CHAPTER 1
The Lemon Orchard
It Looked Extremely Rocky for The Mudville Nine ThatDay, The Score Was 2 to 4 With But One Inning Leftto Play.... A straggling few got up to go, leaving therethe rest, with but what hope that springs eternal, within thehuman breast.... Excerpt from Casey at the Bat-by ErnstThayer (This is not the original version of this poem ...)
Each of us has places in our lives that harbor 'shambles', a timewhen we got over the rough ground too quickly and left amuddle on our back trail. We all have a relationship, (or two!),gone wrong, or small, haunting mistakes we failed to correct ormitigate. We have future problems we might see coming, butdon't know how to prepare for, nor to avoid. We stumble alongwith these small shambles dangling from tiny chains on ourrearview mirror, or cluttering our emotional closets.
A "shambles" was historically, a place of destruction, like abattlefield or a slaughterhouse, a broken devastation. But to me,it meant an unpleasant stain, an area of mute reproach, somethingbroken, which, unrepaired, promised baleful repercussions. Ineeded to find solutions, or a way to make lemonade from thelemon trees I had grown in my life's orchard!
Sometimes, one can bundle the shambles into a closet or a filedrawer, or a grown child's empty room, and shut it away ... butusually, it sits on the fl oor like a reproachful dog, who doesn't likehis dinner, but cannot tell you what to feed him. You know youcan ignore him and eventually he will eat. But neither of you isgoing to be very happy.
On this balmy, mid-April morning, I seemed to have reacheda point where my "life orchard" was producing too many lemontrees. Where I had hoped to harvest apples and oranges, sweetand nourishing fruit from my family and my work, what I foundwas bitter and pithy. I had broken too many promises—to myselfand to others. Now at 46, not only did I have cupboards full of amessy divorce and irate children, but also file drawers full of overextendeddeadlines, annoyed boss and partners, and unhappyclients. And now, my mirror showed me another tasteless fruit,—apartial view of my aging and unfit body.
I, Jessica Charles Lennox, the woman who had been setto conquer the worlds of accountancy, wifely domesticity, andmotherhood, stood in my misty bathroom on a spring morningobserving this living, breathing shambles with startling clarity.How could I have "let myself go" like this?
After Max and Sassy were born, I had stopped ridingcompetitively, and eventually, completely. The strong, lean rider'sbody had now turned to flab, which seemed to be bulging anddrooping with self-satisfied abandon. My once glossy auburn hairwas graying and lusterless, appearing as dispirited as the rest of me.Where had it all gone? My partnership in the accounting firm washanging by a thread, the comfortable marriage was ended, andthe frenzied, exciting strategies of raising a pair of super teenagershad been dashed by their flight to uncle and grandmother.
It was too easy to blame the fl ailing economy,—or thepernicious Caroline, a petite redhead, who had insinuated herselfinto Eric's midlife crisis, offering the promise of a second youth.Too easy to blame my preoccupation with lawyers, loud argumentswith Eric, and the rigors of tax season for the abrupt departuresof Max to his uncle's farm on the Eastern Shore and Sassy to herpaternal grandmother in New York. Both of whom were nowrefusing to return home from their visits at Christmas vacation.
Yesterday, Eric had called to tell me that he and Caroline hadreturned from their "honeymoon" and he would be available "ifneeded". I hadn't even known he had married the sneaky littlebitch!
I could just see him sitting there, lounging back in his favorite,beat-up old office chair, his long, skinny legs stretched out toprop his LL Bean boots on the desk. The yard, full of tractors andother heavy equipment, would be visible through the windowover his shoulder, while he was telling me things I didn't wantto hear. I was sure that errant hank of hair was falling acrosshis forehead, and that goofy, happy-go-lucky smile crinkled hisslightly weather-beaten face,—which I felt like punching!
"Have you told the children yet?" I had asked him. "Or amI going to have to break it to them that they have a stepmother?"
"Well, they DID know that I intended to marry her." he hadmuttered into the phone.
"Oh, great!" I had retorted, not really surprised at hisoversight, "But did they know you were going to do so right thisminute? I'm not sure the ink on the divorce decree is dry yet!""Okay, okay! Calm down," he had remonstrated. "I'll callthem both today and tell them."
"It would have been so much better if you had given themsome warning!" I had replied tartly. "It's going to be a heck ofa shock to them this way!—And please try to convince themthat Caroline's permanent presence in your life is not going todetract from your love for them! Or your interest in them." Ihad finished, lamely. No wonder our children didn't want tobe here! How could I convince Max and Sassy that this housewas no longer a battlefield, when I was still seething with barelycontained anger, which alternated with a miasma of hopelessrejection and despair? With the briefest of goodbyes, I had stuckthe receiver into the cradle and returned to my worksheets.
Now, brushing my hair rather vehemently before my stillfoggy bathroom mirror, I regretted that I had not at least wishedhim well, or congratulated him, or something more elegant andsophisticated.... ("Mom, you're just not kewl," Max wouldhave said!)
And now today, Harry Bower, our senior partner, was callinga meeting to discuss the firm's future, he said. I was almost positiveit was to discuss my removal as a partner, if not to fire me fromthe firm. My performance through most of tax season had beenhurried and inefficient. If the other three partners decided to getrid of me, I could hardly blame them. These shambles were allmy fault, for not being able to cope, to resolve peacefully, to "get'er done"! Somehow, I must grasp my shortcomings and dealwith them!
I paused before the mirror, with my hair-brush mid-stroke,and wondered just how I would deal with the disorder, and whereI should start.... The mirror wasn't talking, but the phone rang.
I let the answering machine on the downstairs hall table takeit. I could hear my mother's voice, muted but cheerful, asking ifshe could stop by the office to get a copy of her tax returns forthe last three years. No hurry, she said, she wouldn't be comingdowntown till tomorrow.
She must be going to take out another mortgage, I thought,but what in the world for? Had my stepfather's medical problemsresurfaced? My mind shied away from the idea like a nervoushorse.
If I stood here much longer, I would be late for the office. Iforced some order to the mess of my graying locks and fl ed intothe bedroom to finish donning my armor for the day. All elsecould wait until I heard the reason for Harry's meeting, whichhe had announced just before closing yesterday. Today promisedto be confrontational and unpleasant.
It was, but not exactly in the way I had expected.
At the end of the day, behind the beautiful freeform slab ofmahogany I treasured as my desk, I sat in dejected silence, tooworn down to face the rush hour. I'll just stay here, I decided, fora couple of hours, and sort those clients I would keep (if I could),and those I must abandon. Harry Bower, Rosemary...
