T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

He has sat on the shelf in the same spot ever since.

I was thinking of them both, Grandpa Enzo and Elzy, hoping they died happy, and it was only the fingernails-on-a-chalkboard tone of Greta’s rant that brought me back.

She had her fists on her hips and was wagging her head from side to side, speaking her piece about “unfair to Buddy” this and “our share of the pie” that.

When she paused to take a breath, my father said, “Calm down, Greta. Buddy knows full well that he’s going to get half the business.”

“Yeah?” she said, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow. “ Which business?”

Then it was my mom’s turn on her feet. I was surprised at how fast she crossed the room, right into Greta’s face. In a tone that was quiet but full of nails, she said, “We don’t discuss that business in front of the children. Not in this family.”

“I’m just as much a part of this family as you are, Teresa! And don’t you dare think that you’re entitled to more than Buddy and me just because you have them. . with their blue eyes. . especially him. .,” Greta huffed, pointing at Lou.

Her words drifted around the room like balloons broken free of their strings.

I should have stood and demanded to know what they were talking about, just like Willy had advised me. But I didn’t because Grandpa Enzo had just died, and Lou was burrowing into me like I had burrowed into my mom, and-and because I was scared to know. Even though I’d held it at bay, even trying to punch it away, I’d been frightened since I was a little kid of my parents’ whispered conversations about money, and “doing the right thing,” and especially Uncle Buddy’s increasing anger and steady withdrawal from our lives. I wanted everything to go back to how it had been when I was little, one big, tight-knit, happy family; I wanted Uncle Buddy to rise up and stand between Greta’s accusatory finger and us. But he just sat there inspecting his hands, satisfied to let her do the dirty work she was so good at.

My mother cleared her throat and said simply, “Get out.”

They left without a word and without looking back.

I heard Uncle Buddy’s convertible cough to life and squeal from the curb.

I didn’t see them again until Grandpa Enzo’s funeral at Our Lady of Pompeii, which was so packed with mourners that people stood in the aisles and outside the doors. Our family was on one side of the first row of pews and Buddy and Greta sat on the other. While my grandma wept quietly and touched her nose with a white lace handkerchief, Greta attempted to set the hysterical-crying-at-a-funeral record. Each time the priest murmured Grandpa’s name, Greta shrieked with tears like she’d been touched with a cattle prod and buried her face in a bright-red handkerchief. After one explosive outburst, I couldn’t help but glance over. Greta peeked from beneath the red silk square and sneered at me, mouthing some Russian obscenity.

Afterward was a hundred-car procession to Mount Carmel, where Grandpa was laid to rest inside a family mausoleum built from mossy limestone. Our name, RISPOLI, is etched on the green bronze door, while the small building itself is topped by a molasses barrel carved from marble. Waiting inside were my great-grandparents, Nunzio and Ottorina, each of whom died decades before I was born. When the service ended and it was time to leave, Grandma Donatella touched Grandpa Enzo’s casket and said, “ A presto, mi amore. See you soon, my love.” I had never witnessed anything so sad in my life. I was still thinking about it later, at Gennaro’s on Taylor Street, where the entire neighborhood had come to dinner to honor my grandpa.

As I pushed fettuccine around a plate, I felt a small elbow in my ribs.

Lou wiped red sauce from his mouth and said, “Who are all those guys talking to Dad?” I looked up at a line of men of all sizes and ages in dark suits waiting patiently to mumble to him. At first I thought that they were offering condolences, but then I noticed something that froze me a little-Uncle Buddy sat only one table away, but none of the guys paid him the slightest attention, much less spoke to him.

Uncle Buddy, however, was paying attention to my dad.

He was staring at him hard enough to burn holes in the back of his head.

Greta hissed something at my uncle, who nodded, straightened his tie, stood up, and forcefully tapped my dad’s shoulder.

After exchanging a few muttered words, they cut through the crowd and headed toward the kitchen, passing Lou and me. My dad smiled at us but didn’t look happy, while Uncle Buddy didn’t look at us at all. They pushed through the double doors, and then I saw my mom across the room, watching the scene unfold. She hurried after them, and I rose to follow.

“Wait,” Lou said, grabbing my hand. “Can I come too?”

“I think it’s better if you stay here,” I said.

He hooked a pinkie at me and said, “But I thought it was all or nothing?”

Lou was just as suspicious as I was, but suddenly he seemed like such a little kid. I wasn’t sure he could handle what was going on between my dad and Uncle Buddy, and I didn’t want him to worry. So I hooked his pinkie and said, “We are, even if we’re not together. Wait here, okay? I’ll be back.” Without another word I hurried across the room and through the kitchen, past busboys and line cooks, and stopped in my tracks, ducking behind a tall shelf crowded with canned tomatoes. My mom and dad were talking hurriedly and quietly just on the other side, heads close together.

My dad said, “He’s out there in the parking lot, waiting for me.”

“What does he want?” my mom asked, trying to stay calm. “Does he know, Anthony? Does he know about. . the plan?”

My dad paused. “He dropped some hints but I’m not sure. It could just be Buddy being Buddy.”

“Buddy’s being a jealous asshole,” my mom said tersely, surprising me, since she rarely, if ever, cursed. “You have to get him to back off. . he could ruin everything. Your dad’s death, sweetheart, it’s a tragedy. You know that I loved him like he was my own father. I wish he could’ve lived forever, but. .”

“But it’s the chance we’ve been waiting for, for a long time,” my dad said. “Go back inside, Teresa, pretend like everything’s fine. I’ll take care of Buddy.” They embraced, and then my mom hurried past without seeing me, and my dad stepped out the back door, into the parking lot.

I followed him carefully, looking left and right, and spotted them next to Uncle Buddy’s convertible. It was like watching TV on mute, my dad with the palms of his hands extended, mouthing silent words while Uncle Buddy talked back, his jaw snapping and head shaking violently. My dad crossed his arms and listened, and then it was his turn to shake his head. He looked so tired, so worn down, and finally he fluttered a hand in the air and turned to walk away.

In slow motion, I watched Uncle Buddy yank his shoulder and spin him around.

I saw Uncle Buddy make a fist and go into an uppercut crouch to hit my dad.

I watched my dad bob and weave, and then lean inside with a gorgeous left hook that found its target on Uncle Buddy’s big jaw.

It was the only noise I heard across the parking lot-a hard, sharp pop of knuckle on bone-as Uncle Buddy disappeared from sight, and I realized that he had gone down. And then my dad was helping him up, my uncle wobbly on his feet but pushing him away, hard. My dad spoke to him again with his palms out, silently apologizing, but Uncle Buddy stormed away without looking back.

Greta was a slowly moving glacier, but Grandpa Enzo’s death was a lightning bolt from the blue.

And my dad knocking down Uncle Buddy was a tremor before the earthquake that would split the Rispoli family apart.