He didn’t look like someone capable of killing anyone. Not even close.
Tony—the bulky, hairless cook at the Salvation Army—stood behind the steam table with a ladle the size of a shovel. He scooped scrambled eggs onto my tray with a wet smack.
“Morning, kid,” he said, his voice warm and gravelly.
“Morning,” I muttered, eyeing the eggs like they were an enemy. They were always wet. Too soft. Too yellow. Raisin toast was what I really wanted, but you took what you got in the shelter. Grandma always grabbed the rye, bragging about “good Milwaukee bread.” I couldn’t stand the seeds. They felt like biting into tiny rocks.
My step-grandma lived with us at the Salvation Army. She carried a smell with her—stale, sour, untraceable. Something like mildew and old blankets. Sometimes the smell drifted into our room at night and woke me up before she did.
We’d landed at the shelter after a chaotic two-month disaster in Florida. Packing, screaming, leaving, returning—then suddenly we were back in Milwaukee, back where every hallway echoed and every meal came on a plastic tray.
I was ten years old. The oldest of four kids. My mom claimed she was a good mother, but even then I could see the cracks in her story. My sister Sarah was seven, Nick was two, and Sam hadn’t been born yet. Somehow, despite the chaos, we kids found pockets of joy. Kids are good at that.
Tony became one of the bright spots. Big Tony. He befriended my stepdad, Don, almost immediately. They’d sit in the corner of the cafeteria drinking weak coffee and talking about God-knows-what. And Tony had a son—little Tony—same age as me, with hair so red it looked like someone had painted it on.
We were inseparable at the Boys and Girls Club. After school, we’d sit on the bus together, our winter coats creaking as we pressed against the cold windows. The Club smelled like old gym mats and grape Kool-Aid. Behind it was Kościuszko Park’s pond, frozen over in jagged white patches. It was our imaginary hockey rink—not that we had sticks or a puck. We used our arms and sound effects.
“Goal!” little Tony would shout, sliding across the ice on his boots.
“You cheated,” I’d yell back, shoving him. “That was totally goalie interference.”
“No such thing,” he’d say, tackling me into a laughing heap.
But one day…the laughter didn’t stay.
It was late March, the kind of day when the sky can’t make up its mind. The ice was starting to rot, but we didn’t notice—or didn’t want to.
“Race you to the middle!” Tony yelled, sprinting forward.
“Dude, wait—” was all I got out before the world collapsed beneath my feet.
The ice cracked with a gunshot sound, and suddenly I was under—plunged into black, frigid water. The cold swallowed me whole. I gasped and dirty pond water rushed into my mouth. Dead leaves brushed my face. Mud sucked at my shoes. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
I surfaced through the jagged hole, coughing, shivering.
“Tony!” I screamed. “Tony, help!”
He wasn’t there.
Only a few birds lifted out of the bare trees, their wings cutting the silence like knives.
I clawed at the ice, but every piece I grabbed splintered in my hands. Panic rose like a wave. My breathing turned sharp and rapid.
“Help! Please!” I screamed, voice cracking.
Then—hands.
Huge, strong hands grabbing the back of my corduroy coat. Big Tony dragged me out like I weighed nothing. My body sprawled across the ice, then onto the shore. My teeth chattered uncontrollably. Little Tony stood a few feet away, crying softly.
Big Tony didn’t yell. He didn’t even look upset.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
And we did.
After that, Don lectured me about “aquatic safety.”
“Ya gotta use common sense, Jason. Ice melts this time of year,” he said, shaking his head.
I remember thinking, I didn’t make a bad choice. The ice betrayed me.
But we weren’t allowed back to the pond again.
Spring arrived, green and muddy, and I turned my attention to my next big plan. A greeting card company mailed me a catalog promising incredible prizes if you sold enough cards. One was a video game system. Two hundred cards and shipping. Easy in my ten-year-old mind.
“Look,” I told Tony after school, holding out the colorful page of prizes. “If we can’t get the game system, we’ll get this tent. Two-person. Real camping.”
“Camping?” he asked, eyes wide. “Like in the woods?”
“Yeah. Or like…in the hallway. Same thing.”
We started selling—door to door, room to room—but no one at the shelter wanted $4.99 greeting cards. Not even kind ones.
“This is harder than I thought,” Tony muttered.
“Just one sale,” I said. “We only need forty for the tent.”
We wandered the neighborhood until we reached a brick house. I knocked. A small man opened the door, looking us over with an unreadable expression.
“You boys selling something?” he asked.
“Yes sir!” I chirped. “High-quality greeting cards for all occasions!”
He squinted. “How old are you two?”
