The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(17)

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have taken that thing to your place and buried it,” my dad grumbles. “I finally got all the decorations where I wanted them and now I’ve got to figure out how to camouflage a freshly dug grave.”

My father, annoyed with all of the wedding talk and arguments, took it upon himself to spend the last few days decorating the front and back yards. Not only does my father overdo it with Christmas decorations, he also gets a little obsessed about the Fourth of July. It took a month for my mother and I to convince him that it would be okay to skip the decorations just this one year so we could have the wedding at their home. I love America and the Fourth of July as much as the next person, but my father takes this decorating business to an unhealthy level.

There are red, blue, and clear lights hung from every branch and trunk of every tree, for as far as the eye can see. More than twenty, by my last count, plastic, light-up American flags that are as big as a car scattered everywhere, so many life-sized, blow-up Uncle Sam’s that I’ve lost count, strands of flag lights lining the entire length of fence that wraps around the yard, a spotlight on the house that lights it up at night to look like fireworks are exploding against the front of it, American flag bunting hanging from the porch ceiling and railings, and over two-thousand tiny little American flags on wooden sticks, lining the sidewalk, either side of the driveway, the walkway around the house leading to the backyard, and randomly scattered all OVER the yard.

Suddenly, the notes of the song God Bless America blast through the yard, and my need to laugh quickly disappears. I forgot to mention that my father also hooks up a sound system, with speakers all around the house, giving the neighborhood a free concert every night with his Fourth of July playlist he has on a CD.

“You did a wonderful job with the decorations, Reggie,” my mother tells him with a smile. “The yard looks like Christmas in July!”

“Except it’s supposed to look like a wedding in July, not like America shit all over the lawn,” I mutter under my breath.

“This is my year, I can feel it,” my dad says excitedly, rubbing his hands together. “Max Monroe won’t know what hit him.”

Sam pauses his digging, pushing the shovel into the ground next to the hole and leaning his elbow on the handle. “Who’s Max Monroe?”

I sigh and shrug. “No one knows. I’m pretty sure he’s a figment of dad’s imagination.”

“HORSE SHIT!” my dad shouts. “Your mother has met him. She can back me up. He will not win the firework display contest this year. Wedding or no wedding, I’m taking that guy down.”

My dad continues talking to himself and Sam shoots a questioning look over to my mother.

“Reginald, there is no such thing as a firework display contest!” she argues. “It’s just you two idiots trying to outdo each other every year instead of enjoying time with your family.”

She glances at Sam, who still looks confused, and I don’t blame him. I’ve witnessed this war on fireworks every year since Mr. Monroe and his family moved in a few houses down, and I still don’t have a clue about any of it.

“You shut your mouth when you’re talking to me! He started this war, and now I’m going to finish it,” my father informs her.

“Just because he happened to light off one firework, immediately after you did, down the street at HIS OWN PARTY TEN YEARS AGO, does not mean he declared a war!” she fires back.

“Next you’ll be telling me it’s a coincidence that he lights off a firework after every one I do, and it’s always bigger and better!”

“No, it’s not a coincidence! It’s the FOURTH OF JULY and every yahoo in America is lighting off illegal fireworks until all hours of the morning!”

Sam holds up one hand to halt the argument.

“Wait, did you say illegal fireworks?” he asks. “You know I work for the government, right?”

My dad shakes his head at Sam, stomps over to him, and yanks the shovel out from under his arm, causing Sam to stumble a little bit before he gets his footing.

“And as a Marine, you have a duty to serve and protect,” my dad tells him, pointing the shovel at his crotch. “It is your duty to serve me beer while I light off illegal fireworks that I may or may not cross the border into Pennsylvania to buy and smuggle back in my trunk, and it is your duty to protect my reputation as the King of all Firework Displays by keeping your trap shut about it!”

Aunt Bobbie suddenly lets out a screeching wail, the sound a hundred times louder than the music blasting from the speakers.

“HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR TURD FERGUSON?!” she screams. “HE LOST HIS LIFE IN THIS GREAT NATION! YOU HAVE THE FREEDOM TO EAT YOUR WEIGHT IN HAMBURGERS AND HOT DOGS AND LIGHT UP THE NIGHT SKY BECAUSE HE DIED FOR YOU!”

“Uhhh, I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened,” Sam mutters.

“I can’t respect a cat named Turd Ferguson,” my dad chimes in.

“I will have you know, he loved his name,” Aunt Bobbie informs us. “It was a charming, unique name and he loved it!”

She starts crying all over again and my mother quickly rushes to her side and wraps her arm around Aunt Bobbie’s shoulder.

“How is being named after a lump of shit charming? Can we get this thing over with already?” my dad complains. “There’s a guy down at The Walmarts selling M-80’s out of the trunk of his car. I need to get there before there’s nothing but duds left. I can’t very well make Max shit his pants if I’ve got nothing but duds in my arsenal.”