Cold Fury

by T. M. Goeglein

  “What?” my father said, clanging shut the heavy door.

  “Cosa?” my grandpa said.

  “Never, ever go inside that oven!” my father said.

  “Non mai! Never!” my grandpa echoed, pounding his little fist on the long steel rolling table, sending a puff of flour into the air.

  I stepped back, shocked at their overreaction. “I was kidding. I’m just . . . I’m having a bad day.”

  “Of course she was kidding,” Uncle Buddy said, wiping his hands on his apron and placing them on my shoulders. He put on his big trademark smile. “You think she’s dumb enough to climb inside that thing?”

  My dad stared at me, and what I remember specifically is how sad he looked. He and I share a similar trait—blue eyes decorated with little flecks of shimmering gold—and his seemed to be seeing something far beyond the here and now. Softly, he said, “No, Buddy. I think she’s the smartest girl I know.”

  “Nostra ragazza intelligente! Our smart girl!” my grandpa agreed.

  Uncle Buddy looked at Grandpa and then at my dad, as confused as I was by the outburst. He was still smiling but there was a trace of suspicion in his voice when he said, “Is it just me or is there something weird going on here?”

  “Sara Jane, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell . . . ,” my dad said, ignoring the question. But my feelings were hurt, and I turned to Uncle Buddy.

  “Can I talk to you?” I said. “Just the two of us?”

  Uncle Buddy looked over me at my dad, who sighed and shrugged. My uncle took off his apron and said, “Okay, sure. Let’s go outside.” It was early evening and the summer sky was warm and orange as I told him about Walter’s kiss and Mandi’s word. He sat on the hood of his convertible puffing a “Sick-a-Rette,” a non-cancerous concoction of organic herbs prescribed by his doctor to help him quit smoking. The good news was that it was working; the bad news was that it smelled as sickly sweet as a Dumpster full of garbage on a hot day. At the end, I told him what little Max Kissberg had said about ignoring knuckleheads.

  “Smart kid,” Uncle Buddy said, flicking away the stinking Sick-a-Rette. He produced car keys and said, “Get in. I want to show you something.” We didn’t talk much as he drove through the Loop and parked off Michigan Avenue. We climbed steps past the lions guarding the entrance to the Art Institute, walked inside the cool, quiet building, and went directly to a gallery where a handful of people loitered silently. One wall was dominated by an enormous painting. Uncle Buddy nodded at it and said, “It’s called A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.” I’d seen it before, shuffling past with other kids on field trips, but now my uncle urged me to inspect it closely. I stepped forward and stared, and slowly my eyes divided a picture of people relaxing on a small island into millions of tiny painted dots. He explained that one of its meanings is that life is made up of an endless series of events and incidents—painful, joyful, and all connected in a way that makes a person who she is. “Just like this painting, Sara Jane,” Uncle Buddy said, “point by point, you’re in the process of being made. Just keep moving forward and you’ll be all right. Trust me.”

  I did. I trusted my uncle, and it was a mistake.

  I would remember his advice later, when I was trying to find out what had happened to my parents and Lou, trying desperately to see the big picture.

  Once I began to connect the dots, they were as big as the famous Rispoli & Sons molasses cookies.

  4

  SOMETIMES THINGS CHANGE in a family as slowly as a melting glacier, so you don’t notice them until they’ve begun to rearrange the landscape.

  For us, that glacier was named Greta Kushchenko.

  It was only about a year ago, when I was fifteen, that Uncle Buddy casually mentioned he was dating someone, which surprised us all. That someone became Greta, and then she was around, not always, just sometimes, at a birthday party or dinner at my grandparents’ home—shy, quiet, plain, and, in her own words, humble, based on her upbringing by poor Russian immigrants. And then as the months fell away she was there all the time, at every event and holiday, growing louder and flashier and more opinionated by drips and inches. Her manner of talking crept from mousy to brassy, her views on the world from whispered to blared, and her style of dress from nun to showgirl. She was all bright-red lipstick, huge fake eyelashes, and hair that bloomed from a dull mushroom into a cascade of white-blond curls and ringlets. Even a casual observer could see that she had become an unofficial member of the Rispoli family.

  To a noncasual observer (me) it was glaringly obvious that “unofficial” wouldn’t cut it with Greta.

  Her goal was to fully infiltrate the family by strong-arm tactics, her favorite being to mock and humiliate Uncle Buddy into submission and then kissy-face him until he’d do anything she asked. I once overheard her whisper to him how as the second son, he was regarded as only second best, igniting suspicions that already existed within his insecure psyche, and then tell him how much she loved him—that to “Gweta” (yes, nauseatingly, she used baby talk) he was just as smart and capable as his big brother Anthony. She’d perfected the art of driving a wedge between a close-knit group of people (us) and one of its own (my stupid uncle) until we were forced to share her company at the risk of alienating him. To Uncle Buddy, she could say and do no wrong. To me, she was incapable of taking no or even maybe for an answer without firebombing the room. One Sunday afternoon after a long family meal, I was passing by Lou’s bedroom when I heard her talking to my brother. I stood outside and listened to her coo, “Come on, Lou, say it once, just for me. It’s a very nice offer I’m making. You should be honored.”

