“He will come down the chimney,” Father grumbled, his hand caressing the barrel of the Frog Shooter on his lap.
Father was sitting in Mother’s little chair in front of the fireplace. His dollar store sunglasses hung crooked on his honker. He was six-foot two, or had been before developing his post-divorce slouch, and 240 pounds. In Mother’s little chair, he looked like ice cream spilling over the sides of a too-small cone.
“How could you possibly know that?” John asked. He was zipping his coat, his back to Father.
“I just do,” said Father, shaking his jowls as if it ought to be perfectly clear. “Am I not allowed to know things anymore?”
John pulled the curtain aside with a finger and glanced into the blackness outside. “I only know known knowns.”
Not the response Father wanted. I knew it. John knew it.
“There you go again,” snarled Father.
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