The Law Of Diminishing Returns

The Law of Diminishing returns

Published by Violet Augusta at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Violet Augusta

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Chapter One

God, it was a beautiful day. The sun was streaming through the car window, washing over Meg's skin, filling every pore with memories of so many good things that had happened in her life. She was thoroughly enjoying the experience. In fact, Meg was so overwhelmed with the nostalgia of childhood summers spent barefoot in the sun that she nearly ran through the light that had changed from yellow to red. Fortunately, twenty-three years of driving had programmed a sort of automotive muscle memory into her system so that she no longer needed all aspects of her brain to function while she drove, not while she was alone in the car anyway. The way she drove when she was by herself was her secret holdout from the recklessness of youth, a time when fear was reserved for such mundane matters as wearing the right thing or dating the right boy.

When the children were with her, it was a different story. Like most parents, she imagined that she held the future of three individuals with the potential to change the world in her hands. With the menu of news and reality programming available twenty-four/seven/three-sixty-five, one could not help but ingest at least a few of the heart-wrenching stories of mothers or fathers responsible for their own children's accidental deaths. Just to reinforce the point, the minister at church on Sunday had talked about a ten and one half month old child who had drowned in his own bathtub. At first Meg had wondered at the way he had chosen to describe the age of the baby. Why ten and one half months and not simply ten months or less than a year? But after further consideration, she realized how incredibly valuable each day of that baby's life became when it ended. To the family involved, ten and one half months was probably too general a reference to the time they’d had to spend with their child. Three hundred and fifteen days, four hours and thirty-five minutes might be a more appropriate measure for their hearts and minds.

Meg had spent the rest of the service trying to get her mind around what must have been the parent's overwhelming guilt, because someone – certainly not the child- must have been to blame. Everyone would pay emotionally, but when it came right down to it, one of the parents would have to bear the burden of this life-changing, life-ending event. Knowing that her husband would never forgive her were they ever to be in the same situation, she vowed never to be that person if she could help it. The critical component of that vow, however, was, if she could help it. What if she couldn't? What if the blessings and good fortune that had befallen her since the day she was born ran dry? What if good karma was not an eternal spring, but a bucket from which she had ladled her last sip? Meg thought about these things a lot. At the moment, however, she refocused, waving apologetically at the driver in front of her for whom she had left very little room to turn.

In a few minutes, she pulled into the carpool line in her usual position, not too early so the kids would have a few minutes to socialize, and not too late so they could make the drive across town in time for Jenny's riding lesson. Putting the car in park, she took out a granola bar for Sam and cheese and crackers for Jenny, as well as juice boxes for both before picking up remnants of yesterday’s activities, Sam's soccer cleats, wrappers from their snacks, and even a very nasty looking Sippy cup her two-year old, Emma, had wedged between the seats. With a quick toss, she relocated them to the back of the Suburban. The congealed clots inside Emma’s cup convinced her that this one was heading directly for the trashcan when they got home… the second one she’d had to get rid of this week.

Meg had often watched other parents doing the same thing, organizing for optimum capacity and cleaning to avoid the smelly, sticky mess that otherwise ensued. How did other families get by without the benefit of a large, gas-guzzling beast of a car to serve as suitcase and dining hall in addition to transportation she wondered? Betsy McGill caught her eye. She was taking drinks out of a small cooler that was plugged into the cigarette lighter in her van. Meg made a mental note to look into buying one too so that her children's drinks would be icy cold rather than the tepid temperature they achieved after her thirty minute drive from home to school.

When the final bell sounded, children began to trickle and then stream out of the lower school doors. The Jameswell Country Day School was comprised of three distinct schools to accommodate students at all stages, from pre-kindergartners to high school seniors. There were also ample facilities for sports, arts, technology and specialized academics. If someone could dream up a new need for the school, there was a parent ready and willing to donate their financial resources for the small, yet seemingly invaluable reward of having their name emblazoned on the structure for all to see and appreciate.

Meg waited in the Jones Memorial Lower School Foyer for her two oldest children. Jenny was the first to arrive with her throng of friends and followers. A six-year-old with unsurpassed charm and charisma, she broke into a wide grin when she saw her mother, brushing past a second grader trying to compliment her on some thing or another, running directly to where her mother stood. Jenny threw her arms around Meg who eagerly hugged back, proudly taking her daughter's hand as they weaved through the crowd to locate Sam.

