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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?”
    Uncle Buddy shrugged. “Greta thinks it sounds more professional.”
    “Titles, beh! ” my grandpa said. “We already have titles! I’m a baker, you’re a baker, he’s a baker! Tre panettieri, Rispoli & Sons!” He did the Italian thing with his hands, patting his palms together, wiping them clean of the subject. Before he could say another word, my grandmother opened the kitchen door to tell him that some men were politely asking for Enzo the Baker. He turned to Uncle Buddy and smiled, saying, “See! I’m a baker!”
    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