“I’m thirteen. He’s twelve,” I lied, heart beating fast.
He stepped aside and motioned inward. “Come in for a minute. Let me look at the list.”
Something inside me screamed no.
Tony froze. His face changed—eyes wide, breath shallow.
“I don’t think we’re allowed,” I stammered. “It’s…against the rules.”
Tony bolted down the sidewalk. I backed away and followed him. By the time I reached him at the corner, he was shaking.
“That man wanted to hurt us,” he whispered. “I felt it.”
“Maybe,” I said softly. “Let’s just go back.”
We did—without any sales.
That night, after dinner, I squeezed into the big red armchair in the TV room, the one spot that felt like luxury. If I left it unattended for even a second, the scraggly older guy would steal it, shouting, “Move your feet, lose your seat!” with a smug laugh. I hated that guy more than the rye bread.
After the movie, I stopped by Tony’s room. Big Tony opened the door, irritated.
“He’s punished. Can’t come out.”
I looked past him. Little Tony sat on the bed, holding his eye, crying silently.
The door slammed shut.
I walked back to my room, fighting tears.
The next day at school, he didn’t show. But at lunch I saw him, alone, poking at his food. I started walking toward him when big Tony’s voice thundered from the kitchen:
“Don’t talk to my boy!”
The cafeteria went silent.
I set my tray down and left.
That was the last time I saw my friend.
We moved out of the shelter that May into a small brick house in Latino Village. I liked being closer to Kościuszko Park. I’d walk there alone, throwing rocks into the pond and watching the ripples fade. I always thought of Tony. Sometimes I pretended we were back on the ice, slipping and sliding, laughing like nothing bad could ever touch us.
I made new friends. We bought Garbage Pail Kids stickers from the card shop on Lincoln Avenue, stuffed ourselves with candy, and played games in the street until the sun dipped low. It was the kind of summer that feels endless when you’re a kid.
In early fall, gym class took us to an indoor pool. The moment I stepped inside, the warm, chemical sting of chlorine hit my nose. The room echoed with splashes and squeals. I’d never been around a real deep end before, and it felt mysterious—almost forbidden.
And then I saw them.
The Tonys.
They were in the shallow end, splashing each other. I waded over, surprised and awkward.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
Big Tony looked up. “Hey, kid,” he said, giving me a soft punch on the arm. “Go play.”
Little Tony grinned. “I’m homeschooled now.”
“That’s…cool,” I said, unsure.
“You wanna sleep over tonight?” he asked. “I asked Dad. He says it’s okay.”
My heart lifted. “I’ll ask my mom. What’s your address?”
He wrote it on a scrap of paper borrowed from the lifeguard, water dripping from his fingertips.
“Come if you can.”
“Okay,” I said. And I meant it.
But when I asked my mom, she shut it down with a hard, instant no.
“No way. Absolutely not.”
It felt like something inside me cracked. I went to bed early and cried into my pillow.
Around midnight, I woke to our squeaky screen door opening. That door always cried out like it was being stepped on. I crept to my bedroom door and peered through the crack.
All I could see were shiny brown leather shoes.
Voices murmured. Lamps clicked on, flooding the living room with a strange, warm light. Someone approached my door. I ducked back into bed, heart racing.
“Jason,” my mom whispered. “Wake up. A detective wants to talk to you.”
A whisper—from her—was already a red flag.
I walked into the living room in my pajamas, rubbing my eyes.
A tall man stood there with a badge clipped to his belt.
“Jason,” he said gently, “I’m Detective Frank Davis with the Milwaukee Police Department. I need to ask you about Tony Mariano.”
My breath caught. “What about him?”
“Did he say anything unusual today? Anything that made you think he might hurt his son?”
“No,” I said, confused. “He invited me to sleep over.”
The detective scribbled something in a notebook.
“Has big Tony ever hurt you?” he asked.
“No. What’s happening?”
He closed the notebook. “That’s all, ma’am,” he told my mom. “He can go back to bed.”
“Thank you,” he added quietly to me. “Get some sleep, kid.”
But sleep didn’t come.
The next morning passed in silence. No answers. No explanations. Just an unspoken heaviness.
Years later, I finally learned the truth.
Big Tony killed his son.
He did it because Wisconsin was going to take the boy away. Instead of letting his son live safely somewhere else, he made a monstrous, selfish choice that ended a life that deserved so much better.
Little Tony was bright. Loyal. Fun. A spark in a dim chapter of my childhood.
I still think of him every time I see a frozen pond.
And someday—when this world is behind me—I hope I meet him again.
On ice that never cracks.
Under skies that never dim.
Two kids playing hockey forever.
World Champion at Life 