  In his usual polite tone, my brother said, “No, thanks.”

  And then Greta’s tone was anything but polite, it was pushy and mocking as she said, “No, thanks. Okay, fine, but you better get used to it, egghead. ’Cause it’s gonna happen. So say it!”

  “Say what?” I said, stepping inside. Greta turned and shot a look she reserved just for me, much like a cornered garden snake eyeing a ferret.

  Lou said, “She wants me to call her aunt. Aunt Greta.”

  “That’s what you’re pressuring him about?” I moved forward, Greta bumped into Lou’s desk, and I locked my gaze onto hers. “How about if he calls you what I call you, a stupid bi—”

  “Sara Jane,” Lou said, cutting me off. “Forget it. It’s silly.”

  “Aw, to hell with the both of you,” Greta said, stomping out of the room.

  When she was gone, Lou patted his bed and I sat next to him, and he nodded at the poster of Albert Einstein on the wall. “E equals mc squared. That’s his most famous quote. But there’s another one I understand a lot better.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Intellectual growth should commence at birth and cease only at death,’” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “In Greta’s case, it ceased at about age four. Don’t waste your time on her. It’s like debating a chipmunk.”

  “You can’t argue with knuckleheads,” I said. “Someone told me that once.”

  “Exactly. On the other hand, you have to admit, she’s goal oriented.”

  Lou was right, as usual.

  • • •

  A couple of months before my sixteenth birthday, Greta became an official member of the Rispoli family when she and Uncle Buddy got married in Las Vegas.

  He called my dad from the airport with the news, and when my dad told my mom, she sighed and said, “Like it or not, we have to welcome her into the family.”

  “Welcome her?” my dad said. “She acts like she owns the family!”

  My dad was referring to how Greta was always hanging around the bakery, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong and offering opinions whether anyone wanted them or not. She stood over Grandpa Enzo’s shoulder while he worked, then questioned the curve of a frosted curlicue he had applied to a wedding cake. She flipped through the receipts Grandma Donatella placed on a metal stickpin next to the cash register, or nibbled one of my dad’s
freshly baked gingerbread men, wondering aloud why it was so sweet. But worst of all was how she used her femininity like a whip to subdue Uncle Buddy. One minute she was a damsel in distress he had to rescue from the rest of us cruel, spiteful Rispolis, the next a hapless baby doll in need of a sugar daddy, and finally, the angry mother severely disappointed by her naughty boy. My uncle responded to this charade like a dog on a leash, begging to obey Greta’s commands. Watching it happen over and over, I thought with certainty, There is the type of woman I will never be.

  One day, shortly after Uncle Buddy was married, I came home early from school and overheard my parents talking in the living room. My dad was speaking in the low, measured tone he used when the subject was something he wanted to share only with my mom. I knew they would stop talking if I entered the room, so I stood around the corner and listened to him explain an odd scene that had unfolded that afternoon at the bakery. Apparently, Uncle Buddy told my dad and grandpa that it was Greta’s opinion that he ought to have a title. My grandpa had raised his eyebrows and said, “Cosa? Un titolo? What kind of title?”

  Uncle Buddy cleared his throat. “Vice President and Director of Batter and Dough Amalgamation.”

  Grandpa Enzo scratched his head, leaving a fingertip trail of white flour on his forehead. “Amalaga-what?”

  “It means mixture,” my dad said.

  “Then why didn’t he just say mixture?”

  “I don’t know, Pop. Why didn’t you just say mixture, Buddy?”

  Uncle Buddy shrugged. “Greta thinks it sounds more professional.”

  “Titles, beh!” my grandpa said. “We already have titles! I’m a baker, you’re a baker, he’s a baker! Tre panettieri, Rispoli & Sons!” He did the Italian thing with his hands, patting his palms together, wiping them clean of the subject. Before he could say another word, my grandmother opened the kitchen door to tell him that some men were politely asking for Enzo the Baker. He turned to Uncle Buddy and smiled, saying, “See! I’m a baker!”

  After he had gone, my dad said, “Why does Greta think you need a title, Buddy?”

  Uncle Buddy didn’t shrug this time, but said plainly, “We have to plan for the future. That’s all.”

  “How does a title help plan for the future?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that pop is getting old. Not old-old, but he’s not a young man anymore. Plus, with that bad ticker of his, you just never know.”

  “So?” my dad said, crossing his arms.

  “So, Greta says I have to protect my half of the business. That maybe if I have a title, it will be harder for you to . . . well, what I mean is, you couldn’t just . . . take over.”

  “Come on, Buddy,” my dad said. “If something happens, of course you’ll get half of the business. You have a third of it now. Why would that change?”

  Uncle Buddy thumbed at his nose like a boxer protecting his face. “Greta reminded me that you’re the older brother, which means you’re the senior partner. And also, you got Lou . . .”

