Steven Millhauser - The King in the Tree

I asked him about you once. Only once. I asked him if you were married. I don’t know why, but it seemed the one thing I had to know. He was shocked. His “No!” was almost violent. He looked at me — a sad, raging man. A man misunderstood. “I’d never break up a marriage.” That’s what he said to me. Proud pose: shoulders back, defiant look.

But what about my marriage, Robert?

Here’s another secret. You won’t tell, will you? Come closer: I have to lower my voice so no one will hear. I know that you’ve slept in this bed. With my husband, of course. Don’t you pull away from me. We’re having a nice little pillow talk — just the two of us. Of course it must be unpleasant for you to know that I know. I understand that. I mean, that I’ve known all along. It must be upsetting. Even embarrassing, for some people. But once you start sharing secrets. . I admit it changed my idea of you. I hadn’t thought you would be so. . what is the word I want? Bold? Cruel? I’ll even tell you how I found out. Robert told me! Wasn’t that sweet of him? Of course he had no choice. He knew I was on to something. That was in December, just after Christmas, when I went to visit my mother for a few days. At the time I’d begun to think that maybe we could somehow survive, Robert and I, the way a ruin survives. You can preserve a ruin, you know. It’s artful, expensive work. And I thought: I’ll stay in the house, and he’ll stay in the house, and together we’ll be a ruined monument, with ivy on the walls. People can come and admire us. We can charge admission. Of course you were still at the other end of town, pulling down shades, crossing and uncrossing those legs of yours. When I came home from my mother’s I went up to my room to lie down. Robert had never moved back from the study. I saw right away that the bed had been made up wrong. Robert has absolutely no sense of such things. He was a domestic idiot, in some ways. I screamed; we had it out. He confessed. How many times can you confess to someone before you start wanting them dead? Or before you start wanting to be dead yourself? I remember one thing he said. He said he didn’t think I loved him anymore. I believe he meant it, poor man, but it was also very clever. Because I broke your heart, dear, and because you’re a cold-hearted bitch who won’t forgive me one little bit for breaking your heart, I have the God-given right to screw somebody else in our bed. Like it or lump it, baby.

They say murderers always return to the scene of the crime. And look: here you are! Now all we need is a judge — and an executioner. Come on, sister! I’m almost done showing the house.

Look: my old cradle.

Sometimes I think everything in my life is up here. If I could just find it, if I could just put it in order, then I could reconstruct my entire life, day by day, minute by minute. . Bookcases. Over there too. One of them used to be in the living room. . years ago. People talk about finishing their attics, but how can you finish an attic? Things keep accumulating. That’s the whole point of attics. They’re never finished. That’s why houses are different from ancient civilizations — the oldest layer is always on top. We did have it insulated, about five years ago. It was supposed to save on heating bills, but I don’t think it saved all that much. I don’t remember. That’s what you get for trying to be practical. You would never call us worldly people, Robert and me. It was one of the good things about us. Intermittently worldly, at best. Half in, half out. Of the world, I mean. Every summer I mount an exhaust fan in that window. It gets blazing up here in the summer. You wouldn’t believe how hot it gets. My old dollhouse. My red parasol. I used to stand by a window with the sun coming in and watch my forearm turn brilliant red under my parasol. Robert’s eighth-grade science project: optical illusions. You know: is that a vase, or is it two profiles? Hoarders, both of us. You see that beam? Scene of my suicide. Did I mention that I committed suicide up here? Well. I came up here with a rope. It was after Robert’s accident — a few days after the phone call. I kept trying to talk to him. That’s one thing about the dead: they don’t talk to you. They listen, but they don’t talk back. It can make you angry. I found the rope in the cellar and brought it up here. I had some confused idea, from the movies. . I didn’t even know how to make a slipknot. So you might say I didn’t kill myself, after all. Still, when you come up to your attic carrying a rope, when you try to swing it over a beam, when you have every intention, then can’t it be said that actually. . in a real sense. . despite appearances. . And here I stand before you, a living dead woman, come back to tell the tale. A creepy place, really. You can hear things moving around in the dark. Wings. Weensy little feet. Children are right. Stay out of the attic. It’s like walking around in the head of a madwoman.

Personally I’ve always preferred cellars. Careful, this rail’s a little wobbly. There’s something about going down to a place, don’t you think? Watch your head. Robert used to clonk himself all the time. It’s a lot like falling, really — you can feel a sort of tug, and you hang on just to keep from tumbling head over heels. And another thing is knowing you’re headed under the ground, like a. . like a rodent. Of course, cellars can be creepy too. In my parents’ house there were these big barrels under the stairs, full of who knew what. Rats. Bats. Dead men’s bones. That’s what I used to say, on the way down. Rats, bats, dead men’s bones. Rats, bats, dead men’s bones. Even here, things can surprise you. Once I reached into that pile of wood over there and a mouse ran over my hand. Do you know what it feels like, having a mouse run over your hand? It feels like you’re being nibbled by lots of tiny mouths. That would be a good punishment, don’t you think? Tie a person up and let mice run over them. Look: bookcases. Five, no less. Robert would sometimes talk about building a room down here to hold all the books in the house — a cellar library. He might as well have talked about building a subway station in the back yard. That’s practically a new furnace. The old one broke down two years ago. It’s got one of those automatic whatsits— you know, to regulate the water level. Copper water pipes. Washer/dryer hookup. Heck, we’ve got it all. Sink. Old bicycle. Dead refrigerator. Look at this clothesline, will you? It must be forty years old. Over here’s where I murdered you. Oh yes: many times. Attics for suicide, cellars for murder. It makes sense. A quick blow to the head with a shovel or hammer. Cellars are full of hiding places, you know. Your head’s in that trunk, eyes wide open. Your legs are in that metal cabinet, leaning up like oars. You stay right here. I’m not done with you. Don’t play Little Miss Innocent with me. Haven’t you ever murdered anyone? We all do it, you know. Lure them into cellars, hack off their limbs, stab those evil people until tears of joy pour down my face. See that cabinet? Your head again, hanging on a hook. Lovely she was, even in death. I buried you here, under the floor. Under that ratty rug. And don’t look in the woodpile. This place is nothing but a graveyard, and all the corpses are you. Look! Over there. Over there. And there. But you know, a time comes when it doesn’t really work anymore. . the shovel too heavy. . the ax handle broken. . the voices quiet. . the cellar empty. Do you know what I think? I think you lack imagination. I’ve always thought that about you. You don’t murder people, you don’t think about things. Did you ever imagine me? Did you? The irritating little wife left at home? Of course it was all a secret. You didn’t want to hurt anyone. Above all, Robert, I don’t want to hurt anyone. That’s why Robert never told you he told me. He knew that at the first sign of trouble you’d head for the hills. The arrangement must have struck you as perfect. A perfect adultery: no pain. Safe for everyone. The golden-girl special.