T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

That’s how Harry came into the house.

Lou developed an irrepressible interest in studying animal behavior.

He was obsessed with the idea of training the untrainable.

His research showed that the most effective way was an obscure method called “salutary discipline.” It was created on the premise that animals had shared the earth with people for so long that they had a much deeper comprehension of human language than they were given credit for. Lou believed that if he spoke to them politely and with empathy, as equals, they would respond in kind. When he was ready for a real challenge, we went to the rescue shelter and requested the meanest dog with the lousiest attitude and nastiest disposition. Harry was brought out, scarred and snarling, straining on a leash. Maybe Lou was right, animals really do understand human language, because Harry has hated my guts since I looked at him and said, “You’re not bringing that horrible thing home, are you, Lou?”

My little brother ignored me, smiling at Harry and offering a hand. “And how are you today, my fine fellow?”

Harry responded by biting him.

Lou didn’t wince, just smiled again, but sadly, and said, “Life can be tough and weird, huh, pal? But then things change. Things always change.”

There was something so true in the statement that Harry’s growl lowered to a rumble, then a whimper, then his ears folded back and he looked like he was going to weep. Lou patted his pate. Love was in the air.

At least, love between the two of them.

For me it was a daily snarlfest, Harry at me and me right back at him.

I once asked Lou why he didn’t just train the dog to like me.

My brother shrugged. “He is who he is. I can teach behavior but I can’t change how he’s made. It’s the same reason you box well, but I never will.”

“What are you talking about?”

“According to my studies, all the best boxers have something burning at their essential core. They use it to dominate their opponent in the ring. You have that thing and I don’t.”

“Wait. . are you saying I have, like, hidden anger or something?”

“I didn’t say it was hidden and I didn’t say anger. I said core, and it could be anything strong enough to fuel a boxer in the ring. Yeah, maybe anger, but also maybe fear, or insecurity, or a need for revenge. Whatever it is, it burns like a nuclear reactor deep down in a fighter’s gut.”

I looked at Lou, thinking about his theory. “Are you saying I’m insecure?”

“I’m not going there,” he sighed, doing that Italian “discussion over” thing, patting his hands together just like my grandpa.

We never discussed my “essential core” again, but Lou and I talked about everything else. My little brother has an informed opinion on a multitude of subjects, combined with an uncanny ability to figure out what a person is thinking just by studying her expression. That’s why I tried to hurry past him into the kitchen that afternoon. I knew that if I paused, Lou would see Walter J. Thurber and Mandi Fishbaum all over my face. I was almost through the swinging door when my grandma said, “Sara Jane! Non bacio per tua nonna e tuo fratello? ”

My Italian was, and is, pretty mediocre, but any kid who’s even slightly Italian knows the word for kiss- bacio . The irony that I’d just run ten blocks because of an ill-placed bacio was not lost on me, and I struggled to hold back tears. When I was sure I wouldn’t weep, I leaned over and kissed my grandma’s soft cheek, and Lou’s too, who smelled like molasses. He stared at me with bits of cookie on his lips and frowned. “You look weird,” he said, pointing the cookie at me. “Weirder than usual, I mean.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, thumbing crumbs from his mouth.

“Sara Jane,” he said as I moved toward the kitchen. I turned, and Lou extended a pinkie toward me. “All or nothing. Right?”

I’d taught Lou that move on his first day of pre-K, when he seemed a little iffy about venturing into a classroom full of hyperactive hurricane kids. I took him aside, lifted my pinkie, and said, “Remember, Lou, you and I are Rispolis. We stick together even when we’re not together. All or nothing.” He’d smiled then, hooked his little finger through mine, and it had been our thing ever since; whenever one of us needs a boost, the other reminds us that we always have each other’s backs. I hooked his pinkie, then turned and pushed through a set of double doors.

My dad, uncle, and grandpa spent every day working together in the kitchen of Rispoli amp; Sons making the fancy pastries the neon sign advertised. They seemed to live with flour and frosting all over their aprons, all over their hands and shoes. It was clear that they had been boxers (Grandpa Enzo too, in the 1950s) by watching them move like ballroom dancers, completely aware of one another and completely in sync. My uncle mixed gallons of batter and kneaded buckets of dough. My grandpa built intricate cakes, towering cakes, wedding and everyday cakes, all baked in pans with a distinctive R stamped on the bottom, so that every cake top bore our family initial. My dad’s job was patting, shaping, and rolling cookies of all varieties. Together they swirled whipped cream on top of tiny fruit pies, squeezed smiles onto the faces of gingerbread men, and slid fat slabs of cocoa brownies into the enormous fire-breathing oven. It was built into the wall, lined with white glazed bricks, and dominated by an enormous iron door stamped with the word VULCAN in capital letters. The oven was so large that if I bent over, I could easily fit inside. As I entered the kitchen, my dad was sliding in trays of molasses cookies. I wanted everyone to know how victimized I felt, and sighed dramatically, saying, “Lucky cookies. Can I climb in, too?”

“What?” my father said, clanging shut the heavy door.

“ Cosa ?” my grandpa said.

“Never, ever go inside that oven!” my father said.

“ Non mai! Never!” my grandpa echoed, pounding his little fist on the long steel rolling table, sending a puff of flour into the air.

I stepped back, shocked at their overreaction. “I was kidding. I’m just. . I’m having a bad day.”

“Of course she was kidding,” Uncle Buddy said, wiping his hands on his apron and placing them on my shoulders. He put on his big trademark smile. “You think she’s dumb enough to climb inside that thing?”

My dad stared at me, and what I remember specifically is how sad he looked. He and I share a similar trait-blue eyes decorated with little flecks of shimmering gold-and his seemed to be seeing something far beyond the here and now. Softly, he said, “No, Buddy. I think she’s the smartest girl I know.”

“ Nostra ragazza intelligente! Our smart girl!” my grandpa agreed.

Uncle Buddy looked at Grandpa and then at my dad, as confused as I was by the outburst. He was still smiling but there was a trace of suspicion in his voice when he said, “Is it just me or is there something weird going on here?”

“Sara Jane, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. .,” my dad said, ignoring the question. But my feelings were hurt, and I turned to Uncle Buddy.

“Can I talk to you?” I said. “Just the two of us?”

Uncle Buddy looked over me at my dad, who sighed and shrugged. My uncle took off his apron and said, “Okay, sure. Let’s go outside.” It was early evening and the summer sky was warm and orange as I told him about Walter’s kiss and Mandi’s word. He sat on the hood of his convertible puffing a “Sick-a-Rette,” a non-cancerous concoction of organic herbs prescribed by his doctor to help him quit smoking. The good news was that it was working; the bad news was that it smelled as sickly sweet as a Dumpster full of garbage on a hot day. At the end, I told him what little Max Kissberg had said about ignoring knuckleheads.