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his commute to the city, although you know neither one has improved. He stops complaining about the boss who is picking on him, always on his back. You watch and wait, knowing that something is coming.
    You try to make sure that everything is perfect. Everything mustbe perfect. If it isn’t perfect—but you don’t want to think about that. This time, you will follow all the rules. You will put all the shirts in the drawer just so. You will not say anything that makes it sound as if you think you’re smart. You will not smile at anyone. And you will watch him, noticing the slightest signal.
    Even though you are very good, sometimes you slip away to your placein the trees when he is at work. Once, when he has had too much to drink and falls asleep, you risk sneaking out at night, finding your way in the darkness.
    You are lucky. You don’t get caught.
    He is silent much of the time. When he gets home at night, he watches cop shows on TV. He drinks steadily, watching you over the rim of the glass. Sometimes, you catch him watching you. Something is coming,but if you can keep everything perfect, it will not come.
    Your husband is at work when the landlord and his wife stop by. The Lions Club is having a pancake breakfast at the local high school and they want to sell you tickets.
    They want you and your husband to come; they say you will have a good time; they say you should get out more.
    Your landlord’s wife says you need some meat on your bones.

    You buy two tickets. You know, even as you buy them, that your husband will not go. But you smile and buy them to be polite. And you think about what it would be like if he decided to go and be charming. He could be charming. He could be sweet. You picture yourself in a sundress. You have no bruises on your arms and your husband is smiling at you the way he used to before you married.
    You tellthe landlord and his wife that you can’t talk long. You must get dinner started. Your husband will be home soon. But they keep talking until the shadows stretch across the valley. When they finally leave, you make a pot of stew, a big green salad. Your husband is late and you’re glad. Dinner will be ready when he gets home.
    Everything will be perfect.
    It’s dark. You see his headlights first,sweeping across the trees and spotlighting the house. You stand on the porch, ready to greet him. “Dinner is ready,” you call to him.
    He has been drinking. You can smell whiskey and cigarette smoke on his clothes. He pushes past you into the kitchen and you follow him, still trying to smile. He glares around the kitchen. The stew bubbles on the stove and it smells good. Surely he will be happynow: good food, a nice clean home.
    “What’s wrong?” you ask. You know as soon as you speak you have said the wrong thing. There was no right thing to say.
    “That son of a bitch I work for fired me,” he says. “Are you happy now?”
    You can think of nothing to say. Are you happy? No, you’re not happy.
    He sees the tickets to the pancake breakfast. Carelessly, you left them on the table. He snatchesthem up and reads what they have to say.
    “You spent money on this shit?” he says. He throws them down on the floor. Before you can speak, he grabs your hair and tries to slap you—once, twice, three times.
    You block his hand once, twice, but the third blow knocks your arm aside. You try to pull away, but he strikes again with the back of his hand, rocking your head to one side.
    “I’ll teach youa lesson,” he says, and you remember other lessons that your husband taught with his fists. You bring your arms up to protect your face and he swings his fist low and buries it in your stomach. Lesson one: whatever you do, it’s wrong. You double over, wrapping yourself around the pain, and he slams a fist into your head.
    Lesson two: the same as lesson one.
    You fall to the floor and try to crawlaway. He grabs your ankle and you turn on him, slapping at his hand. He grabs your wrist.