I was making a cup of tea when I noticed Pandora’s favorite mug sitting in the dishwasher. Ordinarily, this would not qualify as an event. Mugs go into dishwashers. That is, as I understand it, one of the principal reasons dishwashers exist. But Pandora had been using that mug constantly lately, and I could have sworn she’d washed it yesterday. Actually, I knew she’d washed it yesterday because I’d watched her take it out of the dishwasher that morning, fill it with coffee, and carry it to the table. Now here it was again, sitting upside down on the top rack looking suspiciously clean. I stared at it for a moment longer than any reasonable person should stare at a mug. Pandora was somewhere down the hall, John Mercer was sitting at the kitchen table engrossed in his phone, and Mr Whiskers was stretched across the back of a chair, contributing nothing useful to the situation. “Does Pandora wash that mug every day?” I asked. John didn’t look up. “Probably.” “Why?” That got his attention. He slowly lowered his phone. “Because she drinks coffee out of it?” I nodded. It was the obvious answer, which was precisely what made me uncomfortable. “But every day?” John stared at me. “Hal, that’s how dishes work.”
I turned back to the dishwasher. Maybe Pandora was simply particular about cleanliness. There was nothing strange about that. She liked the kitchen tidy, the counters wiped down and the sink empty before bed. But the more I thought about the mug, the more deliberate it seemed. She didn’t just use it occasionally. She used it every morning, and sometimes in the afternoon too. It was always either in her hand, beside her laptop or sitting next to the sink waiting to be washed. I tried to remember when she’d gotten it. Had I given it to her? Had someone else? Was there some sentimental significance I’d forgotten? That possibility was troubling because forgetting the origin of your wife’s favorite mug seemed like exactly the kind of thing that might eventually appear as evidence during an argument. I took the mug out of the dishwasher and examined it. It looked like a mug. There was no inscription, secret compartment or suspicious symbol. I turned it over and inspected the bottom anyway. John watched me from the table. “What are you looking for?” he asked. “I don’t know yet.” “That’s reassuring.” I held the mug toward the light. Nothing. I tapped the side with my fingernail. It made the normal ceramic sound one expects from an object that is definitely not concealing classified information. “You realize Pandora is going to come in here and find you interrogating her coffee cup,” John said. “I’m not interrogating it.” “You’re holding it up to the light.” “That’s examination.”
Mr Whiskers jumped down from the chair and wandered over, so naturally I showed him the mug too. He sniffed the rim, decided the investigation lacked food and walked away. That eliminated one possibility. Whatever Pandora was doing, Mr Whiskers apparently wasn’t involved. Unless his complete lack of interest was deliberate, but I decided not to pursue that line of reasoning because even I could hear how it sounded. Then I noticed something else. The thermostat had been changed by two degrees. Pandora was always adjusting it, usually because John claimed the apartment was freezing while she insisted it was perfectly comfortable. Until that moment I’d considered this an ordinary domestic disagreement. Now, standing in the kitchen holding the suspicious mug, I wondered whether the temperature mattered. Maybe the mug needed to be kept at a certain temperature. That was ridiculous, obviously, but so was inspecting a mug for hidden compartments, and I’d already crossed that bridge.
I put the mug on the counter and began reviewing everything else I’d noticed recently. Pandora had been keeping the kitchen unusually clean. She’d reorganized one of the cabinets last weekend. She’d moved a stack of mail off the counter. Yesterday she’d spent several minutes looking for something in a drawer and wouldn’t tell me what it was because, according to her, “I was looking for scissors.” At the time I’d accepted that explanation. Now it seemed almost aggressively plausible. Scissors were exactly the sort of thing someone would claim to be looking for if they didn’t want you knowing what they were actually looking for. “John,” I said. “No.” I frowned. “I haven’t asked anything yet.” “I know.” “Do you think Pandora’s hiding something?” John closed his eyes. “Based on what?” I pointed at the mug. He looked at the mug, then at me, then back at the mug. “I’m going to give you an opportunity to reconsider this entire conversation.”
Before I could explain the evidence, Pandora walked into the kitchen. She stopped when she saw me standing beside her mug with John looking exhausted and Mr Whiskers sitting several feet away washing himself as though he’d requested reassignment to another family. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Nothing,” John said immediately. I looked at the mug. “I noticed you’ve been washing this a lot.” Pandora looked from me to the mug. “My mug?” “Yes.” “I use it every day.” “I know.” “So I wash it.” “Every day?” There are certain ways your wife can say your name that immediately inform you that the conversation has reached a critical stage. “Hal.” This was one of them. “I’m just saying,” I continued carefully, “you’ve been unusually particular about it.” Pandora walked over, picked up the mug and turned it around. “You mean because of this?” There was a small chip near the handle.
I stared at it while Pandora explained that a hairline crack had started spreading beside the chip. She liked the mug and didn’t want the handle snapping off while it was full of hot coffee, so she’d been checking the crack whenever she washed it. That explained the inspections. It explained why I’d occasionally seen her turning the mug around in her hands. It even explained why she’d been washing it carefully instead of leaving it sitting in the sink. “Oh,” I said. John leaned back in his chair. “Please tell her about the thermostat.” Pandora looked at me. “What about the thermostat?” “Nothing about the thermostat.” “Hal.” I considered lying, but marriage has taught me that there are moments when dishonesty only extends the inevitable. “I briefly considered the possibility that the temperature was connected to the mug.” Pandora stared at me. John began laughing. “In my defense, I didn’t know about the crack.” “You could have asked me.” “I just did.” “After examining my mug like it came out of a crime scene.” That was technically accurate, so I changed the subject. “Why do you keep the kitchen so clean?” Her expression changed from confusion to amusement. “Because three adults and a cat live here.”
From the floor, Mr Whiskers looked up at the mention of his name. “And the thermostat?” I asked. “Because John keeps changing it.” John stopped laughing. “Hold on.” Pandora pointed at him. “Seventy-two.” “Seventy is perfectly comfortable.” “Not when I’m sitting still working.” “Put on a sweater.” “Don’t touch my thermostat.” “It’s not your thermostat.” I slowly picked up my tea and backed away while the investigation solved itself without me. The mysterious temperature changes weren’t some elaborate effort by Pandora to control the household environment. They were the result of an ongoing thermostat war between my wife and John that apparently had been happening directly in front of me.
Mr Whiskers followed me into the living room. I sat on the couch, and he jumped up beside me while the argument continued in the kitchen. I looked down at him. “So she really was hiding something in plain sight.” Mr Whiskers looked up at me. “The mug was cracked.” He yawned. “And John is the one messing with the thermostat.” He put his head down. I took a sip of tea and considered the day’s discoveries. Pandora hadn’t been hiding money, manipulating the household atmosphere or protecting some mysterious secret. She had a favorite mug with a cracked handle, liked having a clean kitchen and was engaged in a low-level climate-control conflict with our roommate. In retrospect, all of this information had been available to me from the beginning. Apparently, the only thing Pandora had successfully hidden in plain sight was the obvious explanation.