Samuel's Bas-uy

The unusually hot summer day hadn’t stopped the Vincenzos from their special Sunday treat. Pork.

No wonder Samuel’s smile was as wide as the mountain ranges behind him, wearing a pair of sparkling eyes full of delight. He worked hard to finally get a kilo of pork, which he knew would make his dear wife and four lovely girls happy. They’d been waiting a month for him to save enough money to get some because pork was a luxury in this part of the barangay. Like having a good beef steak in a five-star fine-dining restaurant. Inaccessible. You might have to befriend a butcher or a Don who owned pig farms to have it within reach all the time.

With excitement in his heart, he kept slipping in more wood to keep the fire burning. Wiping his sweat, he kept stirring the pot while enduring the thick white smoke coming out in all directions. He coughed in between as the smoke sneaked into his nostrils.

Still, the tears that formed around his leads didn’t stop the smile as he wiped his face with his forearm. Because, in his mind, he was up to cooking the best bas-uy for them. He’d collected the freshest vegetables he needed in the garden and cut the meat into the right portions. There was no way they would be disappointed to welcome Monday tomorrow. They might still have enough protein to endure the rest of the tough week. The toughest actually, he conceded, glancing at the rice fields screaming for harvest.

That same excitement was brought inside as he carefully rested the steaming ceramic on the dining table, eyeing his wife, fresh from the salon. He didn’t even mind the charcoal on his shirt and a stain on a section of his cheek out of dried sweat and dirt. All he cared about was this dazzling woman standing before him. Her fixed curls and distinct fruity perfume brushed his nose. His smile was eloquent.

“You look beautiful,” he said and got a distinct dismissal sound from her. A usual thing. Because Chantal wasn’t great at compliments. But he didn’t care. She was stunning in his eyes despite the weight gain. Even though petite, she had the curves you could only envy. A face that matched Elizabeth Taylor. A voice like Aretha Franklin when she hummed.

As she went on with her narrative, telling him how her Sunday morning went, his smile was genuine and generous, feeling his heart swarmed with butterflies as their eyes met before she headed out. In his mind, he couldn’t believe he was a lucky man to have found this wonderful, amazing woman who loved beauty and fashion. And to be chosen as the father of four wholesome kids, turning five, was more than honorable. He couldn’t wait for another month to welcome a newborn in his hands.

After all, he owed his life to her family, who kept him under their roof when the Japanese ransacked their homes, forcing them to leave Bohol and move to the South. The chaos was too much to think of familiar security when everywhere were bombs and explosions and sirens; houses burning, people screaming for help. With so much destruction around, he was left to survive with his mother and his siblings by his side, not knowing where his father might have gone. When they arrived in Zamboanga, her family welcomed him. The first community he found and learned to love and protect with all his might. Even later, even when he reunited with his Papa, they stayed there for good.

When her father passed away due to tuberculosis shortly after the war ended, he hadn’t qualms about carrying on the responsibility of being the man in the house while keeping his role as a farmer’s son. Even though he was only in his early twenties, he knew how hard it would be for a widow to keep a household with five young children. It was a payback, after all. Years later, as these children went on with their lives, he moved on with his own with a decision to keep his father’s humble farm afloat.

Then, on a fateful day, he met Chantal again. This time, it took a wild turn. He fell head over heels with her, turning that one summer into a fairytale come true. Their relationship bloomed, and their future became clear. Clearer than the blue skies.

Now, almost twenty years later, he stood there, eyeing her through the jalousies, still wearing the same love he found. That same genuine smile he kept while preparing the plates and utensils. Admiration was apparent. There was no doubt he found a rare gem.

A woman who knew her stand, her worth, her value to the community. A woman who could sew clothes whenever and however she wanted, who could do artistic things when bored. A woman with no college degree but successfully turned his father’s farm into a six-figure business like a pro.

Magnetism wasn’t a question, he mused. People flowed in and out of their home, like money, as if it was a Job Center, offering themselves to work and help in whatever ways they could. Having money wasn’t a concern. Hiring more farmers wasn’t an issue. She once told him that if she were a flower, she would be a money maker because money seemed to follow her around. As if she was born with luck, and luck was her nickname.

