Portion of the Sea

by Christine Lemmon

  My life took a busy turn, and I set all personal writing in my journal aside for many years. People always told me God never gives a woman more than she can handle, but three sons had me questioning everything anyone said. It could have been worse—He could have given me three daughters.

  The baby-making assembly line within me produced sons as quickly as Henry Ford cranked out automobiles, and, then, after churning out the third, it shut down for a reason unbeknownst to me. And just as it was with the automobiles, it was love at first sight with each of my sons, arriving at the rate of one every twenty-one months.

  Where did the years go? I don’t know. But now that the boys are six, eight, and ten, I can only look back and smile, for raising them were the best years of my life.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” I said as my youngest skipped into my bedroom like a gust of wind, handed me a red carnation, and blew me a kiss, and then skipped out as quickly as he had come in. It was the second Sunday in May, and President Woodrow Wilson had signed a proclamation designating it as Mother’s Day.

  “One from you too,” I exclaimed as my middle son walked in, teasingly holding the carnation up. I think he wanted me chasing him through the house and tackling him on the couch until the flower was mine. But I hadn’t done anything fun or silly like that in some time, so, instead, I sat up in bed and reached my arm out and took the flower from his hand. I smiled and gave him a wink. “You boys have a nice day out there today.”

  He nodded, and a second later I could hear him jogging down the long hall toward the front door. They were handsome boys, and charming, turning the heads of girls way too old for them. One day soon they’d be giving flowers to wives of their own, and I would miss them dearly. I wasn’t at all ready for any of that. I was clinging to walls of the corridor I had cherished all these years. And I still had more time there.

  Leo and I had done a fine job at raising them this far. Whenever I spent too much time with the boys practicing piano or reading poetry or pointing out the beautiful varieties of leaves and flowers and trees, their father stepped in and taught them to be men. He had them work hard, helping in his office with financial calculations, budgets, and dimensions of ad spaces. And where I instilled in the boys an appreciation and a sense of thankfulness for any gifts ever given to them, Leo made them work hard for everything they wanted. We didn’t want our boys growing up believing that the luxuries of the world were going to be handed to them and that they didn’t have to do their share.

  It would have been easy to give them everything they wanted. My writing slowed but continued after the first baby and Leo continued rising through the ranks of his career. He was good at the financial and creative aspects of both catalog and magazine publishing, and by the time I took our third son home from the hospital, my husband had already become associate publisher of a publication boasting the nation’s highest circulation.

  I was fully engaged being the mommy of three boys. and I no longer had time as I once did to care about, let alone set up, interviews and work toward deadlines. In 1903 I did start writing articles about a womens’ suffrage society and continued for seven years until they resorted to acts of defiance to gain attention and further their causes for the rights and advancement of women. It was then that Leo insisted my coverage of it end.

  “I believe women should have the right to vote,” he said one evening. “But I don’t like these extremists.”

  “If it weren’t for groups of aggressive women, I might still be wearing a corset. I’m grateful to these women, Leo.”

  “I respect the milestones, dear, but the tactics they’re using are getting out of control. I don’t want my wife writing articles about women who chain themselves to railings and set fire to the content of mailboxes.”

  “I agree, but maybe if the country would give them a respectable venue to voice their opinions, they’d no longer resort to such measures to get heard.”

  Around the same time in 1910 I heard word from a business associate who had relatives living in Florida that a storm hit Sanibel, the worst in the history of that island. I tried not to start thinking about Jaden again, but it was hard. I prayed and was later relieved to hear no one was killed.

  Soon after respecting my husband’s wishes, I switched to writing about more carefree topics, like the changing bathing suit styles. Despite having had three boys, I myself wore them at the lake over the summer and was proud of women doing away with the yards of extra fabric and bloomers. I took pride in bicycling daily and keeping myself trim, and Leo loved watching me lounge around our summer cottage in the new styles. It was the first time ever that I felt the warmth of the sun shining on the curvaceous parts of my body, parts that had never been exposed to outdoor elements before.

  The fun and sporadic articles that I wrote in my spare time reflected my fun years of being mommy to three wonderful boys, of spending every July on the lake, of going to the opera regularly with my husband and friends, and of shopping to my heart’s content, dressing in all the top fashions. Life to me was simply the best and happiness wasn’t something that took any effort. Never for a moment had I ever imagined I was in any danger of coming down with the same spells of sadness my mama once suffered.

  There were times when I didn’t write articles for months on end and it was okay because I preferred paying attention to my boys and to being their mother. But then one day, when my youngest started school, I felt an emptiness and heard a growling noise in the pit of my stomach. My craving to write something bigger and more meaningful had returned, as always, nagging me here and there throughout my life.

  “You haven’t written any articles in a while,” Leo said when I told him that evening about my need to write. “Would you like me to make a few phone calls, pull strings and get you an important assignment at one of the magazines?” He had poured us both a glass of liquor and we were about to settle down for the evening on the patio off our bedroom.

