Always a murderous furnace of days, tattered end of a summer that hung on long after it should have. Think chilly! Gran would say whenever we sat out front fanning ourselves with napkins. Think of snow and a bone-white moon in December. Old mutt lying spineless on the kitchen linoleum in front of the icebox where Grandpop kept his bottle of vodka. White lightning, he called it. How a tall glass or two would unleash the thunder in his tongue: The jackasses he worked with. The bastards he worked for, goddamn bunch of rich pricks. Wouldn’t piss on them if their hearts were on fire. All snarl and bite, every damn day a dog.
