Ruby Mae Preston was alone again. She fluffed her pillow and listened to the rain beat against the tin roof of her trailer home. It was quiet, except for the rain on the roof; and although it was summer, the night breeze was cool as it came through the open windows of the small bedroom. She pulled a sheet over her wisp of a body, propped her head on the pillow and waited for her husband.

It was Friday night. As he did every Friday, he had cashed his paycheck in a bar and would come home drunk. Sometimes he was only half-drunk, but always he beat her.

She lay in the bed, and the melodic sound of the rain lulled her into a state of half-sleep. A few minutes past midnight the sound of his pickup truck woke her. Then she saw the beam of his headlights shine through the windows and illuminate the wall of the bedroom. Jimbo was home.

She rose from the bed, went into the kitchen and began heating his supper. She nervously watched the door, waiting for him to enter the trailer.

He was drunk. He fell into the door, slammed it against the wall and staggered into the room. He was a huge, hairy, hulk of a man; and his clothing was muddy and wet. The buttons had been torn from his expensive western shirt, and the ruined shirt was untucked from his pants. His boots were caked with mud.

"I whupped that sombitch's ass, Ruby Mae!" he exclaimed in a drunken slur. "You hear me, woman? I whupped his ass!"

"Yes, Jimbo," she nervously answered. "I . . . I hear you. You've been in a fight."

He flopped into a chair at the table. His head bobbed back and forth; his body swayed drunkenly. With a sudden outpouring of foul-smelling breath, he yelled, "Goddamned right! I whupped his ass!"

She did not ask whom he had whipped at the bar. She only hoped the fight at the bar had taken the fight out of him and that he would not hit her.

She dished his supper into a plate. With trembling hands, she placed it in front of him. "Fresh peas and mashed potatoes 'n gravy, Jimbo," she said in a quivering voice. "You . . . your favorite supper."

She watched in fear and revulsion as he ate. Gravy ran from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Peas fell from his fork, rolling across the table and the floor. Mashed potatoes and gravy fell from his fork, leaving a trail across the table, his lap, and through the hair on his chest.

"Damned gravy's cold!" he suddenly exclaimed and threw the plate across the room. Peas flew in all directions, and the plate hit the wall and shattered. The potatoes clung to the wall, and the gravy ran down the wall and collected in a brown puddle on the floor.

She tucked her face in her arms. He slapped her with the back of his hand.

"What kinda goddamned wife are you!?" he yelled as he hit her again and knocked her to the floor. "Can't even heat goddamned gravy!"

He staggered from the table, knocking over his chair. Then he reached down and effortlessly picked up his tiny wife from the floor.

She awaited the inevitable beating. She had learned that pleading and crying only made the beatings worse, so she whimpered silently while he held her against the wall and slapped her again and again. Then, as she knew he would, he grew tired of hitting her and released his hold on the front of her nightgown. She fell to the floor in the puddle of gravy.

She watched as he turned and, almost falling over the over-turned chair, staggered toward the bedroom. She heard the crash as he fell across the foot of the bed and landed in the floor.

She sat in the puddle of gravy until she heard the sound of his snoring. He had passed out on the floor in his muddy boots and clothing. Now she could cry, and tears began flowing. She placed her head between her knees and moaned and cried until there were no tears left. Then she wiped her face with her nightgown and began cleaning the floor and the wall. Then she followed and cleaned his muddy path into the bedroom.

She removed his muddy boots and rolled him onto his back. She tugged off his pants and removed his torn shirt. Then she placed a pillow beneath his head and covered his body with a sheet.

Then she changed her gravy- and tear-stained nightgown, got in the bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

When she woke the following morning, he was beside her. She slipped from the bed, made a pot of coffee, and began cooking his breakfast. As she worked, she tried to remember when the beatings had started.

Then she remembered. It was the year little Jimbo, Jr. was born, almost twenty years ago. That was also when he had started drinking and going to bars. She remembered Jimbo, Jr. and later his sister, Ruby Ann, cowering in their bedroom when their father beat their mother.

She remembered the night that Jimbo, Jr. decided to stop his father from beating his mother. The boy had been fifteen years old and had inherited his father's muscular frame. But he was no match for his father. Jimbo had beaten his son unmercifully. The boy had left home that night.

Now she was alone in the trailer with Jimbo. Just a week ago, Ruby Ann had left. Pregnant at the age of sixteen, she had moved in with the young father of her unborn child. She had no intentions of marrying the boy, she had told her mother.

