T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

As the years passed and I continued under Willy’s tutelage, he stressed it to me over and over again, along with the other important points of pugilism-that it’s a thinking person’s game rather than a punching person’s, its tried and true rules must be followed at all times, and that respect for one’s opponent lies at the heart of the sport. His opinion was that fighting belonged only in the ring, while using violence to settle a real-life dispute was wrong except in rare circumstances like self-defense. In those cases, where an opponent follows no rules and therefore deserves no respect, it’s every man-or girl-for himself.

It became my opinion too, and he and I became friends. Actually, more than friends-Willy became family. It’s ironic, then, that he taught me what would become the most important skill I possess in trying to find my actual family.

Not just how to fight, but to run for my life, so that I could live to fight another day.

When it comes to a thriller, whether it’s a book, movie, or TV show, it always starts with a big, wild action scene-think of a frenetic car chase with blinding sunlight flashing from a pair of Lamborghinis as they soar high in the air and then hurtle down the type of street that exists only in San Francisco or the Alps, the incline as steep as driving off the face of a mountain-and then segues into a familiar tale of uncovering clues. The hero, dogged by a shady past or personal demons, turns out to be an intrepid latter-day Sherlock Holmes, as the gun he discovers in a drawer leads to a footprint in the garden which leads to a safety deposit box in Zurich, where the villain is discovered counting cash or cuddling diamonds or something.

What that type of fiction never shows is a hero with a really sedate, boring past who knows absolutely nothing about anything that’s happened.

Also, that some of the most important clues are wedged inside of her own head.

Now that I’ve began to sift the past for any signal or sign of what happened to my family, I’ve begun to remember things not only about them but me, too-especially about a cold blue flame that now seems ubiquitous, as though it has always been with me. I remembered its first, brief appearance in the beat-down with Uh-Oh, which walked me forward to an equally odd situation that occurred only a couple years later, when I was ten.

My best friend (actually, my only friend; more on that pathetic situation soon) was Gina Pettagola. One afternoon following school, as we strolled home together, a trio of older girls who lived in the neighborhood cornered us; Gina called them the “Three Muskaterribles” because they were always together and, well, because they were terrifying bullies. They were lumpy, smelled like cigarettes, two of them had red hair, and the last one, the leader, sported a single black eyebrow; it joined in the middle like an angry, fat caterpillar. She particularly disliked Gina, because even then Gina was the most gossipy person I (or perhaps all of Chicago) knew. She was also the most perfectly put-together ten-year-old-clothes, hair, shoes, and so on-which I think annoyed Caterpillar Girl even more, who tended toward black concert T-shirts and jeans with safety pins in weird places. As the Three Muskaterribles surrounded us, Caterpillar Girl popped a fist against an open hand and said, “You got a big mouth, you know that, hairdo?”

“Who, me? Why, what. . what did I say?” Gina stammered.

“She knows,” the first redhead said.

“Yeah, look at her. She’s full of shit,” the other redhead said.

Caterpillar Girl moved closer. “You want to act like you don’t know, fine with me. All that matters is I’m gonna shut that yap of yours once and for all.”

I could see Gina was being honest, that in her constant stream of gossip she had no idea what Caterpillar Girl was referring to. That’s when I realized it didn’t matter, and that she probably hadn’t said anything at all-the Three Muskaterribles just wanted to pick on a pair of little girls, and who better than a petite, perfectly coiffed chatterbox and her skinny shadow friend. And then Gina did what she does best-started talking. It was a friendly, nervous chatter that I think was designed to lighten the moment, except it came off as, well, gossip, and before she could finish her sentence-“Besides, we wouldn’t want this to get around”-Caterpillar Girl punched her in the mouth. Gina grunted and lost her balance, stumbling toward one of the redheads, who grabbed her and spun her to the other one, who pushed her at Caterpillar Girl. She yanked Gina into a headlock, and I saw tears mixing with a line of blood at her lip.

I knew that from a purely visible standpoint, I posed no threat.

I was in a stage of growth where things were a little out of whack-arms long and skinny, hair thick and bushy, and the first hints that my nose would soon begin to bloom like a weed in a flower garden. Plus, I’d begun to perfect the art of fading into the background, chameleon style. But now Caterpillar Girl turned to me, leering with waxy teeth, jerking Gina around while saying, “What about you, toothpick? For having such a loudmouth friend, you don’t seem to say much.” She was so close that I could see pinpoints in her eyes, dark and feral, brimming with the joy of imminent violence.

“Uh-Oh,” I muttered, thinking of a past sparring match gone wrong. Willy’s rule about fleeing an impending beat-down was precisely what I wanted to do, realizing with a shudder just how large, mean, and broken these girls were. They intended to do real harm to Gina and me. I didn’t want to desert her, but I was growing more and more jittery with a need to run for it.

“Check it, the mute can talk,” Caterpillar Girl said, squeezing Gina’s neck tighter as she produced a cigarette and tucked it between flabby lips. “Uh-oh is right, princess,” she spat, smacking Gina hard, and then, “Uh-oh!”- smack! — “Uh-oh!”- smack! — until my friend’s face was sweaty-pink and tears jumped quietly. Her eyes found mine as she clawed feebly at Caterpillar Girl’s headlock grip, and it was that look-choking terror at being trapped-that caused the cold blue flame to flicker in my gut.

It was stronger than it had been two years earlier, more encompassing of my body and brain, as if it had grown along with me. It didn’t leap so high as to infiltrate my eyes as it does now, but it leaped high enough, calming me down while pissing me off.

Before I could stop, I cleared my throat and said, “Let her go or I’m going to kick your ass. I mean it.”

Caterpillar Girl looked up with the kind of grin that creases a face when a person is happily surprised. She shoved Gina to the ground, hitched up her jeans, and lit the cigarette. Coming close, she blew foul smoke into my face, and then held the tip of the cigarette inches from me. I felt the heat of it on my cheek as she hissed, “What are you gonna do, hard-ass? Spit it out before I burn my initials into your-” And it was her turn not to finish a sentence since my left fist cracked her nose twice, and my right once more. She staggered and fell on her butt, and when the bigger of the redheads made a move, I pivoted so quickly, fists raised, that she stopped in her tracks.

“Sara Jane. .,” Gina said quietly, her voice tight with alarm.

I turned to Caterpillar Girl, her nose gushing red, her right hand holding a small knife as sharp as a steel icicle.

She touched her face, looked at her sticky hand, and said, “You little bitch. I’m bleeding.”

I heard the truth in my voice and felt it in my gaze when I said, “That’s just the beginning. Take a step with that knife and I’ll hit you so fast and so hard that one eyebrow will become two. I don’t want to, but I will.” My fists were curling and my body was relaxed because I was a good boxer-maybe better than good, a natural like Willy predicted. If she made a move, I was ready. It became sort of a weird staring contest until Caterpillar Girl swallowed thickly, averting her eyes, and put away the knife.