Though oddly funny, he knew it was true. Despite having no millions in bank accounts, they had enough to buy farmlands around their home and to pay more people to work on the land. They were prepared to save sums of money for their children’s future and buy more land to house pigs. If they could—

“Samuel, where are the kids?” Chantal’s voice came through, snapping him from his senses. Her concern was a lightning strike, popping his dreamy bubble. His eyes rounded, his feet ran to the kitchen door, slipping half his body. He wanted to say, ‘I don’t know,’ but she already strode away with her friends in a rush to find them.

As they disappeared, he turned his attention to the steaming bowl of rice and bas-uy he had cooked. Prepared, he leaned against the door frame, waiting for the girls to come while letting his eyes meander over the vast farmland. His thoughts wandered, carrying with them his worries along the trip. But knowing the barangay, there was no way they would be lost. They would have been somewhere playing with friends.

After all, it was in the last week of March. And school was about to end. He wasn’t a domineering father who fancied helicopter parenting. The type who controlled his children’s schedule to fit his game. In his mind, let kids be kids. Let their feet take them wherever they went. Besides, they waited for ten long months for this. Free from schoolwork at last. No teachers, no homework.

No wonder its unusually warm day lured the four girls to run around the vast farmlands they owned, to cool themselves in the river. Beneath the mighty mountain ranges that crossed the Zamboanga peninsula, no child would refuse to have a walk and bask under the sun. To enjoy the green terrains of the Southern forest and climb its glorious mountains. Though he was born in the sea, the valley was his second home.

After a time, her distinct punchy voice alerted him first before his ears caught the kids’ muffling chatter. Luz, the eldest, greeted him first with a groan. Her hands around a heavy basket full of freshly washed laundry. Vilma, the second child, followed her trail with her loud complaints with Mina and Dalia, still bickering behind her. As the five surrounded the dining table, the two-story hut came alive. The same life that touched Samuel’s heart, filling it with love, as he sat, gesturing for all of them to go and eat.

“Wow, bas-uy! We haven’t had this for a while. Papa, you’re the best.” Vilma winked, flicking her head in a gesture, leaving him blushing. Like Chantal, he wasn’t great at compliments, and Vilma was such a generous audience. She never failed to appreciate everything he did. Too vocal sometimes.

“Wipe your sweat. Clean up first before you sit here,” he said and got an easy ‘Yes’ answer, watching her rush to climb the stairs.

While Luz sat, looking prepared to take a deep dive, Mina cared for Dalia, who was only three years old and could barely reach the table. Satisfied, he went on, preparing Chantal’s plate with excitement that he couldn’t shrug off. He scooped a few ladles of rice and took a separate bowl for the soup.

“Here. You should eat. You shouldn’t starve the baby,” he said, watching her grab the chair and groaning as she carefully rested herself on the seat. Her tummy must have been so heavy that she needed her hands at the table’s edge for support.

Then, a loud thud banged their ears.

Several ceramic plates fell on the floor, along with some spoons and forks. Fear swept into their hearts, into their frightened eyes as they watched Chantal lying with her back on the floor. Soup dampened her from head to toe. Rice grains filled a section of her cheeks. Her eyes closed. Her breathing stopped. Panic seared through the walls. Loud concerns filled the home.

“Papa, what happened to Mama?” Luz asked, wiping her face with a towel.

"I told you we should return home earlier. Look at what we've done!" Mina stood behind her, holding the curious Dalia, who had no idea what happened. While keeping her at a safe distance, her clenched fist covered her mouth. Her body quivered in fear. “What should we do?” she stuttered.

“We should call Mama Dolores.” Vilma sprang out and ran across the street, hoping Dolores, his elder sister and his closest neighbor, was there.

While waiting, Samuel’s vision narrowed as he bent his knees, his hands met her warm skin. Tinnitus filled both ears. His shaky, red-rimmed eyes pierced at his wife’s body. While the kids fussed, asking him questions, no words came through his brain. He could only hear his heart thudding, thundering his ears with triple, loud beats. Not knowing what to say and do. Too confused to speak. Too frightened to welcome the potential news.

No, he told himself, desperate to avoid that. That was what he told himself until they arrived at the hospital.

The second they met the emergency room, he knew what was left of him was the news he never thought would come to him someday. The kind of news he never wished to welcome soon with open arms. Way too soon.

Oddly enough, the news came through straightforwardly, catching him off-guard. As if time beat his drum, leaving him feeling they’d arrived there a second ago. Way too fast to clear up his mind before the doctor marched out of the emergency room and explained the news in detail he could barely understand.

