After he had gone, my dad said, “Why does Greta think you need a title, Buddy?”
Uncle Buddy didn’t shrug this time, but said plainly, “We have to plan for the future. That’s all.”
“How does a title help plan for the future?”
“I don’t have to tell you that pop is getting old. Not old-old, but he’s not a young man anymore. Plus, with that bad ticker of his, you just never know.”
“So?” my dad said, crossing his arms.
“So, Greta says I have to protect my half of the business. That maybe if I have a title, it will be harder for you to. . well, what I mean is, you couldn’t just. . take over.”
“Come on, Buddy,” my dad said. “If something happens, of course you’ll get half of the business. You have a third of it now. Why would that change?”
Uncle Buddy thumbed at his nose like a boxer protecting his face. “Greta reminded me that you’re the older brother, which means you’re the senior partner. And also, you got Lou. .”
“I have Sara Jane and Lou,” my dad said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Get this straight. . my kids will never have anything to do with the family business, now or ever.”
Uncle Buddy produced a Sick-a-Rette from behind his ear, stuck it between his teeth, and stared back at my dad. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Because I’m your brother, Buddy. And I’m not a liar.”
“Everybody’s a liar sometime,” Uncle Buddy said, emitting a garbage-stinking puff of air. “If the situation calls for it.”
“Is that what Greta says?”
“That’s what I say. I’m not dumb, Anthony.”
“I don’t think you’re dumb.”
“Everyone thinks I’m dumb. Well, I might not be some kind of book genius like Lou, or the perfect family man like you,” he spat. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m a very good listener, and I’ve heard things whispered between you and Pop that you’ve kept from me for a long, long time. Interesting things I wasn’t supposed to hear.”
My dad paused, then said, “What things, Buddy?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, blowing disgusting smoke at my dad.
“Buddy. .,” my dad said, taking a step toward him.
“Don’t stare at me like that! I’ve had it with those. . looks of yours, always making me do what you want me to do! This time I’m doing what I want to do!” Uncle Buddy jammed the Sick-a-Rette into a bowl of cookie dough. He turned his back on my dad, pushed through the kitchen door, and said, “This time it’s all about me!”
My dad finished telling my mom about the disturbing conversation with a sigh, and she patted his shoulder. I moved silently away from the living room, more than a little troubled by what I’d overheard. My parents themselves had taught me that listening quietly was the best way to gather information, and although I didn’t like what I’d learned, I realized that it was important. So, as the days passed, I took other covert opportunities to eavesdrop on them, listening to my dad explain sadly to my mom how he and Uncle Buddy continued to work side by side every day like usual, except now their conversation was pure business. There was no more teasing, no more joking, and gone was the shorthand conversation that brothers share-phrases that meant something to them but were meaningless to others, punch lines that cracked them up based on a collective memory, small Italian phrases and silly little sound effects. Now they went about their day like two pastry-making robots, one tall and thin, the other small and thick, snapping questions and spitting answers.
Soon, Uncle Buddy stopped coming by our house on Balmoral Avenue.
Even after he married Greta he always found time to swoop to the curb in his convertible, slam the door, and hustle into the house wearing a big smile.
After his confrontation with my dad, that old red car was not seen in the neighborhood again.
For me, it wasn’t Uncle Buddy’s absence at home that hurt as much as it was from Windy City. At the time, Willy was helping me fine-tune my left hook, which, if thrown correctly, landed just outside the other fighter’s field of vision, so it’s almost impossible to defend against. According to Willy it had been my dad’s signature move, one that my uncle, an impatient, brawling boxer, never saw coming. As I worked with Willy, I kept an eye on the door, hoping to see Uncle Buddy smiling up at me as I circled the ring to find my rhythm, but he was never there. One afternoon as I listlessly poked at the heavy bag, lost in thought, Willy stopped its lazy swing and asked where my head had been lately. I couldn’t hold back-I was sad and angry at the same time-and I told him how Uncle Buddy’s stupid marriage had ruined the relationship between him and my dad, and by extension the whole family. When I was done I had tears in my eyes. Willy had to unlace my gloves and free my hands so I could wipe at them.
“Sara Jane,” he said as he pulled the strings loose, “it might seem simple to blame Buddy’s wife. But I’ve known your dad and uncle a long time, and the real problem is between the two of them.”
“What problem?” I said, blowing my nose.
“A rivalry problem. Now, in boxing, a rivalry can be a good thing. It keeps the competition sharp and lively, as long as both sides participate. But when one side ignores the rivalry altogether, well, that’s a problem. The guy being ignored realizes the other one doesn’t consider him a worthy opponent, and he gets angry and insulted.”
I was quiet, thinking about my dad and Uncle Buddy, what I knew about them as boxers, bakers, and brothers. “My dad refused to participate?”
Willy nodded. “Twenty some years ago, when Buddy was helping your dad train for the championship bout, I leaned on these ropes and watched something I never forgot. Your dad was sparring-practicing, moving, stretching-but Buddy was fighting.”
“But. . my dad thought Buddy was his friend. His best friend.”
“But Buddy thought-and still seems to think-that your dad is his opponent.”
The idea of my dad and Uncle Buddy as opponents, or worse, enemies, was ridiculous. It was impossible to believe that my uncle would cut ties with all of us over who owned more or less of the bakery. Thinking about it made my chest ache, like I was going to cry again. I sighed and said, “I guess it’s none of my business.”
“On the contrary,” Willy said. “It’s your responsibility to figure out what this business is all about.”
“Why me?”
“Because. . they’re your people. You only got one dad and one uncle.”
“I can hear my dad now if I try to discuss Uncle Buddy. . ‘It’s nothing for a fifteen-year-old kid to worry about.’ My dad’s not a big one for sharing info.”
“You’re gonna be sixteen soon. That’s no kid,” Willy said. “My opinion? You have a right to know what’s going on.”
I shook my head. “I’d better stay out of it.”
Willy leaned in closely and raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? In a situation like this? In a family like yours?”
The way he looked at me and the phrase he used-“in a family like yours”-sent a tingle marching down my spine like a line of cold ants. Even now I’m unsure if he knew something I didn’t, or suspected something that was true, or maybe just meant in a family as (formerly) close as ours. As I look back on it, all I know for sure is that I wanted to blame someone other than Uncle Buddy. I cleared my throat and returned to the subject of Greta-her pushiness and creepiness and general habit of being everywhere all the time. Before I could finish, he raised a hand and said, “I don’t know what you should do, but I know what you should know-