Together they found him hunkered down against the hallway wall with two boys discussing chess strategy over an almost empty board. Jenny greeted her brother brightly, but Sam, who was advising one of his friends, clearly to the chagrin of the other, ignored her, complaining instead to his mother, Why did you have to come so early Mom? After some cajoling, Meg dragged Sam off and the three of them made it back to the vehicle just as the carpool police were about to start reprimanding the parents who took too long to gather up their children. While waiting for the first line of cars to pull out, Meg could see in the rearview mirror Sam's brow furrow as other student's waved madly and shouted their greetings to Jenny as they passed. Even the teachers seemed genuinely sad to see the girl go for the day.

Meg tried to remember how many compliments she had received regarding her oldest daughter in the past week alone. There were the usual feedback mechanisms - the parent-teacher conference, the piano lesson, the riding lesson, the dance lesson, all of which elicited the same comments: excellent, unbelievable, fantastic. Then there were the compliments from other parents - Her eyes are amazing, She’s a natural born leader, Is she always this good? Even random strangers seemed compelled to let Meg know how beautiful and special her daughter was, as if they could sense the brightness that burned inside her. They were right, of course. Jenny was special, excelling at everything she attempted, bright, athletic, coordinated, with a unique ability to communicate with both children and adults. One of Meg's favorite voyeuristic pleasures was to watch Jenny converse with an adult, to see the amazement that inevitably found its way to their face as it dawned on them that they were, indeed, speaking with a child.

Sam was a treasure in his own right, but noticeably different from Jenny in most ways other than looks. She was bright, but Sam was quite possibly brilliant. Young relative to his peers, he surpassed the other students in his third grade class in almost every subject. And although he was well liked, he seemed to have more of his mother's social sensitivities, able to interact perfectly well with a group of boys, but preferring the comfort and camaraderie of a select few. Girls were still out of the question, of course, particularly his sister, Jenny. The only females with whom Sam chose to have anything to do with were his little sister Emma, and his mother… sometimes. Meg missed the days when Sam would light up at the sight of her. These days, he was stingy with his public displays of affection, allowing his mother to shower him with hugs and kisses only in the sanctity of his room as she tucked him in for the night. She clung to the last vestiges of motherhood ritual, when Sam allowed Meg to sit on the bed, stroke his hair, and sing to her son before he drifted off to sleep.

After a twenty-minute drive across town, Meg turned right onto the long gravel road that led to the Princeton Riding Academy. She wasn't exactly sure why they had enrolled Jenny in the first place, but at his point, they were well entrenched in the riding lifestyle. As soon as Meg turned off the engine, Jenny cast off her clothes, changed into her riding britches, and pulled on her boots by stamping on the floor and pressing her feet against her brother's seat as she struggled to get them on, eliciting the all-too-familiar response of, Jenny! Stop kicking my seat! Shrugging, she slid carelessly across him in order to throw open the door, and run to the barn.

Bye, Jenny, Meg called as the girl disappeared with a single backward glance. Have a good time and remember to keep your heels down!

Sam used to take lessons at the academy as well until he decided, after only five sessions, that he'd learned all there was to learn, a theme that would repeat itself throughout his childhood, from guitar lessons to computer programming class. Meg was not a tiger mom. If her children did not enjoy the activity, that was the end of it, it was all about exposure, not longevity or perfection. She knew from experience that the drive for perfection comes from within.

