After hitting the kitchen floor and suffering the sickening sensation of her head bouncing off the grey slate Ruth Deverett found her vision quite blurry. Squinting eyes couldn’t make out the position of the hands on the wall clock above the fridge. No matter. She knew it was six oclock. There was no mistaking the news signature tune streaming from the television set in the lounge.
The Channel One news was starting.
The news always started right on six o’clock.
The lasagne splattered across the floor meant it was Wednesday. Robert demanded she keep a strict mealtime regimen. Roast on Sunday, steak on Monday, curry on Tuesday and lasagne on Wednesday. From the cheese and garlic aromas in her nostrils meant there was no doubt it was lasagne.
She ran the tips of her fingers along the side of her head. A lump was forming. It hurt. Her head had never jarred as much when it hit vinyl. She had argued with Robert against replacing the vinyl but as usual he had argued forcefully and had been able to show the rightness of his decision. How fortunate, Ruth continually reminded herself, to have a husband who was so right, all of the time.
Out the corner of her eye she saw movement. She deflected the boot with her wrist onto her thigh. Needles of pain stabbed through her upper arm. She worried her wrist might be broken. How could she iron Robert’s shirt in the morning with a broken wrist? Her own fault really, she should not have tried to defend herself. Robert had repeatedly yelled at her not to do so. It only made him angrier. The beatings worse. She should apologize for her foolishness. After all, Robert only offered helpful advice.
Without opening her eyes Ruth curled into a fetal position and waited. Robert tapped the toe of his boot against the table leg. She sensed him looking down at her, disgusted by her weakness and deliberating his next move. This usually meant he was calming down. She held her breath guarding against sound. A groan would set him off again. She ached but it wasn’t so bad. Not as bad as other times.
She could hear the news reader start up.
The ad break was over.
Robert would not miss the news, not on her account.
A bowl smashed against the wall. Ruth flinched. Lettuce and tomato sprinkled across her exposed calf. This was a good sign. He only threw dishes at the wall when it was over. A final vent. Footsteps moved away. When the sound muffled she knew he’d reached the thickness of the broadloom carpet in the living room.
“Don’t move yet,” she whispered. “Don’t move, not yet.”