every year, lieutenant frederick ross spends the fourth of july settin' on his front porch in all the glory of his military uniform. don't matter if somebody having an independence day cookout down the street, complete with chicken and applesauce and lemonade and mama williams' best pies. don't matter what sorta parades the young'uns were carrying out along the roads. rain or shine, he's in his chair out front, his finery creatin' some aura of dignified stoicism around him, even as he occasion'lly draws a fat cigar to his wrinkled lips.
this afternoon, his imperious gaze oversees a handful of the neighborhood children chasing one another down the bluegrass-trimmed sidewalk, the girls decked out in their best blue and red gingham dresses and the boys sportin' patriotic scarves for the day. "happy july the fourth, mister ross," they call out as they fly across his lawn.
"happy fourth and god bless you," he musters the greeting in return, his voice gruff with age and weariness. "and it's lieutenant ross to y'all."
not that any of those youngsters are old enough to remember the war. see, they like him 'cause every year on this day, he go into his house in the evening after settin' all afternoon, and he and his wife, eliza, come out with a terrific box o' fireworks. after that, they set around some more with them fireworks on the lawn. at exactly midnight, he take his gun outta that uniform and right as he fires a shot in the air, all them fireworks go off in a great shower of flying color so the night's all sparklin' as he kisses his wife. the neighbors and children gather round every year for this spectacle as this ain't an everyday occurrence in south carolina.
tonight ain't any old fourth-o'-july night, though, because lieutenant ross is especially brusque and worn-out, even for the seventy-two year old man he is, and the whole town knows why. there ain't a soul who dare mention it aloud so as to hurt anyone's feelings, but today is his first independence day without his darling eliza, and everybody's silently curious as to how them fireworks are gonna be without her by his side.
some of the children watch as he gets up from his chair, works his way 'cross the porch, heads inside the house, and emerges with that annual box o' fireworks. instead of easin' back down into his chair, though, he goes back in an' brings out another box. and another. this year is gonna be quite the show.
quite the show indeed, the lieutenant muses as the gathering children gape at the enormous pile of fireworks on the lawn. i'm gonna make eliza happy tonight.
the only difference between this year and all the others was that the gunshot was aimed at lieutenant ross' temple, not the air. as his fingers crushed the trigger, he gave his country one last farewell. happy birthday, america. happy fucking birthday.
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