A Mobster's Independence Day Picnic by Beth Mathison Page B

dress, and was sweating bullets. Mary Charlotte wore a bright red pantsuit, a giant crucifix necklace hanging from her neck. Harry shouted over to Mary Charlotte to get her attention.
    “What’s your opinion?” Harry asked her. “You were in training to be a nun when you were younger, so you’re really qualified in religious matters. Is believing in superstition a sin?”
    “I’m not sure if I’m the right person to ask, since I got thrown out of the nunnery,” Mary Charlotte responded. “Dealing those hot rosaries is going to haunt me the rest of my days, although I’m so old I don’t know how many days I’ve got left.”
    “I walked under a ladder once and got pooped on by a bird,” Charlie said. “So I can confirm that walking under ladders brings bad luck of the bird kind.”
    Everyone had stopped eating and was looking at Charlie.
    “I think throwing salt over your shoulder brings good luck,” Annalisa said. “It’s supposed to ward off the devil.”
    Half the people at their picnic tables reached for their little paper salt packages, ripped them open, and tossed salt over their shoulders.
    Uncle Frank opened up a salt package and sprinkled it over his potato salad. “I’m not letting good salt go to waste,” he explained. “And I need all the flavor I can get after Charlie’s poop remark.”
    “Can we for once have a meal without talking about bodily functions?” Aunt Shirley sighed.
    “We could talk about finance or politics,” Harry said. “That would spice things up.”
    “I don’t have any salt,” Charlie said, searching the tables for extra packets. “How am I going to have good luck if I can’t find any salt?” He tried snitching Mary Charlotte’s salt packet from the picnic table, but she shooed him away.
    “I’m going to get pooped on, I just know it,” Charlie said, looking up nervously at the trees.
    “I think you need to settle down,” Uncle Tommy said. He had taken his seat at the picnic table and was eating a large green salad.
    “The superstition thoughts have got me,” Charlie exclaimed. “I can’t stop myself. Do the spaces between the grass count as cracks? Sweet Mother of Jesus, can I break my mother’s back, even though she’s already dead?” He danced around on his tip-toes, finally giving up and stood on the picnic bench. He crossed all the fingers in his hands for luck, holding them in front of his body.
    “I think that’s obsessive compulsive behavior,” Annalisa said.
    “Stop!” Aunt Shirley said, lifting up a warning finger. “Remember, no psychology talk at family gatherings.”
    “I really think we need some kind of intervention on Charlie’s behalf,” Harry said, looking up at him. An older couple, walking along a path next to the tables, saw Charlie standing on the bench and scurried away.
    “Quick, somebody get me some salt before my fingers cramp up,” Charlie said. “I can’t create my own luck for much longer.”
    Uncle Frank stood up and splashed his glass of lemonade on to Charlie’s face. Charlie unlocked his fingers and stepped to the ground, sputtering lemonade.
    “I would have used water,” Uncle Frank said. “But all I had was lemonade. You’re going to be a bit sticky, but have you calmed down?”
    “Thanks, Uncle Frank,” Charlie said with relief. “I feel much better now.”
    “I’d like to make a toast,” Betty said, standing up next to the picnic table, swaying slightly. She fanned herself with her free hand, trying to ward off the heat.
    “Have you been drinking?” Jeremy asked her quietly.
    “Nope,” Betty said. “Not yet.” She paused, taking a deep breath, then held up her paper cup. “I’d like to toast God, family, and this great country of ours. And God, please forgive us for our superstitious natures, if in fact, they are sins. We’re having a little bit of confusion about the issue down here, so any clarification on your part would be much appreciated. Also, thanks a lot for this