Remy doesn’t want to study in the library because the birds annoy her. I guess there’s a tree outside with scads of birds. Some people like birds and think the sound of them is a wonderful blessing signifying that everybody is happy. I am not one of those people. Birds are flying predators. If you were tied to the ground they would eat your eyeballs. That is enough for me to not like birds. And Remy, too, understands this.
What about the solarium? Oh, you don’t know what a solarium is? Oh, silly! It’s a sunroom with lots of grandma furniture and leaf prints and foliage where whoever has the loudest taste in the family gets to choose all the prints with a kicky abandon only suitable, I guess, for the solarium. So it’s wild in here. And playful. Vibrant. It’s a happy room. But Remy is not satisfied. The room is too open. Too many distractions outside.
Third time’s the charm. Back to the great room. That’s okay. I only study in rooms big enough to play a full-court game of basketball.
By the time we’re done plopping down all our stuff and getting comfortable, it’s already noon. I am not happy about this. We are losing a lot of time walking around, fussing, deciding, and generally avoiding doing what we are supposed to be doing.
“I think I’m hungry.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Remy, no. We’re studying now. We’ll take a break after Contemporary Lit and Bio.”
“Okay, okay.”
Very unenthused.
I crack open the books, trying to demonstrate a kind of passionate responsibility. Yes, we will study! This is great!
First up: The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton.
The House of Mirth is a book about this girl Lily Bart, who should probably marry a rich guy because she comes from a good family with a good name, but that family is broke by now, and so the whole time they are putting all these rich guys in front of her so she will be safe and secure for the rest of her life. And the book kind of does a number on you because the whole time you think she’s gonna marry this guy or that guy and you are kinda hoping she does, so that everything will be settled, but you are also kind of hoping she doesn’t because all these guys are total dolts who just warble on about themselves or real estate or the best restaurants in Europe the whole time. And here’s the kicker, none of the interesting guys have any money. So the choice is marry a cool guy and be poor or marry a bloviating blowhard and be set for the rest of your life but so bored you might want to put a bullet in your head. I won’t tell you how it ends or the moral of the story. Although I have taken my own personal moral of the story and it is to never rely on some jerkface who talks about real estate the whole time.
Ms. Ingall tries to keep us on our toes by doing all sorts of different tests each time. Like, she’ll have us write impromptu essays on the book, or the characters, or the plot, which is really hard but at least seems to have something to do with the actual novel. And one time she did something really crazy, which is she had us write a poem inspired by the book. So, you see, you have no idea what you’re gonna get, so you have to be ready for any and all possibilities. And you have to read the book. You have to know the book. You have to be the book.
I can’t help but like Ms. Ingall. Not just because she’s taken a keen interest me. Not just that. She’s enthusiastic. She gets excited about the novel and gets a gleam in her eye talking about the story. Her eyes light up and she gesticulates, enthralled, talking about Lily Bart or Boo Radley or Holden Caulfield. She posts all sorts of words all around the classroom, on every blank part of the wall, in construction paper: “Synchronicity.” “Bucolic.” “Lugubrious.” “Quintessential.” “Louche.” You can tell she authentically loves the English language. She loves the language and she wants us to love the language. To love the words.
“Maybe we should take a break before Bio. You know that’s gonna be annoying.”
Can’t argue with Remy there. But we really shouldn’t. I’m trying to demonstrate some kind of responsibility here. Or at least the ability to get something done. Just one thing.
“I dunno. Let’s see if we—”
“Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
“Remy?”
“I have to pee.”
Okay, I’ll just stare out the window. There’s a lot to stare at. I noticed from upstairs there’s a pool somewhere out there. And a tennis court. And a horse stable. And a maze. Look, if you don’t have a maze at your house, I don’t know what to tell you. I think it comes in handy when you are at the end of that movie with Jack Nicholson and you need a place to lose him and escape with your life.
Looking out the window now, however, you would never know any of these features exist. Because they are tucked away, discreetly, behind the trees and the foliage and the carriage house. It’s just tacky to show everyone your maze right off the bat. Clearly.
After contemplating the grounds, I take a little constitutional around the great room. Maybe I could build a fort in the fireplace.
Remy still isn’t back, so I might as well wander back into the library. This place is like a shrine to old white males. Every wall has an oil painting, or three, of a sophisticated, snooty-looking, humorless old gent staring down his nose at you. Most of them are the color of chalk. I’m assuming this is the long line of Remy-ancestor blue bloods who are probably watching me now in ghost form from the attic.
And, of course, at the end . . . over the mantel. Look who. If it isn’t William Howard Taft himself. President William Howard Taft. And from the looks of him, it appears he might hold the record for the president who ate the most sandwiches. For he is sturdy. And he has a mustache. A blond mustache. That curves up at the ends. Not much in the way of eyebrows, though. Maybe he used his eyebrows to make his mustache.
He is definitely the sturdiest of all these ghouls glowering down from their picture frames. Maybe that’s why he got to be president. Everyone else was just too weak to make it through the campaign trail. No, William Howard Taft was definitely the only red-blooded one in the family.
Here’s something.
Remy’s still not back.
What is taking her? I mean, is she playing a joke on me? Some kind of Amagansett tomfoolery? Some kind of Waspy tradition meant to welcome me with a wink and a laugh over Pimms later?
It’s okay. I’m not freaking out. Not at all.
I’ll just look for her. I’m sure there are only a thousand rooms in the house. So I’ll be back in five hours. See you then.
Honestly, I have a feeling she went back to the bedroom to get her phone. I understand this. I, too, am tempted to get my phone and fuck off the rest of the day. But no. No, we are here to be good. I can hear the water running in her bathroom. Okay, well, hm . . . I guess the best thing to do is just sit here on the bed and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And . . . um . . . wait.
Well, now it’s been ten minutes and still the water is running.
This is getting weird.
“Remy?”
Nothing.
“Remy? Hello . . . ?”
Still nothing.
Okay, now my stomach is tying itself into a million small hard knots. I am worried. Like really worried.
“Remy? I’m coming in there, okay? Don’t get mad at me or think I’m weird. I totally don’t want to see you, like, peeing, but I’m kind of worried and I’m coming in. Okay?”
I expect that the door’s gonna be locked. Right? I mean, that’s a reasonable expectation of someone in the bathroom.
But it’s not.
It just comes right open.
It comes right open and there is Remy in the delicate Victorian bathroom, with the oval gilded mirror and the claw-foot tub, and everything is just so and exquisite and out of a fairy tale, except that the sink is overflowing and Remy is lying on the tile, unconscious.