He was shaking his head. He was shaking his head he was so angry. He went into the kitchen.
          He couldn't look at her. He couldn't stand to look at her face. He looked at a glass of water on the counter.
          She was talking. He was hurt. Blood was soaking the towel over his ear. His ex-wife was talking. He looked at the glass of water on the counter. He was shaking his head.
          He slapped the glass of water off the counter. Shut up, he yelled. Shut up! He threw the bloodied towel at the window above the sink. Then he kicked in a cabinet door and broke the dirty dishes. He threw her coffee cup across the dining room at the piano. She ran to the back of the house to their son's room. He broke and stomped the bananas. He screamed and shoved the microwave off the counter. He ripped the grills off the electric stove and kicked in the oven. Dishes cracked underfoot.
          He was breathing through his nose. Everything else he could break waited.
          He squeezed a raw potato with his thumbs. He sat down against the oven. He felt dizzy. He felt all the blood by his ear. All the drops of blood in the kitchen. He took the towel from the sink and put it over his ear.

          He had tried to bury his son's goat in the desert. The neighbor's dog had gotten in its pen and killed it and eaten half of its belly. He dragged the goat into a wash to bury it. He drove the goat to the desert preserve at the end of her street. He stopped digging. He broke the last of a mint with his teeth and then a rock hit him in the shoulder. Then another rock hit against the wash bank and another hit his ear. He dropped to his knees and covered his head. Things went black. Another rock hit in the bush where the goat was and one against the wash rocks. He staggered up and started to run.
          Someone yelled, We saw you!
          We're going to kill you! He almost fell. He was confused. Blood was wetting his shirt and his hand. Two more rocks missed him. He turned around and saw three figures jog down the wash bank. He turned and ran.
          He went to their son's door.
          I'm leaving. He tried the handle. It turned but the door wouldn't open. His ex-wife was leaning against it.
          Don't come in. You're scaring him.
          He was getting angry again. I could break this door down. I could knock you over on your head. I want to see my son. He could hear his son crying.
          I'll call the police.
          Open the fucking door. He leaned on it a little and then stepped back. Your mom killed Zorro, Al. She let a dog eat him. He's dead. He heard his son cry louder. Let me see him! Get away from the goddamn door. He kicked the door and the wood broke. I'm not going anywhere!
          He ran into the dining room, picked up a chair, and smashed it on the floor. A leg snapped and clattered under the table. He raced under to get it, to destroy with it. The broken end had popped into splinters—small splinters, hundreds of them bunched into a blossom. He made a sound at it. He sat up. He wanted his son to see them.