something edible. Pandora had made pasta with a rich tomato sauce, which explained the wonderful smell that had been drifting through the house all afternoon. John complimented the meal, and I made a conscious effort to participate in an ordinary conversation without introducing theories about the neighbors. We talked about the television program, Mrs Jenkins’ calendar, and whether Mr Whiskers’ photograph would look better on the cover or somewhere inside. Pandora thought the cover would be adorable. John suggested that the cat might become impossible to live with if he achieved even a modest level of local celebrity. I pointed out that Mr Whiskers already behaved as though he owned the house, so I doubted a calendar would significantly alter his personality. The cat responded by sitting beside my chair and staring at my plate with an expression of absolute authority.
Later that evening, I found myself standing by the living room window, looking out toward Mrs Jenkins’ house. I wasn’t investigating anything, of course. I was simply appreciating the quiet neighborhood and reflecting on how easily ordinary situations could be misunderstood. From outside, a cat lying upside down on someone’s lap could apparently resemble a mysterious creature in need of assistance. From inside, a concerned neighbor looking through the window could appear to be witnessing evidence of some terrible wrongdoing. The entire incident had been a misunderstanding caused by two people making assumptions about something they couldn’t see clearly. I found that strangely reassuring, particularly because I’d managed to resolve the situation without involving Karen, Dave, or anyone else who had absolutely nothing to do with it. Perhaps I really was getting better at keeping my imagination under control.
Then I noticed Mrs Jenkins standing at her own window, looking in our direction. She raised one hand and waved, and I waved back. A moment later, Mr Whiskers jumped onto the windowsill beside me and pressed his nose against the glass. Mrs Jenkins laughed, pointed toward him, and made a little waving motion with her fingers. Mr Whiskers responded by turning around and presenting her with an unobstructed view of his backside. I closed my eyes for a moment, silently reconsidering whether this animal deserved to appear on the cover of anything. Behind me, John asked whether the cat was conducting another neighborhood surveillance operation. I told him that I was choosing not to investigate. He congratulated me on my personal growth, although I detected a certain amount of sarcasm in his voice. Mr Whiskers flicked his tail, jumped down from the windowsill, and headed toward the kitchen in search of another treat. I watched him go and decided that perhaps the most incriminating thing Mrs Jenkins had witnessed all day was just how thoroughly that cat had trained the rest of us.