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A Mobster’s Independence Day Picnic
    Beth Mathison
    “I wonder if the heat can make firecrackers explode,” Harry said, looking at the colorful boxes stacked neatly on the grass. “Death Star Fireworks” was printed boldly on three large wooden boxes.
    “Of course you need heat to make them explode,” Charlie answered. “That’s the whole point of lighting them up.”
    “I mean the sun ,” Harry said. “It’s pretty hot out here, and I’m wondering if the heat from the sun can make them blow up.”
    “Ohhhhh,” Charlie said, looking down. They both took a step back.
    “Maybe we should get some fans on them,” Harry said.
    “We’re in a park,” Charlie replied. “They don’t have wall sockets out here in the wilderness.”
    Harry and Charlie stood next to a classic brown 1970 Chrysler Town & Country station wagon. Other picnickers had parked under shade trees before lugging their gear to the picnic area. Harry and Charlie had parked the station wagon in a bright but empty corner of the lot, to give them privacy. They had unloaded three large fireworks boxes and had them stacked on the blacktop next to the car.
    “I think we should ask the Mythbusters people,” Harry said. “You know, that TV show where they try to confirm or bust myths? We should have them see if the sun can explode fireworks. Maybe we could get on to the show.”
    “Maybe it would work if these weren’t hot fireworks,” Charlie said.
    Harry laughed.
    “You know that hot means contraband, right?” Charlie asked.
    “Of course I know what you meant,” Harry responded. “For a mobster, I have a highly refined handle on the English language.”
    “I would stop lying before the sky opens up and lightning strikes you dead,” Jeremy said, walking up to them. He held a glass of lemonade in one hand, and a fine bead of sweat lined his brow.
    “God wouldn’t do that,” Harry said. “It’s just a little fib. And besides, there’s not a cloud in the sky.”
    Jeremy eyed the fireworks boxes and took a step back. “That’s even more than last year,” he said. “Those are giant boxes. Where’d you get them?”
    “I thought you weren’t interested in the family business anymore,” Charlie said. “You’re in the cupcake business now.”
    “I’m interested in your business only because you have a pile of questionable explosives sitting a hundred yards from where my pregnant wife is eating her tofu salad. I’m concerned for the people I love, not the family business.”
    “What the heck is tofu?” Harry asked.
    “Basically it’s soy milk and bean curd squished into a brick,” Jeremy said.
    “Ack!” Charlie exclaimed. “What happened to the traditional brats and hot dogs and burgers? What about the potato chips and watermelon and ice cream cones? I don’t think we can celebrate the Fourth of July without any of those things.”
    “Relax,” Jeremy said. “Aunt Shirley’s got all of those things, including the red-white-and-blue gelatin mold in the shape of a flag. Carla’s eating the tofu because she thinks it’s better for the baby.”
    “Well, she’s going to be surprised when it comes out looking like a bean curd,” Harry said. “It’s just not natural.”
    “Hey, you’re talking about my wife and child,” Jeremy said. “Carla knows what she’s doing, and my son or daughter is not going to look like a bean.”
    “Have you ever seen an ultrasound picture of a baby?” Charlie said. “They sure look like beans on those things. I think Carla should eat a big, juicy burger to give her and the baby strength.”
    Uncle Tommy walked up to them, dressed in linen pants and a lightweight sports jacket, a pair of expensive sunglasses on his face. Harry and Charlie were sweating through their red flag t-shirts, but Uncle Tommy looked like he just stepped out of a cooler. Uncle Tommy towered over the three of them, glancing at the fireworks boxes.
    “Aunt Shirley wants you to stop giving Jeremy baby advice