Meatloaf | 17 July 2021

I woke with the sun burning red against the back of my eyelids. I sat up too quickly, my head spinning, eyes focusing on dizzying palm trees swaying nearby. I know this pool, it’s the rooftop at the Peninsula. My blurry eyes catch the cocktail napkin, which tells me I’m at the Las Vegas Peninsula, not my local Westwood. The pool water is glass, all chairs realigned to perfect symmetry except mine. There isn’t a soul here. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is making Sunday meatloaf for Hank. Which day is it? How did I get here? What the hell happened?

HCH Response

Our patio used to be as busy as a bus station, I would joke. Hank’s business associates would arrive in groupings, like darts in a cloud of cologne. The gents, as my husband called them, barely acknowledged me other than to accept another cocktail from the tray with a cordial smile and a wink. “Thanks hon,” Hank mouthed as I would quickly excuse myself back inside, turning to look through the wall of glass separating our worlds. Though they were all baking in the heat of the late afternoon, it seemed my husband was the only one ever dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.

Back then, Hank and I got a lot of invitations to business functions at The Peninsula Westwood. That was the company spot for everything — dinners, happy hours, rooftop parties. I knew he was trying his best to make a name for himself among these men. I obsessed over my accessory combinations and rotated through my closet carefully so as never to wear the same thing twice, borrowing beautiful dresses from friends when I ran out. I pressed his shirts and insisted he wear the heirloom cuff links that he only ever donned for funerals. I loved walking through the lobby or the pool deck, pretending I was a high profile guest. I guess the performance paid off, because within the year he got the position he wanted. I was proud of him. My Hank.

That winter, an infection I had developed took an unexpected toll. I was back on my feet, folding laundry and watering the garden, but the world was muffled. I kept getting startled by Hank. He would appear in the doorway suddenly, frustrated, lips pursed. Sometimes I turned around to see him there as if he’d magically materialized, like an irritated genie. I let out a yelp of surprise. “What’s wrong?” I said. “I’ve been saying your name. Didn’t you hear me?” he demanded, then softened when he saw my confusion. I cried in his arms.

The specialist I saw told us my hearing would continue to degenerate, but that I could get some use out of a hearing aid for now. I resented its arrival. It was an awful, clunky thing. I couldn’t stand to wear for more than an hour at a time. I hated everything about it: regulating its sensitivity, bracing for its unpredictable feedback, the physical pressure on on my ear, how I saw my profile in the mirror. With Hank at work so much, I mostly let myself live in a world buffered by soft silence at home. I didn’t mind the peace, honestly. After a while, we found other ways to deal with the change. He knew to approach me from the front, and I learned to watch his mouth as he spoke. We said less that didn’t matter, and we touched more. The hearing aid often spent a week at a time in the kitchen drawer, happily neglected by me.

My new health status discouraged us from hosting. Even neighbors felt awkward as they shouted and exaggerated their faces when they greeted me on the street. Hank’s business associates knew, and he didn’t want to put either of us in that position by inviting them over. Not that he even had the time — it seemed his hours were getting longer and longer. I’d make dinner and watch for his headlights. Some nights I saw them shine through the front room sheers, and we would eat together. Other nights, not.

One uncharacteristically rainy evening, I decided to make a meatloaf. It was one of Hank’s favorite rare comforts. Tonight it felt right. I preheated the oven and diced onions. The sound of their sizzle was faint in the cast iron frying pan right in front of me. They danced, turned translucent. Smell and sight were such loyal friends in the kitchen. I caught the reflection of Hank’s headlights in the kitchen window. A wave of initial excitement turned into adrenaline and worry. The clock read only 5:10pm, and he was never home before 7:30, usually 8pm. I turned the stove off and waited in the kitchen entrance where I could see the front door.

Hank entered soaking wet, followed by two men I didn’t recognize. He looked pale and exhausted. I rushed to take his sopping coat. “Honey, the gents and I have some matters to discuss,” his lips said. He gestured to the associates behind him. I smiled and went to take their coats, but Hank stopped me and ushered me back to the kitchen. “They won’t stay long. No need to bring drinks. Are you making meatloaf? Smells wonderful.” He pulled me close. “Maybe best to just stay in here. I’m sorry. We will talk about it later,” he whispered directly into my ear. He looked in my eyes for confirmation, and I nodded.

