An early memory

I am standing in the large entrance foyer, looking down towards the baby doll clutched in my hands and past the hem of my purple cotton dress (much too light for winter, don’t you think?), to my bare feet which still cling precariously to the baby years recently left behind and press unevenly against the red woven rug.  Like any child at the age of three, it’s difficult to tell if I am coming or going.  Maybe I am on my way to join my mother in the kitchen.  The raucous shouts of the boys playing on the street accompany our afternoon routine.

Suddenly there is a scream.   My mother’s aproned figure turns dramatically away from the sink to face the foyer.  She pauses, her gaze staring acutely past me.  That brief moment of instinctual curiosity is broken by the clashing of the heavy lead-glass front door.  In runs the boy they call Fishman, dressed in his habitual mustard-colored jersey.   I thought Fishman was a nickname.  I remember seeing an aquarium filled with goldfish at his house once.  Many years later I learned that Fishman was his last name and that’s what boys did - they addressed each other by their last names.  I never understood how that worked with my 3 brothers, so close in age.  When somebody called, “Stefano!”, who would answer?

My mother whizzes past Fishman in a blur.  The cries from the street of my eldest brother come to a crescendo.   The game of ice hockey has gone bad.  At that age I had not yet realized that accidents could happen when playing a game.

My feet patter slowly after my mother’s.  She reaches the street in the time that I make it to the front door.  She stands next to a makeshift wooden goal box, bent over my brother who I cannot see.  Curiosity overtakes me as, unaware, I let go of my grasp around the baby doll and walk unsteadily out the front door.  

It’s an unusually warm February day.  My naked feet step onto the street, sinking into the soft slush that coats the under layer of solid ice.  At the opposite goal stands my youngest brother, alone, holding his hockey stick, frozen in place.  Near center-ice, my other brother stands with a couple of friends.  They are laughing, impatiently shifting their weight between their feet, ready to slap the hockey puck back into play at any moment.

My feet stop just short of my mother’s.  I look down and see circles of bright red blood melting into the ice.  I unquestionably understand that there is an injury.  My mother’s calm voice asks my brother, “Where are they?”  A pause, an inaudible answer.  “OK, hang on to them.”

I step around my mother’s legs to see my brother sitting on the ground. He meets my stare.  Teasingly, he shoots me a toothless grin and then holds out the palm of his hand to reveal his two front teeth.