T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

“Smart kid,” Uncle Buddy said, flicking away the stinking Sick-a-Rette. He produced car keys and said, “Get in. I want to show you something.” We didn’t talk much as he drove through the Loop and parked off Michigan Avenue. We climbed steps past the lions guarding the entrance to the Art Institute, walked inside the cool, quiet building, and went directly to a gallery where a handful of people loitered silently. One wall was dominated by an enormous painting. Uncle Buddy nodded at it and said, “It’s called A Sunday on La Grande Jatte .” I’d seen it before, shuffling past with other kids on field trips, but now my uncle urged me to inspect it closely. I stepped forward and stared, and slowly my eyes divided a picture of people relaxing on a small island into millions of tiny painted dots. He explained that one of its meanings is that life is made up of an endless series of events and incidents-painful, joyful, and all connected in a way that makes a person who she is. “Just like this painting, Sara Jane,” Uncle Buddy said, “point by point, you’re in the process of being made. Just keep moving forward and you’ll be all right. Trust me.”

I did. I trusted my uncle, and it was a mistake.

I would remember his advice later, when I was trying to find out what had happened to my parents and Lou, trying desperately to see the big picture.

Once I began to connect the dots, they were as big as the famous Rispoli amp; Sons molasses cookies.

Sometimes things change in a family as slowly as a melting glacier, so you don’t notice them until they’ve begun to rearrange the landscape.

For us, that glacier was named Greta Kushchenko.

It was only about a year ago, when I was fifteen, that Uncle Buddy casually mentioned he was dating someone, which surprised us all. That someone became Greta, and then she was around, not always, just sometimes, at a birthday party or dinner at my grandparents’ home-shy, quiet, plain, and, in her own words, humble, based on her upbringing by poor Russian immigrants. And then as the months fell away she was there all the time, at every event and holiday, growing louder and flashier and more opinionated by drips and inches. Her manner of talking crept from mousy to brassy, her views on the world from whispered to blared, and her style of dress from nun to showgirl. She was all bright-red lipstick, huge fake eyelashes, and hair that bloomed from a dull mushroom into a cascade of white-blond curls and ringlets. Even a casual observer could see that she had become an unofficial member of the Rispoli family.

To a noncasual observer (me) it was glaringly obvious that “unofficial” wouldn’t cut it with Greta.

Her goal was to fully infiltrate the family by strong-arm tactics, her favorite being to mock and humiliate Uncle Buddy into submission and then kissy-face him until he’d do anything she asked. I once overheard her whisper to him how as the second son, he was regarded as only second best, igniting suspicions that already existed within his insecure psyche, and then tell him how much she loved him-that to “Gweta” (yes, nauseatingly, she used baby talk) he was just as smart and capable as his big brother Anthony. She’d perfected the art of driving a wedge between a close-knit group of people (us) and one of its own (my stupid uncle) until we were 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?”