Scalp wounds bleed. The way the blood came out of Bill’s head reminded Mary of the time Liz pierced her ear once too often. She went against direct parental orders with that hole in her cartilage, and Mary had thought the appropriate consequence was removal of the stud. For such a thin little ear, she was amazed at the quantity of blood that poured from it. Ribbons of bright red in the white bathroom sink.

It was a little more understandable, all the blood welling from a gash in the head instead of a little hole in an ear, but even so it was impressive. Mary stained three towels with it, applied pressure and ice, and still it bled. They were in the kitchen – they needed the room – Bill sitting upright at the table and Mary ministering above and around him. The blood looked very bright against his pale scalp, matting his thin dark hair, clotting above his right temple. He became quiet: that and his pallor gave Mary the idea he might be in a little shock, even though the cut was not deep. She didn’t think they’d need the hospital. She offered him a drink. She wrapped a soft bandage around his head.

“There,” she stated with some satisfaction. “You look like Yankee Doodle.”

Bill fingered the gauze. “Hah,” he retorted with a wry look. He sipped his bourbon. “I’d sure as hell fight if I were younger.”

“Mmmmm.” Mary resumed cleaning the kitchen, which was the activity that led to her opening the window and Bill standing up into it, in the first place.

They heard the back door open, followed by the voices of their younger daughters. Liz and Laney entered the kitchen and startled their parents again, Liz with her pierced, tattooed emaciation and Laney with hideous hair. Lately she sported a head one-third shaved, with the remaining hair dyed chartreuse. They were discussing their lovers without discretion; Bill and Mary got to hear about Liz’s latest dark beau (they all looked Middle Eastern to Bill, but they were probably just Mexican), and Laney’s enthusiastic conversion to homosexuality (she was completely infatuated by an older and not unattractive dyke named Barbara).

“Where’s your brother?” Bill asked them, as much to change their subject as anything else.

They looked a little guilty, and Bill knew Rick was at the peace rally. The girls even tried to forestall Bill’s rant by acting like he was inquiring about their older brother instead, but that didn’t distract Bill. Laney admitted that they had left young Rick at the civic center park, marching with the other lefties.

“I don’t get it,” Bill said. “It’s pretty strange that a kid who shot his junior high teacher has now become so passive.”

“Pacifist, Dad,” corrected Liz. “Not passive.”

“Yeah,” compounded Laney. “And it’s not so weird. Maybe Rick actually learned… You know the saying: ‘Good judgment comes from experience. And experience comes from bad judgment.’”

They were right, but that didn’t calm Bill. In fact he felt like he was going crazy. He was filled with a love of country and passion to avenge lately, and he was surrounded by a moron, a junkie, a hippie, and a delinquent, all of whom preached nonviolence. Agreeing with each other. Reinforcing one another. He downed his bourbon and rose abruptly. He headed for his workbench in the garage.