Sam and Meg followed Jenny into the stable after gathering up the things they had brought to entertain themselves during the one-hour lesson. For Sam, it was a backpack stuffed with homework and books, and for Meg her mobile phone and some cross-stitching. While Sam threw himself down on a bench in the viewing area and carefully extracted his homework, Meg greeted the other, mothers in the room including Ann Miller who was there with three of her six children. Even after almost a year of this routine Meg couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt as she pulled out her cross-stitching and quietly worked while Ann spent the hour chasing after and tending to the needs of her children. It was the same at all of the children's activities; inevitably someone would strike up a conversation with Meg and learn that she in fact had three children. The inquirer would look surprised and ask where, then, was the missing child to which Meg always explained that Emma was at home with her nanny having her afternoon nap, which seemed reasonable enough. It was also, of course, easier for her not to have to chase Emma away from the horses or keep her from scooping up the manure-filled sawdust as if it were sand. In most cases, the follow up question was, Oh, what do you do? for what mother would have a nanny unless she worked? Truth was, Meg didn’t really need a nanny at the moment; it was just a service, like many other things in her life, to which she had become accustomed As for what she did, Meg would explain her current role as a second career law student as minimally as she could, most times leaving out any description of the subject or degree title, just as she would often refer to her nanny as a babysitter to make it sound less pretentious.

This afternoon, Meg and Ann discussed the upcoming horse show and details of their roles in providing refreshments for the event. Juice and paper products were the easy way out, but Meg usually took them unless she was feeling particularly domestic. It was a benefit of signing up early. The last parent to sign up usually got stuck with the most labor-intensive item, like fruit salad perhaps. Sam interrupted their conversation to ask to borrow his mother's phone to play an electronic game. Meg agreed with some hesitation as she thought of all of the electronic products that Sam owned and never used simply because they were out of sight and consequently out of mind. The upside was that it gave her the opportunity to check Sam’s homework briefly while he concentrated on the game. She had learned not to correct or point out any errors herself since Sam preferred to have his mistakes identified by his teacher, not his mother, but she was still responsible for acknowledging whether or not he had completed his assignment, all of which seemed reasonable to Meg. She disagreed with the mothers who had their children erase and re-do their homework, because, Meg felt, it interfered with their ability to learn from their mistakes. Besides, Sam did not really make mistakes.

With the hour drawing to a close, Meg gathered up her belongings and went to the barn door to collect Jenny, acknowledging the compliments from Jenny's coach about her fantastic performance during the lesson with a gentle smile as she took her child's hand and walked towards the car. Sam followed, backpack in one hand, cell phone in the other. Meg had only five hours left in the day to prepare for her big trip tomorrow and there was still much to be done.

The drive home was used to review Sam and Jenny’s to-do list for the evening including homework and chores, neither of which took much time for either child since most of the chores were assigned to the nanny, Chloe, who had been with the Stanley family since shortly after Jenny was born. Meg had learned to value the many outstanding contributions the girl had made in their lives while humoring some of the other less notable attempts. Besides, she did not want her children to be spoiled...that would never do.

Once they arrived home, Jenny threw her riding boots and related paraphernalia in a pile in the mudroom, nearly tripping Sam who was trying to read and walk at the same time.

I thought I heard the troops, Chloe said brightly, helping Meg with the armload she had carried from the car. Emma’s still napping, although I expect that the commotion those two are making will wake her up.

Kids, go downstairs if you want to watch television while Emma is sleeping, Meg said, knowing that Chloe was right.

But Mom, Emma’s not sleeping! countered Sam, and sure enough, looking up, Meg saw Emma groggily sitting on the carpet at the upper staircase landing, blanket in hand.

Meg emptied her arms on the kitchen table and hopped up the stairs two at a time to greet her baby.

Hello, Emma! she cried. Did you have a nice sleep? Mommy thought about you all afternoon. Give me a big hug.

As Emma leaned into her mother’s outstretched arms, Meg drank in the warmth of the little girl’s skin as she squeezed her daughter tightly and looked down the stairs to see Sam and Jenny sinking in to the sofa to unwind after finally agreeing on a show to watch. Other than her impending and dreaded law school final exams, life was good.

Chapter Two

Ten thousand miles away in the West African nation of Cote d'Ivoire, or Ivory Coast as it is known to the non-French speaking world, the day was not quite so beautiful, the rainy season having come early. The torrential downpours typically arrived in May like an uninvited guest, staying through October when the sun finally pushed them away for its chance to bake and scorch the earth once again. It was only April.

Vatusia awoke this morning to the sound of rain, again. Lying on her mat, eyes still closed, she visualized the path of each droplet as it hit the roof, pooling at one of the gaps created in the metal by time and the elements, waiting its turn to squeeze through and plummet to the puddle in her hut below. She had already done her best to mend the failing roof with materials she’d found during the dry months, but her financial and physical resources did not provide for purchasing and installing the corrugated metal that would keep her and her boy dry.

