Disclaimer: Toby and Milton were combined into this vignette. Why? I haven't the faintest idea. Character copyrights go to Universal Studios.

Vignette Three: Tough Love

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Milton looked at Toby. Toby looked at Milton. Then both looked at the picnic table. Mrs. Baines had set it up nice and American for Fourth of July. A red and white checkered tablecloth covered the splintering wood. Decked upon it was soda pop, theme napkins, paper plates, and hot dogs straight off the American grill. All the condiments to squirt on them were there too. Yup, all American everything. True to the birth of the nation. The Rocket's Red Glare, Guns Bursting In Air, Gave Truth To The Night, That Our Flag was still There!

Too bad the picnic wasn't.

Everything was singed beyond belief. Far, far beyond belief. The tablecloth was tattered from flames. Paper plates looked like tiny black rocks. The mustard and ketchup bottles held disgusting aftermath. Ellen and Sally, while screaming, had knocked most of the food off. Ants covered the corn cobs. Hot dogs were trampled into mush, which the neighbor's dog was enjoying. It barked with approval.

"Well, it seemed like a nifty idea…" Toby muttered.

"If you're going to fail at defending youself, speak up!" Sam Baines said. Toby automatically straightened his spine. Milton did too. "Speak!"

"We got the idea from Ray." Toby said.

"Ray?" Sam demanded. "That punk kid down the street with the sideburns?"

"Ray Bradbury, Dad." Milton said. He pulled a rolled magazine out of his back pocket. "See? He wrote a story about a real nifty rocket…"

Sam took the magazine away. Snatching it as if he needed something to shake at the boys.

"The only rockets that should fly in America," Mrs. Baines chimed in. The front of her apron looked charred. "Are the ones from NASA. Why do you two always have to ingage in shenanigans? Today is America's birthday. Do you think your father wants to scold you on America's birthday?"

"Yes." Toby said. Milton elbowed him.

Sam was stock-still for a moment. Neither boy could read his face. Dictarian Rock? Yell Machine Mode? Meltdown Point? They couldn't tell. With one gesture he pushed the magazine into Milton's arms and pointed to the house.

"Go to your room." Sam said. His voice was strangely calmer now. "Don't come down until I say so."

Their room was on the second floor, across from where Lorraine used to sleep. Toby had shared it with Milton for the whole twelve years of his life. Never had they been so quiet in it. No toys were being played with. No comics or magazines were being read. Milton sat on his bed and Toby sat on his. It was a big surprise when Toby filled the silence with words.

"We're not gonna see the fireworks."

"Yeah," Milton said and layed on his back. Their ceiling had been plastered with glow in the dark stars. Milton counted them. Twenty-six.

"Man, why can't Dad be like Beaver's Dad?" Toby wonder out loud. "That guy never yelled!"

"He wasn't real Toby," Milton said. "Neither was the Beaver."

"Still." Toby said. "Why is he… not him."

Crackling fireworks provided a soundtrack for their thinking.