  “And write about necklines lowered for the first time in decades, or something really exciting like rayon?” I responded sarcastically.

  “Rayon? What’s that?”

  I took a sip of the liquor, then set it down on my bureau so I could finish taking my earrings, necklace and remaining jewelry off. “Rayon is a new artificial-silk invention. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it yet,” I said as I put my earrings in the gold-plated musical heart box Leo had once bought for me. “I don’t want to write any more about that kind of stuff. Besides, I no longer want to write for any magazine that uses semi-nude images to sell products marketed to women. I don’t like it. Why are they starting to do that?”

  Leo was sitting on the bed, pulling his socks off. “It sells. It especially seems to work with selling soap.”

  “It’s degrading, don’t you think?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. “It matters to your sons. It’s up to us to raise them to respect the minds of women and not view them as purely physical objects.”

  “With a mother as intelligent as you, our boys already know a woman is more than a pretty body. They know she’s got a mind.”

  “And a heart and a soul, too, Leo,” I said, smiling. I ran the brush through my long, dark hair and watched Leo in the mirror. “I can’t figure out if my desire to write comes from my mind or my soul.”

  “What is it that you want so desperately to write?”

  “A novel,” I answered. “I’ve always wanted to.”

  “You’ll never make any money writing fiction,” he said. “Unless, of course, you go on to write hundreds of books and you don’t have time for, that is. Who wants to sit around waiting that long to make any money?”

  “Leo,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s not about money. You know that. We’ve got all the money in the world. It’s about me wanting to do something I’ve felt passionate about ever since I was a little girl.”

  “You’re a talented writer,” he said to me. “I just think you ought to put that into an area that pays and they
were paying you, darling, top dollars for your freelance articles.”

  I stood up and walked over to Leo on the bed and took hold of his hands, pulling him up. For a moment, we stared eye-to-eye and I recognized his look. It was one I had seen a long time ago in my own father’s eyes, a look that most people might not catch, but I did. I had never seen it in Leo before, but it was a look of financial concern.

  I kissed him on the lips. “Is there anything you want to tell me, dear?” I asked.

  “With regard to what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, noticing him look away. “Anything on your mind. Are you concerned about the security of our savings in any way?” I liked being direct with Leo. Life was too short to beat around the bush.

  He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual laugh, the one that added an extra ounce of happiness to my supply. “A man is always thinking about security,” he said, pulling me toward the patio. “What if something happened to me? I’ve got to make sure you and the boys are fine.” He sat down and I quickly went back into our room for the tray with our cocktails.

  When I returned, I noticed the full moon shining down on the rose bushes I had planted and the night was too beautiful to think of morbid things. I set the tray down and sat closely beside him. “Life is too short to worry about money,” I said, confident we would never run out. “Besides, I could make a fortune off my wardrobe alone, you know.”

  “I’d never want you selling your gowns,” he said, seriously.

  “Why not? Once I sold all my gowns I could then pose semi-nude for those awful magazine ads.”

  “Don’t you ever,” he said. “I would flip over in my grave.” He pulled me closer and kissed my neck. “But a body like yours would sure sell a lot of soap.”

  I nudged him with my arm. “I would never,” I said with a laugh. “I’d turn curtains into dresses before walking around semi-nude.”

  That night money, or lack thereof, was the last thing on my mind. We had a mini-fortune saved up, and being poor was a self-perception I had gotten rid of long ago. I dropped it the day I brought our first baby home from the hospital, feeling richer than I had ever imagined being. It was the day I was no longer just Leo’s wife but I was also the mother of his child—one of the world’s most noble titles. And I no longer felt like I was sharing Leo’s money, but rather, that it had become our money the day I became the mother of his child.

  It was also the day I truly started loving Leo. And the love grew with each baby I carried inside me, and I believe those boys got bored in my womb and went to work crafting and constructing a new heart for their mommy. Children want for their mommy’s heart to beat wildly for their daddy. And so mine did. Leo was the father of my boys and a good one!

  “You look more and more like your father every day,” I told my oldest son when he slowly walked into my room carrying a red carnation. “Thank you for the flower.”

  He sat down on the side of my bed and looked me in the eyes. “I miss him,” he said. “Will the pain ever go away?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t answer that.”

  It hadn’t been that long. The day Leo suffered a heart attack and died hours later in the hospital still felt like yesterday to us all, but it wasn’t yesterday. Months had gone by since his death, and the boys were doing their best at continuing their lives, going out to play golf today as they always did with their father on Sundays.

  I reached over to the bedside table and placed the carnation in the glass of water beside the two carnations my other sons had brought in, and then settled myself back against the headboard of the bed.

  “Are you going to stay in bed again today, Mother?” my son asked.

  “No,” I answered, not believing my own word. “I’ll be getting up today.

  How could I not? It’s the first Mother’s Day—a good day to get up. I’ll be up by the time you boys return from golf.”

