The winter of 1930 arrived earlier than usual. At that time, our family lived in a tiny one-story house with paint-chipped walls and a slanting roof in the suburbs of New York City. When darkness fell, a wintry gust slammed the rusty door, rattling the window panes. Inside, the scattered coals in our fireplace emitted feeble fumes, too weak to subdue the chill pervading the air.

Even after all these years, I can still remember that night.

Mother sat at the mustard-colored table in the kitchen, mending winter clothes under a dangling lamp, a wicker sewing basket on a chair next to her. Horn-rimmed spectacles were perched at the tip of her nose. In her early forties, she already had mousy gray hair and heavy eye bags.

I was sitting across the table, reading a book about siblings building a flying machine to explore a magical world.

“Tomorrow you can wear this coat to school.” Mother’s voice snapped me out of the fantasy world. She was about to say something more, but a fit of coughing seized her. She grabbed a handkerchief to suppress it.

“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned. Mother had been coughing for almost a week.

She took a moment to catch her breath. “I’m fine.” Mother gave me the same answer every time I asked that question. It twisted my heart to see her suffer and pretend to be fine.

She glanced at the mantel clock on the kitchen countertop, which read 10:30. “It’s late. Go to bed, Carl. Your dad should be back soon.”  

I tucked the book into my school bag and retreated to a bedroom that I shared with my brother, Marvin. Our room was right next to the kitchen, tiny and cramped with a creaky bunk bed against the wall and Marvin’s ink-stained desk in the corner. He was three years older than me, in the 8th grade, and loved math. His dream was to become a mathematician like George Birkhoff.

I heard his calm, rhythmic breathing from the upper bunk bed. He was probably in a deep sleep. Marvin had gone to bed earlier than his regular bedtime because he had a math exam the next morning.

I tiptoed and eased into the lower bunk, making an effort not to let the bed squeak. I wrapped myself in my comforter blanket and curled up to stay warm.

Then I heard the front door scrape open, which was followed by a momentary holler of wind and a thump of footsteps. Father’s back.

Father grumbled about how freezing it was outside. The wall between my bedroom and the kitchen was thin and weathered, so if I stayed quiet enough, I could hear what he said.

“I’ll make you some hot tea.” Here came Mother’s voice.

Since Father lost his job as an accountant due to the economy five months ago, he

had been spending most of the day looking for jobs, coming home later. Father used to be cheerful; he always cracked jokes to make us laugh. Now he was gloomy, often staring blankly into space. The most recent time he smiled was when Marvin showed him a first-place certificate from the school math contest.

“Any luck?” Mother asked.  

“I’m so sorry, dear.” Father’s voice was weary and heavy. “All the openings want young and strong men. I’m-I’m too old and weak, I guess.”

“George! Don’t say that! Those types of jobs are not fit for you.”

“All because of my leg.” Frustration gave Father’s voice a sharp edge. He was in the army during the war in Paris in 1918 and a bullet tore through his thigh. The doctor said that he was lucky to even have his leg saved, but the injury left him walking with a noticeable limp.

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Mother.

“The last place I tried today was the Broadwood Fish Market. They almost wanted me if it wasn't for my leg. Five dollars a week for eight hours a day for delivering ice.”

“Broadwood...the one at the end of the street? Has anyone taken the job?” asked Mother in a hopeful tone.

“I don’t think so. But they made it clear I’m not the right person.”

“I know, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Mother said. “Maybe Marvin can try it. He’s almost as tall as you.” 

The mention of Marvin startled me. I remembered the other day he told me that two of his friends dropped out of school to help their families. When he said that, sadness welled in his eyes.

“What? He needs to stay in school.” Father said, confused and shocked.  

“But we need his help. More bills are coming. What else can we do?” I noticed a wavering in her voice.

“Shhh. We don’t want to wake up the boys.”

“George, let Marvin try it,” Mother pleaded.

“I know… but…let me think…” Father faltered. “We’ll decide tomorrow. I’m too tired.”

The house lapsed into silence. Their words lingered in my mind until I drifted into an uneasy sleep. In my dream, boys waited in a long line to be tested on carrying a large block of ice for the job of an iceman, like oxen waiting to be selected by farmers for heavy labor.

When I woke up next morning, I was soaked in cold sweat. I peered through the slightly ajar door and saw Marvin already settled at the kitchen table and chewing on a slice of barley bread. Father’s words last night thrummed in my head — We’ll decide tomorrow. 

I gazed at Marvin’s face, thin and fair-skinned, feeling bad that he might never continue

his dream in math. 

As Marvin finished the last bite of his bread, he rose to his feet and grabbed his coat.

“I need to go,” said Marvin, stretching one arm into a sleeve.

Father came into view, with Marvin’s school bag in his hand. This is the moment. 

“Good luck on your math exam.” Father patted Marvin on the shoulder and passed him

the bag. They must’ve decided to let Marvin stay in school. I breathed a silent sigh of relief.  

“Thank you.” Marvin looked at Father for a few seconds and flung the bag over his

shoulder, heading out as usual.

I stepped to the window to watch Marvin leave. He slowed his pace as he descended the doorsteps and paused at the bottom, one hand clasping the strap of his bag. A waft of wind stirred and ruffled his hair. Marvin pulled his coat closer to stave off the cold. He stayed standing like that for a few minutes. I wondered why.

Finally, he set off again. To my surprise, he didn’t turn to the right, the direction leading to his school. Instead, he straightened his back and turned the opposite direction, striding to the left of the street, at the end of which was the Broadwood Fish Market.