Jimbo, Jr. was married and had two children. He married a wisp of a girl, just like his mother, and his mother had noticed with horror the tell-tale bruises on the girl's face.

Ruby Mae listened to the snores coming from the bedroom and began making biscuits. Jimbo would wake soon, and he liked hot biscuits with his breakfast. She reached into the pantry and removed a cast-iron skillet. Jimbo's mother had given her the skillet; it was very old. She placed dough into the heavy, iron pan; and as she put it into the oven, she suddenly remembered the curious words his mother had spoken that day.

"I don't need this ol' skillet no more," his mother had said. Then she had handed it to her daughter-in-law and firmly stated: "You remember what I say, Ruby Mae Preston! An iron skillet ain't jus' for cookin' biscuits!"

Ruby Mae closed the oven door and wondered what Jimbo's mother had meant by those strange words. Jimbo called from the bedroom, "Ruby Mae! Brang me some coffee!"

She stood at the edge of the bed and waited as Jimbo sipped the coffee. She knew what was next. He pulled her into the bed.

She lay there in silence as he relieved himself inside her. His weight was smothering; his breath foul. The hairy chest that had once excited her was now repulsive and abrasive to her breasts. When he had finished, she picked up his empty cup and said, "Breakfast is almost ready."

They sat across the table from each other and ate in silence.

The rest of the day Jimbo worked on his pickup truck. Ruby Mae cleaned the kitchen and spent the remainder of the day cleaning her already spotless home. Late that afternoon Jimbo showered and then dressed in his best shirt and blue-jeans.

As he pulled on a pair of brand-new cowboy boots, he lied to his wife, "Some of tha boys wonna run their fox hounds tonight. I might be late, so there ain't no need in waitin' up for me."

She knew he was lying, but she said as he walked out the door, "Be careful, Jimbo."

In reality she was relieved. There would be no beating that night. He would come home about eight the next morning, tired from his night's carousing and ready for breakfast. He would eat and spend the rest of the day sleeping.

About ten o'clock that night she went to bed. The night sounds through the open window lulled her into a peaceful sleep.

She woke the next morning feeling rested and with an unusual sense of well-being. About eight o'clock she began making biscuits. When she heard the sound of his truck, she put the skillet of biscuits into the oven. His mother's words echoed again in her mind: "An iron skillet ain't jus' for cookin' biscuits!"

Jimbo opened the door, and she saw in horror that he was drunk. He staggered to the table and flopped into a chair.

"Where's my breakfast!?" he exclaimed in a drunken slur.

"J-just a minute, Jimbo," Ruby Mae replied, a tremble in her voice. "The biscuits are in the oven."

"Minute hell!" he exclaimed as his head bobbed drunkenly back and forth. "Put them biscuits on tha goddamned table!"

Tears filled her eyes, and she grabbed a pot holder and removed the skillet of un-baked biscuits from the oven. Then, holding the heavy skillet with both hands, she walked toward the table and her drunken husband.

"What kinda goddamned wife," he slurred, "ain't got her goddamned husband's goddamned breakfast cooked when he comes home!"

At that moment, Ruby Mae Preston smelled cheap perfume on her husband. Then she saw the tell-tale stain of make-up on the collar of his shirt. And his mother's words echoed again in her mind: "An iron skillet ain't jus' for cookin' biscuits!"

Twenty years of pent-up rage filled Ruby Mae's eyes, and she swung the heavy skillet with all of her might. It smashed into the face of Jimbo Preston. Un-baked biscuits flew all over the room. He fell unconscious to the floor.

She stood over her limp husband, the skillet poised, ready to strike again. He was unmoving, but he was breathing. Blood poured from his smashed nose and from a gash on his forehead. One of his eyes was swelling and turning blue.

She lowered the skillet, and a smile came to her face. She washed the blood from the skillet and began cleaning up the biscuits strewn around the room. A few minutes later she checked her husband and noticed the bleeding had stopped. She cleaned the puddle of blood from around him and, while humming a song she had learned as a child, busied herself in the kitchen.

An hour later he moaned and rolled over. She walked to him and held a chair as he gathered himself from the floor. While humming her little song, she wet a cloth and carefully washed the blood from his face.

His nose was broken and lying on one side of his face. The gash on his forehead would require stitches. His left eye was closed and swollen and had turned blue, purple, and black. His right eye was full of tears, but they were not tears of pain.

"Ready for some breakfast?" Ruby Mae asked him.

"Yes...yes," he mumbled.

She hummed and sang and made another batch of biscuits. Jimbo Preston sat at the table and—through his one good eye—saw his tiny wife as he had never seen her before.