  He slowly left my room. Of the three, he was the most like his father, too mature for his age and ambitious as ever. Surely he’d be the first to fly from the nest and into a world of success and opportunity, but then again, this happened with their father, and I wondered how it might affect my sons long-term.

  When I heard the front door close and the house grow quiet, I had to get up. I felt like a hen doing nothing but sitting around on its egg all day. But today was the day. It was officially declared a holiday for mothers, and what sort of mother was I to be hiding away in my bed all day? I couldn’t stand to go through another week with my boys walking one-by-one into my bedroom to kiss me good-bye as they left for school. I had seen the looks of fear and disappointment on their faces each morning and again after school when they came to find me still in bed. Over the last three months I had only gotten out for the funeral, financial meetings including the reading of the will, and for a doctor appointment. But after each event, I returned home sinking lower than before.

  I tried not to let my mind compare myself to my mama. She had something wrong with her mind. My problem was situational. It had to be. Leo had been keeping secrets from me in the years leading up to his death. At the reading of the will I discovered we no longer had our savings. I did some investigating only to unravel a series of lies about the man I thought I knew. Leo was a gambler and had been for many years, exactly how many, I do not know. Blackjack was his thing, and when gambling was outlawed, he went underground. I was irate for not following up with that look I had seen in his eyes that night, the look of financial concern. And I spent many sleepless nights fantasizing about the conversations and confrontations I wished I could have had with him, had I known. I was mad that the man I loved had hidden this part of himself from me. If only he had told me about it, maybe I’d have been angry at first, but then I could have gotten help for him. His gambling problem flipped back and forth from blackjack to high-risk stock investments, and that was where he lost most of it, I learned.

  I took my pillow in my hand and flung it across the room, angry at the thought that this might be my punishment for the crime I once committed. I too had kept a secret from Leo. I never told him that I married him for his wealth and because I needed an escape from my life and my emotions at that time. If he were alive today I’d tell him he was my hero for taking me away like he did and how lucky I was that it turned out as it did, that I fell madly in love with him as the years went by. It could have been bad. I was young and not thinking wisely at the time I married him. I don’t know why I thought a man was the only thing that could rescue me from my life and those three young girls who disliked me. Why didn’t I know back then that I was strong enough and smart enough to leave on my own? Maybe I was too young to realize the options a woman has for herself in life. And I was grieving for my mother. A person ought not to make major life-changing decisions while still in mourning.

  I reached over and picked up the small picture of Leo and me on our wedding day and held it tightly. I did love Leo. I grew to love him immensely. But now I was left to question everything, even the love he had for me. I let the picture drop to the floor, for I had to think of other things now. The financial stability of the family was now my problem, and a big one! By the time I had done the calculations, I knew we couldn’t continue living in our mini-mansion, dressing as we all did, socializing and gallivanting around the city and the opera and the restaurants if I planned on sending the boys to university. And I was astounded to discover the money that went into the upkeep of our estate and to pay the nannies, domestic servants, groundsmen, and chefs. Life as we were accustomed to living couldn’t go on without Leo’s salary.

  But worse, I didn’t know how the boys would go on without their father. He had been a good father, and that is what I wanted to remember, the role that would define his life. Just thinking of it all, of how badly I wanted to throw my arms around Leo and tell him that I loved him despite the problem and secret he had been keeping from me, made me want to lie back down again in my bed. But I had promised the boys that today would be the
day, and I had thrown my pillow across the room, so I couldn’t lay my head back down comfortably.

  I had to get up, not only for my sons but also for the new life that was growing within me. I was pregnant with Leo’s fourth child, the one he would never get to know about. That is what troubled me most. I could think of nothing worse than a father not knowing the existence of one of his children. And, oh, how Leo always wanted a daughter. It had to be a girl. Just two months after his death, I began waking up in the wee hours of the night with wretched growls coming from deep within my stomach. I spent my mornings heaving—a symptom I never experienced with my first three pregnancies.

  “Why me?” was my first question. “How could you do this to me, Lord?” was my second. My sons were already manageable ages, but I was a widow in my late thirties—a bit late for the baby-making plant to reopen. But apparently there was one more model to be made, and I wanted as much fanfare to accompany the arrival of this baby as that of the others or it wouldn’t be fair.

  I picked up the teacup setting on my bedside table and sipped it. It was cold, so I put it down and leaned over to sniff the three carnations. They weren’t the most fragrant of flowers, but it didn’t matter. They were from my boys.

  I focused on the flowers as I slowly stood up. I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to lie back down again and arrange the pillows around my face and burrow for one more day. I thought about my mama and wondered whether this was how she felt in her down times. I could understand now. I couldn’t then. And I remembered my grandmother telling me that whenever a person feels down, all they must do is thank the Lord for all that is good. That felt like an impossible task, for I was a widow with no savings, three sons, and a daughter on the way, and I could hardly muster the strength to leave my own bedroom. But it was either fall back into bed or drop to my knees and thank God. One was simple and the other difficult. I chose the more difficult of the two.