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Show Chapter Thirteen Brian burst through the front door of our tiny apartment, holding a newspaper. His tie was loosened, his eyes fierce and red - from anger or drinking or smoking grass or all three, I could never be sure which anymore. "You hear about this? That bastard, Nixon. Four students in Ohio shot for protesting the war." I felt sick. "Are they dead?" I sat down. Oh yeh!" His voice was taunting, like a mocking playmate. It challenged anyone to an argument. "These are only the ones who died. Lots more were wounded. Those that weren't hit by National Guard bullets were struck with clubs." He Paced up and down the small livingroom, kicking at the porch chair someone had lent us when we moved in. I coaxed him to sit on the mattress covered with an India-bedspread - our 'sofa.' "As if enough people haven't already died for that damn war," I muttered. |