I hated the way he slurped his shake—a bubbling of gastric juices. By some malign alchemy he could transform even the sweet vanilla pods of Madagascar into anger. Every slow suck was a rebuke.
“Pissant little assholes,” he rumbled round the straw. “Ungrateful.”
No need to ask who he meant. It didn’t matter Pop was angry with the whole world.
The rictus of a smile painted on my face, I raised my shake in a toast, “Happy Fourth.”
He squirted ketchup on his fries as if that might drown them, and glowered. “Yeah.”
I sighed. “Pass the freedoms, Pappy.”