  “I have Sara Jane and Lou,” my dad said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Get this straight . . . my kids will never have anything to do with the family business, now or ever.”

  Uncle Buddy produced a Sick-a-Rette from behind his ear, stuck it between his teeth, and stared back at my dad. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “Because I’m your brother, Buddy. And I’m not a liar.”

  “Everybody’s a liar sometime,” Uncle Buddy said, emitting a garbage-stinking puff of air. “If the situation calls for it.”

  “Is that what Greta says?”

  “That’s what I say. I’m not dumb, Anthony.”

  “I don’t think you’re dumb.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m dumb. Well, I might not be some kind of book genius like Lou, or the perfect family man like you,” he spat. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m a very good listener, and I’ve heard things whispered between you and Pop that you’ve kept from me for a long, long time. Interesting things I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

  My dad paused, then said, “What things, Buddy?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, blowing disgusting smoke at my dad.

  “Buddy . . . ,” my dad said, taking a step toward him.

  “Don’t stare at me like that! I’ve had it with those . . . looks of yours, always making me do what you want me to do! This time I’m doing what I want to do!” Uncle Buddy jammed the Sick-a-Rette into a bowl of cookie dough. He turned his back on my dad, pushed through the kitchen door, and said, “This time it’s all about me!”

  My dad finished telling my mom about the disturbing conversation with a sigh, and she patted his shoulder. I moved silently away from the living room, more than a little troubled by what I’d overheard. My parents themselves had taught me that listening quietly was the best way to gather information, and although I didn’t like what I’d learned, I realized that it was important. So, as the days passed, I took other covert opportunities to eavesdrop on them, listening to my dad explain sadly to my mom how he and Uncle Buddy continued to work side by side every day like usual, except now their conversation was pure business. There was no more teasing, no more joking, and gone was the shorthand conversation that brothers share—phrases that meant something to them but were meaningless to others, punch lines that cracked them up based on a collective memory, small Italian phrases and silly little sound effects. Now they went about their day like two pastry-making robots, one tall and thin, the other small and thick, snapping questions and spitting answers.

  Soon, Uncle Buddy stopped coming by our house on Balmoral Avenue.

  Even after he married Greta he always found time to swoop to the curb in his convertible, slam the door, and hustle into the house wearing a big smile.

  After his confrontation with my dad, that old red car was not seen in the neighborhood again.

  For me, it wasn’t Uncle Buddy’s absence at home that hurt as much as it was from Windy City. At the time, Willy was helping me fine-tune my left hook, which, if thrown correctly, landed just outside the other fighter’s field of vision, so it’s almost impossible to defend against. According to Willy it had been my dad’s signature move, one that my uncle, an impatient, brawling boxer, never saw coming. As I worked with Willy, I kept an eye on the door, hoping to see Uncle Buddy smiling up at me as I circled the ring to find my rhythm, but he was never there. One afternoon as I listlessly poked at the heavy bag, lost in thought, Willy stopped its lazy swing and asked where my head had been lately. I couldn’t hold back—I was sad and angry at the same time—and I told him how Uncle Buddy’s stupid marriage had ruined the relationship between him and my dad, and by extension the whole family. When I was done I had tears in my eyes. Willy had to unlace my gloves and free my hands so I could wipe at them.

  “Sara Jane,” he said as he pulled the strings loose, “it might seem simple to blame Buddy’s wife. But I’ve known your dad and uncle a long time, and the real problem is between the two of them.”

  “What problem?” I said, blowing my nose.

  “A rivalry problem. Now, in boxing, a rivalry can be a good thing. It keeps the competition sharp and lively, as long as both sides participate. But when one side ignores the rivalry altogether, well, that’s a problem. The guy being ignored realizes the other one doesn’t consider him a worthy opponent, and he gets angry and insulted.”

  I was quiet, thinking about my dad and Uncle Buddy, what I knew about them as boxers, bakers, and brothers. “My dad refused to participate?”

  Willy nodded. “Twenty some years ago, when Buddy was helping your dad train for the championship bout, I leaned on these ropes and watched something I never forgot. Your dad was sparring—practicing, moving, stretching—but Buddy was fighting.”

  “But . . . my dad thought Buddy was his friend. His best friend.”

  “But Buddy thought—and still seems to think—that your dad is his opponent.”

  The idea of my dad
and Uncle Buddy as opponents, or worse, enemies, was ridiculous. It was impossible to believe that my uncle would cut ties with all of us over who owned more or less of the bakery. Thinking about it made my chest ache, like I was going to cry again. I sighed and said, “I guess it’s none of my business.”

  “On the contrary,” Willy said. “It’s your responsibility to figure out what this business is all about.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because . . . they’re your people. You only got one dad and one uncle.”

  “I can hear my dad now if I try to discuss Uncle Buddy . . . ‘It’s nothing for a fifteen-year-old kid to worry about.’ My dad’s not a big one for sharing info.”

  “You’re gonna be sixteen soon. That’s no kid,” Willy said. “My opinion? You have a right to know what’s going on.”

  I shook my head. “I’d better stay out of it.”