T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

She surely is poison,

but ol’ Greta don’t mean squat.

This is about what one man wants,

and the other man’s got.”

Without saying a word, I rose and went to the heavy bag.

With only tape covering my knuckles, I threw a left hook, surprising the leather with a loud, sharp pop!

I threw another and another, trying to beat back Willy’s words, scared that they might be true.

A melting glacier is one thing-it meanders, trudges, and settles, taking its time-but lightning is impulsive. Despite its pinpoint precision, it’s a crazed and maniacal event-an instant flash followed by a thunderous ka-boom! with the deadly power to remove something that was there only seconds earlier. There’s no way to prevent it. If you’re unlucky enough to be unprepared, there’s nowhere to hide.

As my sixteenth birthday approached, I was in a very “un-” phase.

Unlucky and unprepared for the loss of someone I loved with my whole heart.

But also unmotivated and unattached in ways that made going to school not only a drudge, but also depressing.

My unmotivated issue was centered on the Classic Movie Club, which I’d formed at Fep Prep in order to seem more “well-rounded” (total membership including me is two, the other member being Doug Stuffins; more on him later) and which the school was threatening to cancel unless I drummed up the required third member. Frankly, I just didn’t have the enthusiasm to beg kids to join who weren’t interested in the first place. Each time I approached someone to talk about it and saw a flash of confusion in his or her eyes as to who I even was, I’d give up before I started. My unattached issue was even more of a downer-Fep Prep’s annual spring dance (theme: “It’s Spring, Yo”) was also a little over a month away, falling (depressingly) on my birthday. In my case, unattached translated into unhappily, undeniably dateless.

I was so obsessed with all of those “uns” one day after school that I failed to notice how dark green and angry the clouds were growing as I walked home from the train station. It was pouring by the time I reached Balmoral Avenue, the rain falling in such thick sheets that at first I didn’t notice the convertible parked in front of our house.

My heart leapt a little when I spotted it.

Uncle Buddy was back!

I ran up the steps and pulled at the door but it was stuck, and as I yanked harder, a bolt of lightning cut the air and struck a tree in our front yard.

There was no thunder, just a jarring crack , like a truck rolling over walnuts, and then a split-peeling sound as a branch fell to the ground with its leaves sizzled and gone.

When I turned around, my dad was standing in the open door looking at me instead of the tree.

He laid a hand on my wet shoulder and said, “Sara Jane, come inside. Grandpa Enzo died today.”

I walked into the living room with my shoes squeaking on marble, pushing strands of dripping hair from my face, my dad following slowly behind. Uncle Buddy and Greta sat on a small love seat. My uncle’s face was pale while Greta’s too-red lips twisted in a way that made her look sour and inconvenienced. My mom held Lou against her on the leather couch; when she looked up, I saw that she had been crying. Grief had already begun to fill my lungs like bronchitis; seeing the room crowded with despair and anger only made it harder to breathe. Through the fog in my head, all I could think to ask was “Where’s Grandma?”

“Lying down, sweetheart,” my mother said, reaching for me. “Come here.”

I did, and burrowed into her shoulder weeping. She explained in a soft voice how Grandpa Enzo had a heart attack while making a buccellato , the circular, sugary cake given by godparents to their godchild’s family on the baby’s christening day. Someone on Taylor Street was always asking Grandpa to be their kid’s godfather and he usually agreed with a warm smile. He had just taken the cake out of the Vulcan before he died, flipping it out of the hot pan that bore our family initial. The distinctive baked R was probably the last thing that he saw.

No one said anything until Greta sighed impatiently. When I looked up, she was on her feet.

“Decisions have to be made,” she said, pacing the room like a four-star general.

“He just died a couple of hours ago,” my dad murmured, lowering into the nearest chair and massaging his forehead.

“Nevertheless,” Greta continued, “after an unexpected death, who gets what and how much has to be hammered out immediately!”

“Greta. .,” Uncle Buddy said in a low voice, staring at his hands.

“Greta nothing , Benito! If you don’t stake your position this instant , you’ll get the short end of the stick, as usual!” she cried, waving her arms wildly. Her elbow bumped a shelf and everyone but Greta saw Frank Sinatra tip and fall into the air.

Uncle Buddy leaped to his feet, arms extended, and caught the statue head like a football, just inches before it shattered on the ground. He sheepishly handed it to my dad and they looked at each other for the first time since I got home. My dad paused, then turned and put it back on the shelf, where the bust continued to stare at the room. It was the tackiest thing we owned-a white plaster Frank Sinatra head with a garland of leaves in its hair, like Julius Caesar, and eyes tinted blue. Although my mom hated it on an artistic level, she insisted that it never move from its honored place on the shelf.

The bust suddenly took on the significance of people I loved who were dead.

It had been a gift to my parents from my nanny.

She gave it to them as a good-bye gift, only days before she died.

Lucretia Zanzara-Elzy, as we called her (for her initials, L.Z.)-was petite, tough as nails, and always perfectly dressed in a retro-mod sixties style, complete with jet-black beehive hairdo and cat’s-eye glasses. She was an organizational Einstein who ran our household from breakfast to bedtime with a gentle iron fist. Elzy knew someone who could do anything at any hour, from delivering a perfectly crispy pizza margherita at eight a.m. to fixing a refrigerator at midnight, to scoring a badly desired Tickle Me Elmo for three-year-old me the day before Christmas. Her contacts were limitless, ability to get things done, genius, and devotion to my family, seemingly inexhaustible.

Elzy had come to our family via the bakery. Long before I was born, Grandpa Enzo employed her father, Bobo Zanzara, as a baker or pie maker or something. Grandpa and Bobo worked closely until, according to my dad, Bobo took a vacation and never came back. When I asked my dad what kind of vacation lasted forever, he smirked and said, “The federally funded kind,” and nothing else. If I asked for more details, he shrugged and changed the subject. Later, Elzy’s older brother came to work for my grandpa at the bakery, too. Elzy always referred to him as “Poor Kevin,” before shaking her head and tsk-tsk ing. Apparently, Poor Kevin had been a lethal combination of knucklehead and hothead. There had been an incident at the bakery, but again, no one ever explained exactly what had happened. If my dad or Uncle Buddy began to discuss it, Elzy would hold up a hand with perfectly polished nails and say, “The past is the past. Poor Kevin made a mistake. Only the strong survive.” Her voice was solemn in an Italian way that made further words on the subject indulgent and unnecessary.

Elzy had two unmistakable characteristics. One was her voice-a nasal combination of West Side Chicago and a lion suffering from strep throat-and the other was an undying love for Frank Sinatra. Her gargle-growl took on a terrifying tenor when she sang “Fly Me to the Moon” or “Witchcraft,” making dogs howl up and down Balmoral Avenue. The more the cancer spread and the sicker she got, the less she sang. After a final visit to her doctor, Elzy knew that she was going to die. It was right before Lou was born that she gave my parents the Sinatra bust, touched my mom’s belly tenderly, and told them that Frank would watch over them when she was gone.