After a long narrative, he adjusted his eyeglasses and offered empathy in his eyes. A heavy air swirled around him. And Samuel knew what was coming. His body told him. He could already see the answers on his face before he spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. Your wife had already passed away before they arrived here.”

Though he was somehow prepared, the sound of it had him jolted. His eyebrows met in the middle, still dissatisfied. Maybe he hoped Chantal made it because she was alive a moment ago. He gulped. “How come? How about the baby?”

Only when he shook his head and said, ‘There’s nothing we can do’ did he feel the reality sink deeply into his head. An unexplainable chill wave ran through him in tingles from head to toe. He wanted to ask more questions but couldn’t. He wished he could cry right there but couldn’t. He couldn’t shed tears before Dolores and his four daughters, who counted on him for strength.

Because he was a soldier. A former World War II veteran shouldn’t cry, he told himself, reeling from the memories playing underneath his skull. Memories he thought he’d forgotten and buried into the depths of his consciousness now flooded his mind like they happened yesterday.

A memory of him as a spy who fought and killed every Japanese he met on the road and forged an alliance with the Americans for safety. A time when he fought for peace with blood, mercilessly slaughtering the ones who tried to harm him, his people, his country. A silent warrior who managed to leave a dark chapter as a farm boy, a father, a husband. He thought the war had already taken his soul and numbed his heart enough to swallow the rising tears in his throat.

But no. His soul cried. His heart ached. His eyes burned like the midday sun, wanting to flood his cheeks instead. His skin fevered, his temperature rose as they marched inside the morgue.

He sucked in a thick stench of death in his nose, mentally preparing himself for an unforgettable sight with Dolores and the four girls behind him. Imagine you skipped breakfast to work on a Sunday morning, thinking you had better plans for lunch. Then, all of a sudden, everything changed. Your wife fell unconscious, your children in disarray.

What would you do, he asked, slowly removing the white blanket covering her face, revealing a loss of life? Would you cry like a child seeing your pale, lifeless wife in front of your sister and your children, knowing they relied on your strength to carry on? Would you cut your wife’s stomach to save the baby, knowing there was no way for the unborn to survive?

Still holding on to the thought of keeping his mighty soldier within, he grabbed her hand and curled his fingers around hers, wishing he had enough strength to keep his tears at bay. But when his warm palm met her cold skin, immediately, he felt a knock-out punch on his tightening chest. A punch came with three punches more. His throat constricted. He whispered her name loudly, hoping he would still hear her say his name.

But no. She hadn’t opened her mouth. She hadn’t moved.

Though his mind knew she was dead, his mind couldn’t accept the fact it was the truth. That, indeed, her soul had already gone somewhere. That, indeed, he was holding her lifeless body, and there was nothing he could do. His conscious brain wouldn’t let him accept she left without having to try the bas-uy he promised for a month. His heart wouldn’t let him acknowledge the love of his life, the mother of his children, was gone.

If he would have known this would be their last summer, he would have prepared something better. Not just some plain bas-uy. He would have planned a vacation, which they had never done. He would have prepared a feast, not just a weekend trip. He would have baked a lovely cake, which he had done a thousand times for everyone during fiestas. For years, he promised himself to do these same things for them someday. So many things on his bucket list but too busy to care.

And now? They began to jar. Their meaning began to fade.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his scarlet eyes. The only sentence he could think of without losing his composure intact underneath the afternoon heat, without letting his eyes burst into an endless flow of tears. As the four girls laid their arms on their lifeless mother, mourning their loss, his face soured as he stepped back, eyeing his sister and the unborn’s desperation for escape. When he couldn’t endure the pain, he walked outside to hide himself. To hide what needed to be hidden. His tears.

While their wildest tears shattered his heart into pieces, his short breaths slipped out of his mouth, struggling to keep the tears under control. Worried about being caught, he covered his mouth with his hand as he took the time and space to keep the tears rushing through him, to allow the painful news to sink in for a moment.

To accept the fact that Chantal was gone forever.

To accept that by the time they arrived home, the bas-uy would be cold. Their lively home would be grey, and their hopes for a brighter future would go astray. And he didn’t know how to live with that. Alone.

Just like her. Alone when she chose to be with God than her family. Alone when she left him behind without even saying goodbye on an unusually hot summer in 1966. A week before her thirty-fourth birthday, she died, along with her dreams.

The future he saw almost twenty years ago? Now cold. Lifeless.