I am beginning to realize the full import of things. Of all the desires that will never be met. I want to have Shirley now, and entirely. I want to know the things that she thought yet never said, and every urge that once occurred to her. I want to hear the story that she wrote alone in the sands of low tide while we were on our honeymoon and I slept late after a night of much exertion. I want to know of all the times when she watched me sleep and thought how easy it would be to smother me if she were evil. I realize that she will never be here to tell me of these things and that she will never be here for me to forgive her for what I have come to suspect she did.
The Two-Story House is so called because it is meant to tell two stories, and also because it is built of two floors. Shirley explained the premises to me often as we ate our breakfasts, though I have never explored them thoroughly.
I press the door to a close behind me and walk across the living room. The silence of the house is outlined by my boots upon the wooden floor. I have seen the interior before, but I have never paid close attention to its details. All objects with which the house is furnished are overlaid with words—sentences printed neatly upon them in inks of various color. There are four varieties in totaclass="underline" yellow, blue, green, and red. I do not know what significance is carried in the color of a given sentence, but yellow is by far the most prevalent.
For example, in the dining room, there is a small table with two chairs. Upon one chair is written such things as “(Yellow) She sat down across from him,” “(Green) She shifted uncomfortably in her seat,” “(Red) She pushed her chair from the table.” On the other, “(Yellow) He sat down,” “(Green) He curled his legs beneath his seat,” “(Yellow) He picked up his plate and got up from his chair.” The table itself reads, “(Yellow) Dinner tonight consisted of salmon, asparagus, and fried mushrooms,” “(Yellow) He helped himself to another piece of fish; he hadn’t even asked for the first but had rather just assumed that it was his by right,” “(Red) She crumpled up her napkin and threw it down on the table,” “(Blue) Her fork dropped from her hand,” “(Green) He slid the cup of asparagus sauce across the table’s surface,” “(Blue) He set his glass directly down, forgetting the coaster beside his plate,” “(Red) He swirled his asparagus tip violently around the bottom of the sauce-cup.” The handwriting is small and neat.
Shirley originally planned to include yet greater detail, to fill the house with such props as the plates and serving platters and other utensils with which her characters had supposedly eaten. In the interest of frugality, I convinced her that an uncluttered home would evoke a greater sense of mystery.
I move from the dining room back to the living room and sit down upon the couch; pieces of the stories are stitched into the fabric that covers the cushions. Rising dust tickles my nose, but I cannot sneeze. By focusing on each sentence, I am able to ignore that which brings me to read them. “(Blue) He dug beneath the cushions for the remote but came up empty.” “(Green) He sat down next to her and laid his head in her arms.” I quickly see that no action of any relevance to me is described here, and neither is there any word of any fish on whose bone I might choke. So I rise and walk to the kitchen.
The two stories of the house are built one on top of the other, each involving the same two characters who are never named, taking place on consecutive days. The first story, chronologically, is—I believe—a mundane tale of domestic life that culminates in a moment of psychological revelation. The second is some sort of murder mystery in which even the identity of the victim is unclear. These facts I know from reading Shirley’s journals, as well as from vague recollections of her breakfast babble. The interrelatedness of the two stories makes it difficult to discern where one ends and the other begins. Indeed—other than its name—the house contains hardly any clue that the stories are separate at all.
For instance, written upon the kitchen countertop, I see “(Blue) She sponged up the blood.” Taken alone, this would seem to be a piece of the mystery, the hiding of evidence. Other sentences in its vicinity, however, suggest that the blood is merely from the woman’s thumb, which she accidentally cut while slicing mushrooms for dinner. Further complicating matters, no indication is given of which story this mushroom dinner takes place in; it is possible, even, that the couple ate mushrooms on both nights. I am confident that such little ambiguities would remain even were I to read every sentence in the house.
But I am not here to merely enjoy the stories of my wife. I have indicated already why I am here, and I must hold true to my aim. Yet even in the kitchen, where the fish was cooked and prepared, that which I search for is not to be found.
I realize that I am tired, but I cannot rest. Perhaps I should drink more coffee. Or tea. I decide to explore the upper floor.
With a turn of the rusty candelabrum, a wooden panel beside the fireplace slid soundlessly open, revealing the foot of a spiral staircase within that wound upward into darkness. Could I risk stepping inside, not knowing if I’d be ever be able to get out again should the door somehow slide shut behind me? I could and would, but not without a light. Plucking a halfmelted candle from the mantelpiece, I ran to the kitchen to rummage for a match.
Jon Ymirson was already there.
“Oh, hello,” he said.
“Mr. Ymirson, how are you?”
“I am looking for something… Have you seen my belt?”[34]
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Why don’t you go lie in bed, though? I’ll look around and bring it to you when I find it.”
“Hmph. But it is imperative that I find it immediately. Or something else with which to—I cannot go out like this in such weather.” At least he was lucid enough to realize that flannel long johns wouldn’t keep him warm in the snow.
“But I don’t think you should be going out at all,” I told him. “It’s quite cold. Besides, you’ve had a long day, and you need to get some rest.”
“That is impossible. I cannot rest until I have found him.”
“Well, your daughter is out looking for him as we speak, and despite what she may think of herself, she’s actually quite a capable woman; you’ve no need to worry.”
“How is that? But my daughter should not be involved in this at all! I must find her as well, then.”
At precisely this point, the doorbell rang.
“Just one moment, Mr. Ymirson. Let me go get that, and I’ll be right back to discuss this with you.”
“But there is no need for further discussion,” he murmured sadly to himself as I wandered from the room.
I didn’t recognize the old man on the door’s other side, but he introduced himself as Dr. Lorenz, a colleague of Our Heroine’s, and he inquired whether she was home.
“No, she’s not in right now,” I told him. He just stood there in the snow, wiping his red bulbous nose with a flowery handkerchief, hugging himself to stop his shivering. He looked a bit pathetic, really, and in my kindheartedness I couldn’t help but invite him in. “She should be back shortly. So I suppose you could come in and wait,” I said.
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” he replied, stepping spryly into the mudroom. “And I think I’ll take you up on it.” He knelt down to remove his shoes.
“Are you acquainted with her father?” I asked.
“I know of him, of course, though we’ve never met. Is he here?”
“Yes… Shall I introduce you to him, then?”
“Oh, please do.”
So I led him bobbling into the kitchen to meet Jon Ymirson, still standing there, rubbing his hands and biting his lower lip.