Words by Ginny L. Yttrup Read Free Book Online Page B

the truck. Sure enough, there's a brown paper bag on the front seat. I find the eggs and bread in the bag along with two cans of tuna, a jar of mayonnaise, and some sweet pickles. I hate sweet pickles, but my mouth waters all the same. I might get breakfast and lunch today.
    I carry the bag back to the kitchen and take the frying pan off the shelf under the counter. I put the pan on the stove, crack four eggs into it, and then beat them up with a fork, just like my mom showed me. I don't have any milk to add to them, but I sprinkle in some salt and a little pepper. Then I reach to turn on the front burner, but nothing happens. I turn it off and then on again. Still nothing. Then I remember—the power is off. We don't have any electricity. I can't cook the eggs or toast the bread.
    I stand there not knowing what to do.
    Pretty soon I hear him get out of bed and head for the kitchen. His bare feet slap the concrete floor with each step. He comes up behind me and stands so close that I can feel the hair on his arms tickling my arms. He bends down and whispers in my ear, "What's the holdup, sweetheart?"
    His breath is putrid. That's my P word for him. Everything about him is putrid.
    He reaches around me and tries to turn on the burner. He clicks it once, twice. I feel his body tense against mine. And then he slams his fist against the stove top, the electrical coils rattle and one of the knobs cracks in two. This so startles me that I jump and find myself pressed hard against him. I immediately try to move forward, but there's nowhere to go.
    I'm trapped.
    I feel like I might throw up. But instead of doing what I expect him to do, he shoves me aside and walks back to his room and slams the door.
    After a few minutes, he comes back out. He's put on his jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. He grabs the Windbreaker that he threw over the kitchen chair last night and heads out the front door. I hear the truck start and then gravel sprays the cabin as his tires spin in the driveway. The truck clunks into gear and he drives away.
    He's gone.
    I slump over the stove and concentrate on breathing.
    Breathe in.
    Breathe out.
    Breathe in.
    Hands shaking, I dump the egg mess into the sink and rinse the pan. Then I take two pieces of the bread and spread mayonnaise on them. I put them together like a sandwich and eat it. I take small bites and chew really slow, hoping to make my breakfast last. The first bite is hard to swallow—hard to get past the lump in my throat. But each bite is easier and finally I feel normal again.
    After I eat, I put on the K-Mart jeans and smooth down my hair. I open the drawer in the bathroom and find his toothpaste and then brush my teeth with my finger. I'm careful to put the toothpaste back just like it was.
    Once all of that is done, I stand by the front window and look through the cracks in the boards. I wonder if she's there, in the clearing. I wonder what she's doing. Again, I feel like I'm supposed to go there, but I can't take that chance. I can't risk having him come back and find me gone.
    I pace back and forth and finally decide I'll try to pass the time reading. I go to the bookshelf, kneel down, lift the board, and pull out the large blue book: Etiquette—The Blue Book of Social Usage —by Emily Post. It's a book that tells you how to do everything in just the right way. It was my Grammy's. It's really old. The date in the front of the book is 1955! I'm careful when I open it because I know there are two cards tucked inside the pages—Christmas cards from Grammy's friends, I guess. The postmarks on the cards are December 4, 1966 and December 7, 1966. I love reading the cards and looking at the Christmas scenes on the front, but today I want to read something I remember seeing in the book.
    I flip to the contents and scan the page until I find what I want. It's in chapter two.
    Introducing Oneself
    If there is good reason for knowing someone, it is quite proper to introduce yourself. For instance, you