LITMIR.BIZ

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      “You’re really going to be the first to take it up?”

      “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

      Suddenly there was a crash and a scream. I caught my breath. It was Peter! He was sprawled on the floor next to the workbench. Blood was pouring from a gash under his eye!

      “Get some towels!”

      “Here!”

      Art rushed over to Peter and pressed a towel to his face. “Shit!” he said under his breath. “Peter, can you sit up?”

      He looked at me. “Help him sit up. We need to keep his head up.”

      I put my arm around Peter and raised him up. He was crying, his breath coming in gasps. Blood was soaking through the towel. “Somebody go get Matt,” I said. Matt Bailey was a doctor, an orthopedic surgeon.

      Tom ran out the front door of the garage. “I hope he’s still around.”

      By now Peter had stopped screaming. He was sobbing and shuddering. “Blanket,” I said, “I need a blanket.” Tammy disappeared into the house.

      “Peter,” I said, kneeling stiffly beside him, “what happened, big guy?”

      “I fell on that thing,” he said, looking toward the rolls of aluminum. “Oh that hurts!” he screamed as I moved the towel, looking for a dry spot.

      “Sorry... sorry. Just hold on, be brave.”

      “Noah pushed me. It’s his fault.”

      Noah was standing nearby, his face white. “Did not,” he whispered.

      Tammy was back with the blanket. “Help me wrap it around,” I said, “we need to keep him warm.”

      “Is he still bleeding?”

      “Get me another towel.”

      Just then Matt showed up, doctor’s bag in hand, Diane and Penny right behind. Diane stood for a moment, eyes wide, then rushed over and took the towels from Tammy.

      “Peter my man, what did you do to yourself?” Matt said, kneeling down. “Here, let’s take a look.” He gently removed the towel. I was holding Peter, he was still shuddering.

      “Ah, that’s a nasty one. Reach in that bag,” he told Diane, “get me that brown bottle. Open up four of those gauze pads, the big ones.” He unscrewed the bottle of peroxide and poured some on his hands, wiping them with a pad. Then he wet a second pad and brought it close to Peter’s cheek. “You’re not going to like this but I’m going to clean your cut. Take a deep breath.” He looked at me. “Hold him tight. He’s going to jump.”

      “OWW! OOOWWWW!”

      Diane’s eyes were filled with tears. She glanced at me with a puzzled expression.

      “He fell on a piece of metal,” I said.

      Matt tossed the gauze aside and reached for another. “You’re doing great, Peter. One more time, that’ll do it.”

      Peter screamed again. My heart was pounding as I looked at his little face. He squeezed my hand hard. Diane was holding Peter’s other hand. “Get me the tube of ointment from the kit.” Diane rooted around and pulled out a tube of Bacitracin.

      “That’s it,” Matt said, squeezing a line of ointment onto the pad. “Got to keep this lubricated. Another gauze.” As he changed the pads I winced to see the cut, raw and deep. The bleeding had slowed, at least. “Adhesive tape. Four strips.”

      Diane ripped off one strip and held it out. Matt taped one pad to Peter’s cheek, then a second over it. “A clean towel. Fold it and hold it against the gauze.” Diane pressed the towel to Peter’s face. “You’re doing fine,” Matt mumbled, “you’re going to be all right.”

      “Are you a doctor?” Peter blurted out.

      “Matter of fact, I am.” Matt began taping the towel to Peter’s face. “And when we finish you’re going straight to the emergency room where you’ll see some more doctors. I’ll bet you’ve been there before.”

      “I broke my arm last year.”

      “They fixed you up fine, right? And they’ll do it again.” Matt rubbed his hand through Peter’s hair. “You’re doing great. You’re a terrific patient.”

      Diane stared at me. “Here, let me hold him.” I loosened my grip and she sat down on the floor and put her arms around him, pressing him to her. “There, there, you’re going to be all right. Poor baby, poor, poor baby.”

      That started Peter bawling again. “I want my brother. Where’s Paul?”

      “He’s at home. You’ll see him soon.”

      Matt wiped his hands on a clean towel. He had bloodstains on the sleeves and front of his shirt. “He’ll need stitches. When was his last tetanus shot?”

      I shook my head. “Last fall, before school,” Diane said.

      “They may want to give him a booster. Better carry him, he’s lost a fair amount of blood. I won’t be surprised if he has a mild case of shock.”

      “I’ll get the car.”

      Shaken, I walked out into the night, Tom Salvatore with me, Noah with him.

      “We took our eyes off them,” he said. “I feel awful.”

      “Same here,” I said resignedly.

      Word had spread. The party was fast winding down, guests just standing around. The cleanup was underway. Everyone wanted to know about Peter. “We’re taking him to the emergency room to get stitched up. Thank God for Matt. He was great.”

      Kristin had Paul and Emma in tow. “Don’t worry about anything, Mr. B, I’ll put these two to bed.”

      Tom put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on things. Go do what you have to do.”

      I went inside to get my keys and wallet. The last thing I saw as I went to get our car was Ronald Fucking Reagan, his cheery mug filling my thirty-three inch screen. Nobody was watching. We got home about two. Twelve stitches plus a tetanus shot. Plus antibiotics. Plus instructions for cleaning and covering. Thank God it wasn’t his eye. The stiches would come out in ten days. I had no travel coming up, I would have put it off anyway.

      Tom and Art felt terrible, but I knew I had screwed up. Diane let me know it too. A mild rebuke – she had enough sense to realize how bad I felt already. Though I knew her mental score sheet had another mark beside my name.

      What happened, the two boys and another were roughhousing, pushing and shoving, and somehow Peter fell face-first into the business end of a roll of sheet metal. Half an inch higher, he could have lost an eye. When the stitches came out they left a two-inch slash. It will lighten, they said, but he’ll carry a scar his whole life. Ironically, it was in nearly the identical place as my shrapnel divot. It almost made me cry to look at him.

      A couple of months later, I had just finished reading him a story. “Dad,” he said, looking up, “when I grow up I want to be like you.”

      He’d never said anything like that before. “Peter,” I said, “when you grow up you’ll be a lot better than I ever will.”

      “ And you know what, Dad, I’ve already started.”

      “Started? What do you mean?”

      “My scar. See? It’s just like yours.”

      I bent down to kiss him, turned out the light and walked from the room, overcome.

      As for the conventions, the Republicans we’ve already talked about. Jimmy Carter withstood a furious late Kennedy challenge and secured the nomination

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