Spam and 'Taters
That winter was mild in comparison to the years to come, but, even so, the cold cracked through my skin. I had just returned from the Safeway with a bag of potatoes and a bag of onions. Somehow, I had managed to pick up a can of Spam as well.
Tonight, we will eat well, I thought to myself before check-out as I double-checked my change to make sure I had enough. I was entirely thrilled to find that, indeed, I did. It’s a strange memory, but it lingered. It’s a conversation with myself that I will never forget.
When I walked into the small, white, ranch-style house that Lola and I had just bought the summer before, she was sprawled out on the heavily-used, yellow, owl-design couch in her hideously flowered housedress that only a woman in her condition would dare wear. When I showed her the Spam, she was delighted, but seeing her face gave me much more delight than any can of food could ever give her.
“You are an amazing man, Tristan,” she huffed as she pushed herself from the couch. She kissed me in that gentle way she had and took the groceries into the kitchen to fix dinner.
Spam was a rarity for us. I was working for the railroad as an upholsterer at the time, but I didn’t start making much until years later when upholstery became less desired, and, of course, when the war had ended. The decline in train usage gave me the motivation I needed and eventually, I started my own business. I began designing and creating handmade furniture. My income increased drastically, but I still long for the quaint 40s and the days of working as an upholsterer. Those were, by far, my fondest days.
The house filled with the scent of fried Spam, potatoes, and onions within minutes. It always amazed me how quickly she handled food, especially for being bedridden and near immobile. “Lola,” I called from the bedroom as I changed from my striped-blue denim overalls into my one pair of jeans, “why don’t you let me finish that?” I hung my work overalls in the closet, basically a very small area of our bedroom that consisted of a rope tied from one side to the other. I turned back to the narrow, yellowing hallway and made my way towards the kitchen.
I was about to turn the corner into the kitchen when I felt something. The house seemed to be pulling in a draft from somewhere, but it wasn’t too alarming. We’d stay warm in our quilt made from the old, worn overalls that I was forced to retire. Lola was a woman of many talents.
“That smells delightful,” I wrapped my arms around her ever-widening waist, and lightly kissed her neck, “you are amazing.” Just then, the baby kicked. “I guess he likes it when I compliment his mother,” I chuckled.
“Stop saying ‘him.’ You don’t know that she is a boy.” Lola was always making me take back the things that I said about the baby being a boy, but I knew he was a boy, from the very beginning.
The smell of Spam and potatoes mixed with the heat from the cast-iron pan, made my heart fill with appreciation for the life that I knew I didn’t deserve. I softly lifted the spatula from her hand and told her to go relax and maybe turn the radio on. I rarely tuned-in to programs but I knew she enjoyed it when I wasn’t around.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just sit in here with you.” She, obviously exhausted, sat a bit too heftily on the wooden chair and nearly fell to the floor.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, I’m just tired. I hardly sleep anymore. Your baby keeps jamming her foot into my ribs. I get heartburn when I lay down, and I’m just so uncomfortable. There’s nowhere to relax.” Her face began to soften, “I’m sorry, Tristan. I shouldn’t go on like that, I love the baby, and you. I just get quite tired.”
I set the spatula on the blue counter, and reached out for her. “Come on, let’s get you some rest.”
She allowed me to help her to her feet and walk across the kitchen into the living room. I helped her ease herself onto the couch and turned to the radio. I made sure it was on softly, but loud enough for her to hear. From the “Hen-reeeeeeeee!” coming from the speakers, I instantly knew The Alrich Family was on. Lola liked it enough, so I returned to dinner.
“Damn,” I whispered. I had nearly burnt the onions. I wasn’t the chef of our household, and it was always obvious. Lola could make dirt taste like spice cake if she wanted. I had been trying to help Lola more in the kitchen for a couple of weeks, but she never wanted me to, it was unusual for her to just hand over the spatula.
I pulled out the brown-lined, porcelain plates that we used for every meal, and portioned out the Spam, potatoes and onions. Despite almost burning it, it still smelled like heaven. The sweet onions brought out the salty smell of potted meat perfectly.
Being poor was difficult, but I had managed to put food on our table for three years, and I wasn’t about to quit then. Besides, it always helped me appreciate the things around me.
“Lola?” I hollered as I set the plates on the table, “are you ready to eat?”
No answer.
“Lola?” I said a bit louder as I grabbed the forks from the drainer next to the sink and set them beside the nearly-full plates.
No answer.
I walked into the living room and that’s the moment my life ended.
Lola was passed out on the couch where I had left her but now there was a pool of crimson liquid growing on the already stained couch. Her bottom half was covered in a dark-red bloody fluid that was somehow still leaking from her. I shook her, and screamed her name but when she didn’t answer, or move, or respond in any way, I ran to the bedroom and quickly grabbed my keys from the night stand. I ran back into the front room and scooped her into my arms.
The bleeding continued and made it's way down her legs, dripping to the carpet. For a brief moment, I watched it form into a large pool on the brown carpet turning it into a deep black color. It swirled in on itself creating a semi-perfect circle. I thought of a black hole and where the blood was going to end up.
That’s the last thing I remember about that night.
The next day, at the hospital, a nurse came into the sterile waiting room and asked if I wanted to say goodbye. Why, though? I didn’t want to remember her like that. I remembered her as the vibrant, 5’3”, brown-haired beauty that I married three years before.
That’s when they asked me if I wanted to see my daughter.
“Who?” I remember asking. They repeated the question, but I remained confused. I didn’t have a daughter, though. I had a wife and son.
They tried to bring someone else’s baby to me, tried to make me take her. I kept telling them that she wasn’t mine, but they wouldn’t listen. I finally gave up and took her home with me.