Opening her eyes, she sat up to see for herself, pondering several options that might remedy the situation until she could find a more permanent solution. It had long been her way to identify a problem and then find a way to fix it. Without a husband or extended family, she had never relied on anyone but herself. Although there were many things Vatusia was not able to do, when it came to her son, she usually managed to find a way because she had to. Anjani was special, and today he would be sixteen years old, more than a man by local standards.

Vatusia rose quickly, motivated by the many tasks she had yet to accomplish before the celebration she had planned for Anjani's birthday this evening, hastily undressing and wiping herself with a cloth to remove the layer of moisture and sweat that blanketed her body each night. Staying dry was a constant battle for most people here, but for Vatusia the situation was compounded by her porous roof and the dense foliage surrounding her hut. Most people chose to live in the village, where much of the jungle had been cleared, but Vatusia was willing to trade the additional humidity and inconvenience of her location for the privacy it afforded. At her home she felt secluded, which in turn, allowed her to feel safe.

Vatusia selected her orange dress, the color enhancing her smooth brown skin and reflecting in her deep brown eyes, knowing that she would need to change into another one of her six dresses when she returned from her errands. There had never been a rainy day when she had not returned home at least partially covered in mud, a situation that she accepted as just another part of her routine. Many women in her area wore pants and skirts in addition to the more traditional tunic dress, but Vatusia preferred dresses.

Vatusia’s hairstyle also differentiated her from most women in her village who kept their hair short. In contrast, she had let hers grow long, twisting it up into a bun when she worked at home alone, but always letting it down to fall loosely over the scars on her face when others were around. Even her son had never really seen his mother with her hair up and out of her face. Her grooming habits, among other things, had led the people in her village to speculate and whisper behind her back, but if it kept them away from her that was fine with Vatusia, finding the silver lining in most any cloud. She was not what one might consider a cheery optimist, but in her heart Vatusia believed that things would always work out… eventually.

That morning the wet weather allowed Vatusia to collect fresh rainwater for her breakfast rather than having to make a trip to the well. Crushing some cocoa beans with a pestle, and adding water, she stirred the mixture to make her morning cocoa. Coffee, being the dominant crop, was another option, but she had never liked it cold and, although most villagers had electricity as part of a recent local public works program, her hut was too remote to benefit from those services. Now, combining rice and banana to make a thick cereal, Vatusia ate her meal alone, enjoying the peace of the morning, the usual cacophony of bird calls and coos having been quieted by the rain. When she was finished, she washed out her bowl and cup with soap and a straw sponge, wiped them dry and returned them to the single shelf that ran the length of the left interior hut wall. Clean up was always immediate as anything left dirty or moist could invite disaster into one’s home in the form of local pests, particularly the West African ants, which loved to dine upon any remaining morsel of food, rotting wood, or even mold particles.

With only a single room to attend to, it did not take Vatusia long to finish her morning chores, which she completed by wrapping a new shirt she had woven especially for Anjani in a piece of colorful fabric she had saved for the occasion. After securing it with a length of twine, she gathered her satchel containing food and water and set out on the northern trail, bound for the Christian missionary school near Korhogo where she would meet her son.

The path was well worn, undulating over the hilly terrain. Most times Vatusia could see only the rain forest around her, but recent harvesting of the forest provided several spots where, as she reached the peak, she could look out over the land. If her soul had allowed her to bear a grudge, she would have hated the forest, but it did not. There had been several times in her life, during the deepest moments of despair, when she let her mind wander past the farthest point in the tree line, an area where she had never been. She had heard of the big cities and modern amenities that lay beyond, but wasn’t sure if the images those descriptions conjured were real or imagined.

Like many locals, the Christian missionary complex, more commonly called the Baptist Center, had been Vatusia's first exposure to any lifestyle outside of her village. The history of the area was vague, as little about the Cote d’Ivoire had been written or passed down orally. Only later in life had she learned of the significant role foreigners played in her country’s history for many centuries, including the fact that the first documented accounts of the Ivory Coast had been made by outsiders in 1637 when France made its initial