among the last resorts anywhere to serve canned peas. It closed in 1958, and didn't reopen as a private psychiatric institution until 1965, when Rosie was living in the Midwest.
Wisely, the directors decided to leave the place as much as possible as they found it, beyond sprucing it up, replacing kitchens and bathrooms, and fitting in staff quarters and offices and infirmary. The Maxfield Parrish prints disappeared into the directors’ offices or houses, and a moose head was removed from over the fieldstone fireplace, being thought perhaps unsettling; but the wicker furniture and the pine dining tables, the cool smell of the long wood-clad halls, the lace curtains, all remain. The Woods as a psychiatric center was to have the same tranquilizing properties it had as a resort, and the principles it is run on are communal in some of the same ways, not excepting group sings around the fire and even hayrides. As stronger tranquilizers were developed over the next decade, The Woods began to decline again; even the profoundly troubled who cannot live in the world can stay at home now and still float on quiet seas far away. The people who come to The Woods these days are for the most part not in desperate trouble, though their unhappiness may lead them to think so; they are people who, as the staff say to local people, “need a rest"; and The Woods is as restful as it always was, though quite a lot more expensive to stay in.
Rosie parked her panting wagon, which shuddered and heaved for some time after the ignition was switched off (it didn't like these mountain climbs), and apologized profoundly to the dogs. “Just a little while, guys,” she promised, and got out, only to return for Mike's Saran-wrapped lunch, which lay on the front seat. It was soggy with the heat, and, Rosie thought, probably more inedible even than before. Who cares, who cares. Mike had recently decided to change his diet, adopting a new and fairly severe one consisting mostly of whole grains in certain combinations; Rosie cooked the required cakes and compotes but refused to eat them. Beige food.
The Woods is divided into two wings by a broad portal running through its center, through which the porches and lawns on the back side can be seen; from certain angles this portal makes the whole place seem two-dimensional or fake, a cutout front merely, or a standing screen, as though you could fold up its angled length and put it away. Rosie's clogs echoed on the flags of this passage; she avoided the eyes of one or two aimless people who loitered there before the notice board—you could be hours here if you caught the wrong person's attention—and went into the east wing through big old screen doors that clacked behind her satisfyingly. She liked this place, basically. Too bad. She asked for Dr. Mucho at the desk, noticing by its clock that she was only minutes late.
"There it is,” she said when he came. She gave him the food. “I've got something to tell you."
The woman at the desk looked up slyly, interested. Mike, cake in hand, glanced at her and at Rosie. He nodded thoughtfully, entertaining the idea. Then he said, “Okay. Let's go to Woodpecker."
The various suites, rooms, crafts shops, and lounges at The Woods have the names of local birds. On the doors are polished wooden plaques in the shape of Kingfisher, Woodpecker, Robin. Woodpecker is the staff lounge, almost deserted at lunchtime except for one or two other dieters. Mike sat at a table and picked at the wrapping of his lunch, stuck to the bolus within. Rosie, feeling the underarms of her shirt growing stained as a workman's, crossed her arms before her, watching.
"So,” she said. “The last lunch."
"Rosie,” Mike said, not looking up, “don't be cryptic."
He should never have grown that mustache, Rosie thought. Its drooping ends only emphasized the pout of his mouth and the chub of his cheeks. She began to pace in a small circle, two steps, turn, two steps. “I'm going to Boney's
Wisely, the directors decided to leave the place as much as possible as they found it, beyond sprucing it up, replacing kitchens and bathrooms, and fitting in staff quarters and offices and infirmary. The Maxfield Parrish prints disappeared into the directors’ offices or houses, and a moose head was removed from over the fieldstone fireplace, being thought perhaps unsettling; but the wicker furniture and the pine dining tables, the cool smell of the long wood-clad halls, the lace curtains, all remain. The Woods as a psychiatric center was to have the same tranquilizing properties it had as a resort, and the principles it is run on are communal in some of the same ways, not excepting group sings around the fire and even hayrides. As stronger tranquilizers were developed over the next decade, The Woods began to decline again; even the profoundly troubled who cannot live in the world can stay at home now and still float on quiet seas far away. The people who come to The Woods these days are for the most part not in desperate trouble, though their unhappiness may lead them to think so; they are people who, as the staff say to local people, “need a rest"; and The Woods is as restful as it always was, though quite a lot more expensive to stay in.
Rosie parked her panting wagon, which shuddered and heaved for some time after the ignition was switched off (it didn't like these mountain climbs), and apologized profoundly to the dogs. “Just a little while, guys,” she promised, and got out, only to return for Mike's Saran-wrapped lunch, which lay on the front seat. It was soggy with the heat, and, Rosie thought, probably more inedible even than before. Who cares, who cares. Mike had recently decided to change his diet, adopting a new and fairly severe one consisting mostly of whole grains in certain combinations; Rosie cooked the required cakes and compotes but refused to eat them. Beige food.
The Woods is divided into two wings by a broad portal running through its center, through which the porches and lawns on the back side can be seen; from certain angles this portal makes the whole place seem two-dimensional or fake, a cutout front merely, or a standing screen, as though you could fold up its angled length and put it away. Rosie's clogs echoed on the flags of this passage; she avoided the eyes of one or two aimless people who loitered there before the notice board—you could be hours here if you caught the wrong person's attention—and went into the east wing through big old screen doors that clacked behind her satisfyingly. She liked this place, basically. Too bad. She asked for Dr. Mucho at the desk, noticing by its clock that she was only minutes late.
"There it is,” she said when he came. She gave him the food. “I've got something to tell you."
The woman at the desk looked up slyly, interested. Mike, cake in hand, glanced at her and at Rosie. He nodded thoughtfully, entertaining the idea. Then he said, “Okay. Let's go to Woodpecker."
The various suites, rooms, crafts shops, and lounges at The Woods have the names of local birds. On the doors are polished wooden plaques in the shape of Kingfisher, Woodpecker, Robin. Woodpecker is the staff lounge, almost deserted at lunchtime except for one or two other dieters. Mike sat at a table and picked at the wrapping of his lunch, stuck to the bolus within. Rosie, feeling the underarms of her shirt growing stained as a workman's, crossed her arms before her, watching.
"So,” she said. “The last lunch."
"Rosie,” Mike said, not looking up, “don't be cryptic."
He should never have grown that mustache, Rosie thought. Its drooping ends only emphasized the pout of his mouth and the chub of his cheeks. She began to pace in a small circle, two steps, turn, two steps. “I'm going to Boney's
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