Cold Fury

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 amp; 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