“What do you think I’m going to do, jump out a window or something?” she snapped at him one time, when she’d left the table in the middle of dinner and drifted down to the high ledge above their wide stone patio.
Maybe he did think that.
But here was a surprising thing about Regina. As tuned-out and depressed as she appeared to be most of the time—as many pills as she appeared to ingest—she ran a tight ship at Wonderland. The children’s schedules—tennis lessons, sailing lessons, golf clinic, swim class, playdates—were set out on the breakfast table, with stars in blue marker for Hayward, pink for Jilly—along with a menu for Prudence, laying out what foods she should prepare for them every day of the week but Sunday, her day off. Alongside this, she had laid out instructions for Forrest—shopping lists, meetings of the country club board, the Library Foundation, her massage appointments and visits to her various doctors. He drove her to those. Every day’s list featured reminders to drop off and pick up dry cleaning and prescriptions. Those, especially.
Regina didn’t just scribble her lists down on a notepad, like other people. She typed them. She did this on a beautiful red Italian typewriter that sat on her desk in a corner of the kitchen. An identical typewriter sat in her bedroom, evidently. I hadn’t laid eyes on that one yet. But from the first morning of my time at Wonderland, the typewritten instructions began to appear. Regina communicated with everyone in the family this way, including the children.
Reminder to Family: Drink plenty of water.AndHayward: Two Reese’s Pieces, maximum.Even for Jilly, who was only just learning to read, the wordFloss.
The list Regina provided for me every day was the most detailed. Along with the time of every one of that day’s commitments, she’d include suggestions for what clothes Jilly should wear and instructions concerning how many minutes Hayward was allowed to play video games—a number she calculated based on his behavior the day before. Along with this she offered running commentary.
Playdate for Jilly at the home of her friend Laura. Laura’s a tattletale, and her mother babies her. Name: Annette.
Hayward hasn’t been taking his daily shower lately. Bad smell!!
She included suggestions for me as well, even on Day One:I notice your hair is looking a little greasy. I left out a brand of shampoo that may help you with this problem. Also, if you stop at the Caboose after tennis, remember french fries are high in calories. Look out for Coca-Cola. Check out the diet sodas.
Every day I read through my list before stuffing it in my pocket. I consulted it throughout the day to make sure I didn’t forget anything. The next morning, a new list would await me on the breakfast table. I never understood when Regina got around to writing them, but she must have done this late in the night, because the list was always waiting next to the box of Honey Nut Cheerios when I got up. (Calorie count for the Cheerios also provided.)
Regina used carbon paper when she typed her lists. One copy for herself. One for Prudence. One for Forrest. One for me. Every morning Forrest and I read our lists, side by side. It felt like one more thing we shared. Sometimes, reading them over together at the start of the day, I’d hear him chuckle.
“Be sure Jilly’s vitamins are sugar-free,” Forrest read out loud from his list. “Also, Hayward needs new shoelaces.”
“My wife is an amazing woman,” he said. “She thinks of everything, doesn’t she?”
10
How to Get Thin
It was a few days into my time at Wonderland. The children were off at the club for a golf clinic. I was down by the water. I’d fallen asleep with my book. I woke up to find Forrest standing over me with his shirt off. Tanned and handsome as always, bare chested, in his shorts.
“You looked so peaceful and happy there I almost didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “But it’s a perfect day for a ride on the lake.”
I’d ridden on his boat before, on summer visits with my parents, but this was the first time it was just Forrest and me.
“What we have here is a classic,” he explained, stroking the wheel of the Chris-Craft as we headed out onto the open water. “There’s plenty of faster boats around, and just about every one of them is easier to maintain. This one here is wood, not fiberglass. But for my money, what we have here is the sweetest ride on the lake.”
I had no basis for comparison, never having ridden in any other boat, but I agreed, naturally.
“The thing about a Chris-Craft is the lines,” he told me. “The motor’s inside the body, not stuck on top like every other boat. That’s why it’s so quiet. In a boat like this, you could come up alongside the shore, and the birds wouldn’t even take off.
“Then there’s the upholstery . . .”
The way he stroked the leather, it was almost as if he were touching a woman. I knew little about how a man touched a woman—I’d just seen a few movies and TV shows—but I’d cooked up scenarios in my head.
Forrest was right about the day. There was something about the way the sun hit the water that afternoon. A heron circled over our heads. A girl on a Sunfish drifted by. As much fun as it looked, I wouldn’t have traded places with her.
“My kids are spoiled,” Forrest told me. “This little baby’s a prime example. You know what a Chris-Craft like this one goes for, if you can even find one for sale?”
I knew Forrest wasn’t expecting me to guess. All I had to do was listen.
“But Hayward thinks a Chris-Craft’s not fast enough. Just the other day he started in on me that we didn’t have a Glastron GT-150.”
I figured that must be a boat. An even more expensive one.
We were motoring past a stretch of houses along the eastern shore of the lake, most of which, like the Emersons’, had been in the same family since the early 1900s. Each one situated to take full advantage of the sunset.
“When I was my son’s age, I was picking cans and pop bottles out of the trash to redeem them for pennies,” he said. “If I held back some of the money instead of giving it all to my father, there’d be a belt on my backside. Even if I gave him my whole take, I’d probably still get the belt. My dad never needed a reason for hitting me.”
