I’m staring at the kitchen counter, trying to focus on the fact that John Mercer left his mug there again. This should not be important. People leave mugs on counters every day without triggering investigations. I understand that intellectually. Still, something about the mug bothers me, and it isn’t merely that John apparently believes dirty dishes eventually migrate to the sink on their own. It’s the whole kitchen. Pandora is standing near the refrigerator, quietly looking through something on her phone, and she has barely said anything for the last several minutes. We talked about dinner earlier and she seemed perfectly normal then, but now she’s giving me the distinct impression that she’s avoiding me. Or giving me space. Or waiting for me to leave. Those are three very different possibilities, which is exactly the problem.
Mr Whiskers is sitting several feet away, watching both of us. That doesn’t help. There is something uniquely unsettling about being silently observed by an orange cat when you’re already suspicious of everyone else in the room. He isn’t grooming himself. He isn’t sleeping. He isn’t asking for food. He’s just sitting there with his paws together, staring at Pandora, then at me, then back at Pandora. I know cats do this. I also know Mr Whiskers, and there’s a difference between his normal staring and whatever this is. His normal stare says, I would like some of what you’re eating. This stare says, I have information.
My mind drifts back to something that happened at work. Karen called me over to her desk earlier and asked whether everything was okay at home. It was probably an innocent question. In fact, I’m almost certain it was an innocent question. She’s my coworker, we talk, and apparently I’ve been distracted enough lately for other people to notice. I told Pandora about it when I got home, and she laughed before asking what I’d told Karen. At the time, I thought nothing of it. Now, standing in the kitchen with John’s abandoned mug and Mr Whiskers conducting surveillance from the floor, I’m reconsidering the entire exchange.
Why did Pandora want to know what I told Karen?
I look at Mr Whiskers.
He looks at Pandora.
Pandora looks into the refrigerator.
Interesting.
Maybe John’s mug isn’t evidence of anything. Maybe Pandora isn’t acting strangely. Maybe Karen was simply making conversation. Any reasonable person could look at these facts and conclude that absolutely nothing unusual is happening. Unfortunately, I am currently the only person here willing to investigate the alternative.
Pandora finally closes the refrigerator and asks whether I want chicken or pasta for dinner. I tell her either is fine, because I don’t want her to know that I’m observing her. She says, “Okay,” and goes back to her phone. Mr Whiskers immediately gets up and follows her into the living room.
There it is.
I knew it.
I follow them, although I make a point of doing it casually. This turns out to be surprisingly difficult because there is no natural way to casually follow your girlfriend and your cat while pretending you aren’t following either of them. Pandora sits on the couch. Mr Whiskers jumps up beside her. She scratches him behind the ears. He begins purring.
That should settle the matter. Cat likes woman. Woman pets cat. Case closed.
Except Pandora has been paying considerably more attention to Mr Whiskers lately. I’ve noticed it before but never connected it to anything. She gives him treats when she thinks I’m not looking. She lets him sit beside her while she works. Yesterday I saw her carrying him toward the bedroom while whispering something to him.
At least, I think she was whispering. She might have been saying, “Who’s a handsome boy?”
But that’s exactly what you’d say if you didn’t want anyone to know you were discussing something important.
I sit in the chair across from them and pretend to check my phone. Mr Whiskers looks at me.
Then he looks at Pandora.
Then he slowly closes his eyes.
I nearly drop the phone.
Was that a signal?
No. Obviously not. Cats blink. There are scientific explanations for this. I’m pretty sure slow blinking is supposed to mean affection or trust. But trust between whom? Me and Mr Whiskers? Pandora and Mr Whiskers? Mr Whiskers and whatever organization he now represents?
Pandora catches me staring at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring at the cat.”
“I’m looking in his general direction.”
“You’ve been looking in his general direction for five minutes.”
That’s the sort of highly specific observation someone makes when they’re keeping track of your behavior.
I decide not to mention that.
Instead, I start thinking about John. He has been behaving normally, which suddenly seems suspicious in itself. John has a remarkable ability to appear precisely when I’m in the middle of figuring something out, say something completely ordinary, and derail my entire train of thought. Yesterday I was trying to remember whether Pandora had gone somewhere after work when John walked into the room and asked if anybody wanted pizza. Five minutes later, I was comparing toppings instead of reconstructing Pandora’s movements.
Coincidence?
Probably.
Effective?
Absolutely.
And now there’s the mug.
I glance toward the kitchen.
Still there.
It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps I’ve been looking at this backward. Maybe John isn’t coordinating anything. Maybe Pandora isn’t hiding anything. Maybe Mr Whiskers is the common denominator.
The idea sounds ridiculous for approximately three seconds.
Then it begins making an alarming amount of sense.
Mr Whiskers is present for nearly everything. When Pandora is on her phone, he’s nearby. When John comes into the room, Mr Whiskers watches him. When I’m trying to have a serious conversation, Mr Whiskers inevitably jumps onto something, knocks something over, demands food, or inserts himself directly into the situation. He has unrestricted access to the apartment. Nobody questions where he goes. Nobody asks what he’s doing. He can sit underneath a table during an entire conversation and everyone considers that normal.
It is, frankly, the perfect arrangement.
I look at him again.
He’s asleep.
Convenient.
Pandora notices me staring. “Hal.”
“What?”
“Leave the cat alone.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re squinting at him.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She goes back to her phone, and I lean deeper into the chair. That comment was probably a joke. Pandora makes jokes. We joke with each other all the time. There is absolutely no reason to interpret it as evidence that she knows I’m getting close to something.
Mr Whiskers opens one eye.
I freeze.
He closes it again.
Okay.
Now I’m convinced.
The next morning at work, Karen asks whether I ever figured out why I’d been so distracted the day before. I consider telling her about Mr Whiskers but decide against it. If Karen is innocent, she’ll think I’ve lost my mind. If Karen is involved, telling her would compromise the investigation. Either way, silence seems strategically sound.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Perfectly.”
Karen stares at me for a moment. “You have that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one where you think you’ve figured something out.”
That stops me.
“How do you know that look?”
She laughs and walks away.
I remain at my desk.
Well.
That’s interesting.
By the time I get home, I’ve constructed a working theory. I’m not saying Mr Whiskers is deliberately involved in anything. That would be absurd. He’s a cat. He lacks the organizational skills necessary for a conspiracy. He once got trapped behind the shower curtain for twenty minutes.
But I’m no longer convinced he’s irrelevant.
I open the apartment door and find Pandora on the couch reading. John is in the kitchen. Everything looks completely ordinary.
Then I notice Mr Whiskers.
He’s sitting beside John’s mug.
The same mug.
John apparently still hasn’t washed it.
Mr Whiskers places one paw against the handle and looks directly at me.
I stop in the doorway.
Pandora glances up from her book. “What now?”
I point at the counter.
She looks at Mr Whiskers, then at the mug, then back at me.
“Hal, he’s a cat.”
“That’s exactly what everyone keeps assuming.”
Pandora stares at me for several seconds before lowering her book and laughing.
Mr Whiskers knocks the mug onto the floor.
John shouts from the kitchen.
Pandora laughs harder.
I say nothing.
Because everybody else sees a cat knocking over a mug.
I see destruction of evidence.