Spring 1952 – A Growing Rage

 

Grant’s face was covered with bruises. His left eye was swollen shut and his nose appeared to have been broken. His left arm was in a cast and his right leg was splinted. He appeared to be dozing but, at the sound of my entrance, he lifted his head and opened his good eye. “Think this is bad? You should see the other guy,” he slurred. 

I gave him a short, polite laugh. 

He squinted at me and seemed to come more awake. He took a slow, deep breath. He said, “I guess you already did. It’s gotten bigger. I’d say it’s gotten meaner but I’m still alive.”

I nodded. I said, “Maybe it wasn’t mad at you.”