I’m making breakfast when I notice the toast is thicker than usual. Not dramatically thicker. Nobody else would walk into the kitchen, look at these two slices of toast, and immediately conclude that something had changed. But I make toast often enough to know what our toast looks like, and this is not it. The slices sitting on my plate are noticeably thicker, maybe by a quarter of an inch, and because of that they’ve browned differently around the edges while remaining softer in the middle. I pick one up and turn it sideways. Definitely thicker. Pandora is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and checking something on her phone, while Mr Whiskers is underneath her chair waiting for gravity to become involved in breakfast. Everything else appears normal. That’s what bothers me.
I ask Pandora if she bought different bread. She looks at the toast, then at me, and says she doesn’t know. That is not the answer I was expecting. There are really only two reasonable answers to a question about whether someone purchased different bread: yes or no. “I don’t know” creates an entirely unnecessary third category. I ask how she could not know whether she bought bread, and she explains that she picked up groceries yesterday but doesn’t remember which loaf she grabbed. Apparently she was in a hurry. I look at the toast again. Pandora asks why this matters. I tell her I haven’t established that it matters yet. At this stage I’m simply documenting a change.
Mr Whiskers comes out from under the table and sits beside me. He looks at the toast. I look at him. After the incident with the potato under the couch, I’ve learned not to dismiss his proximity to unexplained household events. Pandora sees me looking at him and tells me the cat did not change the bread. I tell her I never said he did. She points out that I’m looking at him the way I look at things when I think they’ve done something. I explain that Mr Whiskers has a documented history of interfering with food, although admittedly bread procurement would require a level of logistical capability he has not yet demonstrated. Pandora takes another sip of coffee and decides not to continue the conversation.
The problem is that I can’t find the bread bag. I check the counter where we normally keep it. Nothing. I check the pantry. Nothing. I look on top of the refrigerator even though neither of us has ever stored bread there. Still nothing. This means the toast on my plate came from a loaf that is currently unaccounted for. Pandora tells me the bag is probably in the trash because the loaf might have been nearly empty. That’s plausible, but it also means I can no longer examine the packaging to establish whether this is our normal bread. I don’t accuse her of destroying evidence because I’ve learned that phrase tends to derail otherwise productive conversations.
There’s a knock at the door while I’m checking the trash. John Mercer is standing outside holding a travel mug and looking entirely too cheerful for someone arriving while I’m trying to resolve a bread discrepancy. He stopped by to pick up the economics book he forgot yesterday, which is reasonable, although his timing immediately interests me. I let him in and ask whether he knows anything about the bread. John stops halfway through the doorway and asks what bread. I point toward my plate. He looks at the toast for several seconds, then looks back at me and says, “It looks like toast.” That is exactly the sort of answer someone gives when they haven’t been paying attention.
I explain that the slices are thicker than usual. John examines one from a respectful distance and says, “Okay.” I wait for more. There is no more. I ask whether he brought bread over recently, and he says no. I ask whether he ate breakfast here yesterday. He says no. I ask whether he has ever purchased bread for this household. He says, “Hal, I don’t live here.” Technically, that eliminates several possibilities at once, so I accept the clarification. Pandora asks John whether he wants coffee. He says yes, and within thirty seconds the two of them are talking about something else while I remain the only person interested in the fact that an unidentified loaf of bread entered our home and disappeared without documentation.
Then Mrs Jenkins appears outside the kitchen window.
She’s in her yard watering flowers, which would ordinarily have nothing to do with breakfast, but I remember Pandora mentioning yesterday that Mrs Jenkins had gone shopping around the same time she did. This gives me another possibility. Mrs Jenkins sometimes picks up something for us if she’s already at the store, and Pandora does the same for her. Maybe Mrs Jenkins bought the bread. That would explain why Pandora couldn’t remember choosing it. It might also explain why the loaf is different. Mrs Jenkins has very strong opinions about groceries. She once spent fifteen minutes explaining why the tomatoes I buy lack character.
I open the window and ask Mrs Jenkins whether she bought us bread yesterday. She stops watering the flowers and looks at me. “Bread?” she asks. I tell her yes. She says no. Then she asks if we need bread. I tell her apparently not because I’m currently eating some. This creates a pause. Mrs Jenkins looks toward Pandora through the window. Pandora shakes her head very slightly. I see it. Mrs Jenkins sees me see it. She immediately goes back to watering her flowers.
Now we have a look.
I close the window and turn toward Pandora. She asks me not to start. I tell her I haven’t started anything; I merely observed an exchange between her and Mrs Jenkins immediately after asking about the unexplained bread. John takes his coffee into the living room, which I interpret as an unwillingness to become involved. Mr Whiskers follows him. That bothers me too. Yesterday I discovered the cat had been responsible for the smell under the couch. The day before that I determined he had been pretending to sleep while listening to conversations. Now, at the precise moment I begin asking questions about the bread, he leaves the room with John Mercer.
I’m not saying those things are connected.
I’m saying the timing deserves acknowledgment.
Pandora finally gets up, opens the refrigerator, and begins looking around inside. I ask what she’s doing. She tells me she’s trying to solve the Great Bread Mystery before I start interviewing neighbors. After moving a carton of eggs and a container of leftovers, she reaches into the back and pulls out a plastic bag.
There’s the bread.
I immediately notice two things. First, it is not our usual bread. Second, there are only three slices left.
Pandora looks at the label and starts laughing.
Apparently, she bought Texas toast.
Not intentionally. She was rushing through the grocery store yesterday, grabbed a loaf without looking closely, came home, made herself a sandwich, realized the slices were much thicker than usual, and put the bread in the refrigerator because the loaf was too large for the usual spot on the counter. She had completely forgotten about it by this morning. The missing slices were not evidence of unauthorized breakfast activity. Pandora had eaten them. The unidentified bread had not been supplied by John Mercer, Mrs Jenkins, Karen, Dave, or any other participant in a larger operation. Nobody had made a deal with anybody.
Pandora holds up the bag and asks whether the case is closed.
I tell her almost.
There is still the matter of the look between her and Mrs Jenkins.
Pandora explains that Mrs Jenkins shook her head because yesterday, while they were both unloading groceries outside, Pandora had discovered she bought the wrong bread and said, specifically, “Hal is going to notice this.”
I stare at her.
That bothers me considerably more than the bread.
“You knew?”
Pandora smiles. “Of course I knew.”
“You knew I would notice the thickness?”
“I knew you’d notice something.”
From the living room, John starts laughing.
I don’t appreciate that.
Mr Whiskers comes back into the kitchen, sits beside my chair, and looks expectantly at the remaining toast. I tear off a tiny corner and hold it above him before reconsidering. If I give it to him now, I’m introducing another participant into an already compromised evidentiary chain. Pandora takes the piece from my fingers and gives it to him herself.
Mr Whiskers eats it immediately.
Then he looks at Pandora.
Pandora looks at him.
I look at both of them.
She tells me not to do it.
I tell her I’m not doing anything.
I’m just observing.
The bread has been explained. The missing loaf has been located. John Mercer had nothing to do with it. Mrs Jenkins had nothing to do with it. There was no secret arrangement, no hidden financial problem, and no reason whatsoever to involve Karen or Dave. From a strictly factual standpoint, the entire situation has been resolved.
But Pandora knew I would notice.
And apparently Mrs Jenkins knew what she meant when she said it.
I’m going to need some time with that.