Cold Fury

earth, and me far below it? My last question-how did he know I’d survive to find the briefcase at all?

I think the answer is that he didn’t, but that he had to pin his hope on something.

What I knew for sure, and instantly, was that the briefcase I now held was the object of Uncle Buddy’s relentless search of the bakery.

I remembered my dad saying he would never find it, which meant Uncle Buddy had no idea that Club Molasses existed. It meant my grandpa and dad knew, but that they’d never told my uncle. If that was true, then Uncle Buddy was correct-my dad had held information from him. But why? And then in the next instant my newest best friend, paranoia, told me to quit asking questions, take the briefcase, and beat it, and figure out the “whys” when I was safe. I turned for the door and noticed a black-and-white framed photo on the wall. I peered closely at the image of a thick, balding guy in a light summer suit sitting in the front row of a grandstand while a baseball player in an old Cubs uniform autographed a ball. The balding guy was familiar, but it was a small fellow a couple seats to his right whom I recognized.

Actually, it was the Rispoli nose I recognized.

It was Great-Grandpa Nunzio, trying not to look at the camera.

An inscription read, To N.R.-Thanks for the cookies! Your pal- A.C.

I considered taking the photo but the whole thing suddenly felt like grave robbery and I was desperate to get topside, back to the sun and sky. I left the office and crossed the dance floor, took one long look back, and then climbed into the oven and pushed the red button. It rumbled and began to levitate quickly, the lightbulb flashing and dimming as it rose. The box shuddered and stopped, the door whooshed open, and I was back in the kitchen.

I was looking at Uncle Buddy.

Greta was facing him.

She glanced over his shoulder and her eyebrows jumped when she saw me.

Uncle Buddy waved a Sick-a-Rette in one hand, saying, “I swear, when I get my hands on her. .”

“Oh my God,” Greta cried, pointing at me. “Your niece! She’s. . she’s in the oven, Benito! Behind you!”

“What the hell are you. .?” Buddy turned slowly, his jaw falling when he saw me. And then he saw the briefcase. And then he was a bull seeing red, barreling across the kitchen. My hand shot out and hit the button, the door shut, and the box rumbled and fell. Uncle Buddy’s voice trailed after me, saying, “That’s mine, Sara Jane! I’m coming to get it. .!”

I had no doubt he was telling the truth.

He meant right now, this instant.

My heart was hammering in time to his violent determination.

As soon as I stepped out of the box, the doors closed and it rose away. Uncle Buddy had figured out how to recall it, and would be stuffing himself inside any second. I ran into Club Molasses and slammed the door, but the old lock didn’t work. Hiding inside the Ferrari was silly, crouching behind the bar even sillier, so I sprinted into the office and slammed the door, hoping it would seal itself, but I’d destroyed the keypad. My mind went into lockdown as I paced-waiting, waiting-until I heard the elevator arrive. Uncle Buddy’s footsteps on the dance floor moved slowly with surprise at what he was seeing for the first time. I knew that there was no way out, and that my only option now was to fight. I might not save myself, but I would at least do damage to my uncle-he would lose an eye or the use of a limb before he did me in.

His footsteps stopped, it was silent, and then they started again.

He’d spotted the door and was moving toward it.

In a mockingly sweet voice, he called out, “Sara Jane! It’s your favorite uncle!”

His tone was so sickly disappointing that it drained me of resolve. Instead of going forward with a fist cocked, I cowered against the wall, hugging the briefcase.

“Sara Jane! I know you’re in there!”

I couldn’t stand to see his smug grin, so I turned to the wall, closed my eyes, and leaned my head against the map, with the tiny metal C of the Wrigley Field sign raised against my forehead.

“I owe you one, kid. I never would’ve found this place on my own!”

I heard a faint buzz and my body tilted forward a few inches.

A puff of earthy-smelling wind swirled around my head.

“Oh, Sara Ja-ane!”

I can now state with complete authority that the first step through a secret door that opens suddenly in an underground wall is helped mightily by the fact that someone may be about to kill you. I didn’t hesitate any longer than it took to hear Uncle Buddy’s hand turn the office doorknob, and I leaped through it. As soon as my feet touched a platform, the door hissed shut and I was standing in musty semidarkness. I saw a thin wire running from the back of the Wrigley Field C to a spring-the C was a hidden button that opened the door. I also discovered that the little drawing of Buckingham Fountain disguised another peephole, and I peered through it just as Uncle Buddy pushed into the office.

“He-e-e-re’s. .,” he announced, looking around the empty room as his fat face fell. “Buddy?”

I would have loved to watch him pull open desk drawers as if I’d shrunk and were hiding inside, or listen to his soliloquy of obscenities when he finally realized that I had vanished. But I couldn’t take the chance of being found out, and turned to a staircase that descended deep into shadows. The staircase fell forever, lower and lower, and I stared at it, thinking that every new discovery plunged me deeper into darkness. I touched a cool, crumbling brick wall and squinted at the painted image of a hand pointing downward. On the other side of the map, furniture was kicked and Uncle Buddy’s first F-bomb dropped. I took a hesitant step, then another, using only the screen of my phone for illumination. Light fixtures lined the wall, some holding ancient burned-out bulbs, some none at all, with the pointing hands appearing each time the staircase took a twist or turn. Finally, when it seemed like I was about to arrive on hell’s doorstep, a rectangle of light appeared at the bottom of the stairs, glowing above a metal door. I laid a hand against it as a rumble sounded in the distance, quickly growing louder, and wind played at my feet.

The door fought me on rusty hinges, then scraped open.

I pushed through just in time to watch a subway train barrel past.

It shuddered to a stop at the far end of the platform, and I ran for it.

I jumped onto the last car and fell into a seat right before the doors slid shut. It was empty except for a woman seated across from me. She was perfectly coiffed and crisply dressed in a black suit with an elbow resting on a black leather briefcase as she inspected a folded newspaper. I slumped across from her in the extra-large, now-filthy EMT shirt, freaky sweat pants, and crooked bloody head bandage while squeezing the steel briefcase to my chest as if my life depended on it, which it did. I felt her eyes flick up and inspect me, and when I met her gaze, she executed an old-time Chicago move-the polite but defensive small smile and a nod.

I returned the gesture.

She returned to her newspaper.

Just two hardworking ladies making the daily commute.

14

I do this thing all the time now where I cry in really short, super-explosive bursts that come out of nowhere, happen anywhere and everywhere, and disappear in seconds.

First my face gets itchy and then my eyes feel fat.

And then, kaboom! I’m sobbing, shaking, and my nose is running.

And then I blink, and it’s over.

If I’m at school and I feel it coming on, I duck into a restroom or empty classroom and clap a hand over my face, muting myself until it’s done. If I’m all alone, however, I try to indulge it-I try to keep it going so I can weep deeper and deeper until I’m all cried out. But no matter how hard I try to prolong it, it always passes quickly, like a short but fervent tropical storm. Something inside my emotional core understands that while I need to expel pressure, completely dropping my guard is way too dangerous.