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-tsking. 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.
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. Wh
ile 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.
6
Everyone lives a self-centered life.
From the world’s greatest humanitarian to those incredible nuns who work in slums, everyone wakes up each morning thinking about herself.
Whether it’s trivial, like what’s for breakfast, or more ambitious, like achieving some lofty goal, a person is constantly on her own mind.
How else can I explain the fact that, despite what was happening in my family, I was still focused on myself? My grandpa had died only a week earlier, my parents whispered something about a mysterious plan, my frustrated dad punched my rotten uncle in his stupid face, and I was genuinely worried about all of it. Yet, when I opened my eyes each morning, what did I immediately obsess over?
Not having a date for the spring dance, which was one lousy month away.
Graduating with honors, which meant a trip to Italy as a reward from my parents.
Studying Italian so I could speak like a native, or at least not embarrass myself.
Me, me, me.
There wasn’t much I could do about being dateless-no one had asked me and there was no one I wanted to ask-so, even though it was two years until graduation, I focused on school even more. Honors required not just good grades but also the elusive “well-roundedness” on the part of a student. That’s why I was a member of the Environmental Club (we planted trees-yawn) and Red Cross Club (we gave blood-ouch) and eventually decided that I should shake things up and make my own mark on Fep Prep.
What better way than forming an organization and naming myself president?
I considered a boxing club, but it felt too personal-something I didn’t want to share with the whole school. It was my mom who suggested a movie club, leaning over and whispering it while she, my dad, Lou, and I watched The Third Man for the millionth time. We were jammed, as usual, on the big leather couch, with Lou the keeper of the popcorn. He shushed my mom since it was his favorite scene-Holly Martins (yep, a guy named Holly) meets Harry Lime (yep, Harry’s namesake) on a Ferris wheel, seeing but not quite believing that his friend, whom he thought was dead, is in fact alive. Each time we watched the scene, Lou hugged his knees and said the same thing.
“Meeting on a Ferris wheel, high in the sky, where no one can see them,” he said quietly. “Private and dangerous. . perfect.”
Like I mentioned before, The Third Man is Lou’s favorite movie, and my dad’s too. My mom loves Bette Davis’s self-confidence in All About Eve, while I can’t get enough of Pulp Fiction, especially the character Butch, a boxer who fights off some very icky guys in a basement. All in all, the best way to say it is that we’re a family of movie geeks, and based on that, I started the Classic Movie Club.
The Fep Prep student body was less than enthusiastic, to say the least.
The only other member was Fep Prep’s (maybe the world’s) most unpopular sophomore,
Doug Stuffins.
His name, by a twist of fate, perfectly defines what he looks like and who he is-incredibly puffy, his three-hundred-pound body stuffed full of junk food, and incredibly smart, his giant brain stuffed full of movie information.
I met Doug during our freshman year in homeroom-my R last name seated near his S last name-when he turned to me as the teacher droned on about something, and whispered, “You look like an Italian film actress from the sixties.”
“I do?” I whispered back. “Which one?”
“All of them,” he said with a wink of his piggy eye.
When I sat across from him the next day, he waved and said, “Ciao, bella”-“Hi, beautiful” in Italian-not in a flirty way, but appreciatively. He’d paid me two nice compliments in two days, and for a girl with a very real issue with her very Italian nose, there are few better ways to start a friendship. We talked every day, covering all of the essential subjects-his lousy home life, my super close relationship with my family, the stunning lack of romance in our lives. The one thing we never discussed, maybe out of sensitivity for each other’s feelings, was our unpopularity-his by decree of the student body, mine mostly by choice. I probably wouldn’t have had a problem dating; I didn’t like how I looked, but some guys seemed to be okay with it. But the insularity of my family had gotten into my bones, and so I never pursued a bunch of friends. Doug was different than other kids because, in his isolation, he was the same as me. We bonded over being outsiders and, of course, over movies.
Doug knows more about movies than any kid in the world-maybe any adult in the world, except for his hero, film critic Roger Ebert. He talks about movies constantly to anyone who will listen, and doesn’t seem to know (or care) how to shut it off. Sometimes he quotes movies that most people have never heard of, much less seen, which makes him sound sort of insane. He’s constantly, frenetically tapping on his laptop, and when I ask what he’s working on, he always says the same thing-it was going to be the greatest screenplay ever written, an epic story about a tortured hero. I asked if I could read it and he said maybe when he was done, but no peeking-Orson Welles and Quentin Tarantino never let anyone see their work in progress, either.
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