Cold Fury by T. M. Goeglein Page B

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