This strangeness made me miss the patio days. What the hell was going on? Focus… I turned my back to the kitchen door and arranged the task in front of me on the countertop. Ground beef. Spices. Mixing bowl. Loaf pan. As I emptied the meat into the bowl, I was surprised to hear what I thought were voices coming from the sitting room. If they were reaching me, something was definitely not right. I slid open the drawer full of potholders and retrieved the unappreciated device. I clicked it on, pressed it into my ear, and jumped at the noises rushing all around me. Once I got acclimated, I turned it up full volume. Angry, raised voices — this time I could make out the words.

“You really shat the bed on this one, Lawson. You really fucked us all over. Now why would you do that? Huh?” A pause. “Speak up you sonofabitch. I can’t read lips, remember. Huh? Huh?”

“I said, it was a calculated risk, I, I… You were in the room with me, Bennett, I… ” Hank’s voice trembled under the weight of its volume, trying to sound confident and failing.

I worked my hands into the bowl of raw meat, squeezing it through my fingers nervously, so distracted I hardly realized it was becoming a paste.

“Yeah well, you’ve taken enough risks. That was your last one. You have no idea what you cost us. Burke, go check for mice.”

“Bennett, let me, just let me, I have a plan, I can turn this around,” Hank rambled.

I was so tuned into the voices, so paralyzed as my mind raced about what to do, and so intent on kneading the meatloaf into oblivion, that I didn’t register the footsteps approaching the kitchen. Suddenly an electronic shriek blasted my ear. I ripped the hearing aid away from my head and threw it on the ground, falling to my knees in shock and pain. I looked up to find one of the men standing in the doorway with a pocket radio in his hands. His fingers slowly twisted the frequency knob. I was aghast.

“I thought so,” Burke said, dropping the radio and reaching for my frying pan full of onions. “Can’t have that.” The bottom of the cast iron eclipsed the light of the kitchen ceiling.

…

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” repeated the young pool attendant, touching my shoulder. “Are you a guest here at The Peninsula? Can I help get you back to your room?” His eyes were kind, his teeth bright white, his mouth a hospitable read.

“Unfortunately... I don’t think so.” I muttered.

DD Response

Does it even matter? I certainly remember the most important part… I did it. I finally did it. I smile even though I’m not exactly sure how I arrived at this location. I smile because I’m sure it didn’t involve Hank.

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

Hank took a bite of the meatloaf and started complaining about my cooking. “Did you put Saltines in the meatloaf again? Is that ketchup I taste? Everyone knows real meatloaf is made with milk soaked Italian bread and Parmesan.”

I tuned out the rest of his long winded diatribe on the proper way to cook meatloaf. I’ve heard all of his stories about the value of homemade mayonnaise and how to make Texas chili and how onion trimmings are supposed to go into the disposal versus the trash. “I’ve heard his holier than thou bullshit for the last time,” I thought as I clench my throat against the rage. “I’m done.” Two words are all that escape my mouth.

“Done? You haven’t even taken a bite of your crappy meal,” he said.

“I’m done with you,” I said as I rose from the table. I walked to the bedroom and packed a suitcase with shaking hands. I threw in the clothes littered on the floor and a stack of newly folded t-shirts from the bench. “Underwear,” I thought. “I need underwear… and a toothbrush… and my iPad… and shoes.” My mind raced through the necessities. “If I don’t have it, I can buy it,” I assured myself. I have his credit card, and I’m glad to use it.

I walked by Hank as he continued to eat the unacceptable meal without even looking up, and I slipped out the door. I put my bags in the back seat and dropped into the driver’s seat and locked the doors. “Breathe,” I told myself, “Just breathe.” My heart was racing as I fumbled for the keys. “Start the car dear. Put your hands on the steering wheel and drive.”

I ended up at the Westwood, a place I had seen in ads during late night tv. Watching tv late into the night had become a habit, a way to avoid listening to Hank snore and feeling the heat of his body. Avoid. I’ve done a lot of that for the last ten years. I’ve avoiding my friends after 3:00pm, because he might come home and see they parked in his spot or left a glass on the counter or some other travesty. I’ve avoided working the NY Times crossword puzzle in the den, because he let me know regularly that looking up a word in the dictionary or grabbing the encyclopedia to look up the capital of Burma was cheating. I avoided going into the office and set up a tiny office in the sunroom where I accessed our company books remotely. My whole life was based on avoiding… avoiding Hank and the constant criticism.

Avoiding is not living. Today I’m going to start living, and apparently that’s going to happen at the Westwood.