When I laid her in my son’s crib, I knew she wouldn’t be staying for long. And, she didn’t. She slept in my son's nursery for a total of 13 days.
Tonight, we will eat well, I thought to myself before check-out as I double-checked my change to make sure I had enough. I was entirely thrilled to find that, indeed, I did. It’s a strange memory, but it lingered. It’s a conversation with myself that I will never forget.
When I walked into the small, white, ranch-style house that Lola and I had just bought the summer before, she was sprawled out on the heavily-used, yellow, owl-design couch in her hideously flowered housedress that only a woman in her condition would dare wear. When I showed her the Spam, she was delighted, but seeing her face gave me much more delight than any can of food could ever give her.
“You are an amazing man, Tristan,” she huffed as she pushed herself from the couch. She kissed me in that gentle way she had and took the groceries into the kitchen to fix dinner.
Spam was a rarity for us. I was working for the railroad as an upholsterer at the time, but I didn’t start making much until years later when upholstery became less desired, and, of course, when the war had ended. The decline in train usage gave me the motivation I needed and eventually, I started my own business. I began designing and creating handmade furniture. My income increased drastically, but I still long for the quaint 40s and the days of working as an upholsterer. Those were, by far, my fondest days.
The house filled with the scent of fried Spam, potatoes, and onions within minutes. It always amazed me how quickly she handled food, especially for being bedridden and near immobile. “Lola,” I called from the bedroom as I changed from my striped-blue denim overalls into my one pair of jeans, “why don’t you let me finish that?” I hung my work overalls in the closet, basically a very small area of our bedroom that consisted of a rope tied from one side to the other. I turned back to the narrow, yellowing hallway and made my way towards the kitchen.
I was about to turn the corner into the kitchen when I felt something. The house seemed to be pulling in a draft from somewhere, but it wasn’t too alarming. We’d stay warm in our quilt made from the old, worn overalls that I was forced to retire. Lola was a woman of many talents.
“That smells delightful,” I wrapped my arms around her ever-widening waist, and lightly kissed her neck, “you are amazing.” Just then, the baby kicked. “I guess he likes it when I compliment his mother,” I chuckled.
“Stop saying ‘him.’ You don’t know that she is a boy.” Lola was always making me take back the things that I said about the baby being a boy, but I knew he was a boy, from the very beginning.
The smell of Spam and potatoes mixed with the heat from the cast-iron pan, made my heart fill with appreciation for the life that I knew I didn’t deserve. I softly lifted the spatula from her hand and told her to go relax and maybe turn the radio on. I rarely tuned-in to programs but I knew she enjoyed it when I wasn’t around.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just sit in here with you.” She, obviously exhausted, sat a bit too heftily on the wooden chair and nearly fell to the floor.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, I’m just tired. I hardly sleep anymore. Your baby keeps jamming her foot into my ribs. I get heartburn when I lay down, and I’m just so uncomfortable. There’s nowhere to relax.” Her face began to soften, “I’m sorry, Tristan. I shouldn’t go on like that, I love the baby, and you. I just get quite tired.”
I set the spatula on the blue counter, and reached out for her. “Come on, let’s get you some rest.”
She allowed me to help her to her feet and walk across the kitchen into the living room. I helped her ease herself onto the couch and turned to the radio. I made sure it was on softly, but loud enough for her to hear. From the “Hen-reeeeeeeee!” coming from the speakers, I instantly knew The Alrich Family was on. Lola liked it enough, so I returned to dinner.
“Damn,” I whispered. I had nearly burnt the onions. I wasn’t the chef of our household, and it was always obvious. Lola could make dirt taste like spice cake if she wanted. I had been trying to help Lola more in the kitchen for a couple of weeks, but she never wanted me to, it was unusual for her to just hand over the spatula.
I pulled out the brown-lined, porcelain plates that we used for every meal, and portioned out the Spam, potatoes and onions. Despite almost burning it, it still smelled like heaven. The sweet onions brought out the salty smell of potted meat perfectly.
Being poor was difficult, but I had managed to put food on our table for three years, and I wasn’t about to quit then. Besides, it always helped me appreciate the things around me.
“Lola?” I hollered as I set the plates on the table, “are you ready to eat?”
No answer.
“Lola?” I said a bit louder as I grabbed the forks from the drainer next to the sink and set them beside the nearly-full plates.
No answer.
I walked into the living room and that’s the moment my life ended.
Lola was passed out on the couch where I had left her but now there was a pool of crimson liquid growing on the already stained couch. Her bottom half was covered in a dark-red bloody fluid that was somehow still leaking from her. I shook her, and screamed her name but when she didn’t answer, or move, or respond in any way, I ran to the bedroom and quickly grabbed my keys from the night stand. I ran back into the front room and scooped her into my arms.
The bleeding continued and made it's way down her legs, dripping to the carpet. For a brief moment, I watched it form into a large pool on the brown carpet turning it into a deep black color. It swirled in on itself creating a semi-perfect circle. I thought of a black hole and where the blood was going to end up.
That’s the last thing I remember about that night.
The next day, at the hospital, a nurse came into the sterile waiting room and asked if I wanted to say goodbye. Why, though? I didn’t want to remember her like that. I remembered her as the vibrant, 5’3”, brown-haired beauty that I married three years before.
That’s when they asked me if I wanted to see my daughter.
“Who?” I remember asking. They repeated the question, but I remained confused. I didn’t have a daughter, though. I had a wife and son.
They tried to bring someone else’s baby to me, tried to make me take her. I kept telling them that she wasn’t mine, but they wouldn’t listen. I finally gave up and took her home with me.
When I laid her in my son’s crib, I knew she wouldn’t be staying for long. And, she didn’t. She slept in my son's nursery for a total of 13 days.