The hammer.

The hammer gives this memory rare clarity. We’re adults now, and when the stories come out, I see myself as I was. Sometimes, as I think I was, as I want to have been. Someone else tells a story, and it doesn’t match up to mine. With my memory, it happens a lot.

Memories are my brother's strength, not mine. I’ve never understood his memory. You’d think he was reading a journal entry or a movie script. He can tell you not just what happened that day, but what happened before, after, the weather, the clothes, the mood. You get it.

He lays out the whole conversation like we’d had it on the way to the party tonight, but it was months ago.

“You look cold mate.”

“I’m freezing in this t-shirt!”

“Should’ve brought a jacket, like me.”

“I would have if I’d known it’d be this windy.”

“Yeah, I thought you looked brave, going out in just that.”

“And you didn’t say something.”

“Maybe you like being cold.”

Then he recalls how he’d been wearing two of my jumpers under his coat and not said anything. For his own quiet enjoyment. Finding out so much later, you can only laugh with everyone else. He’s good at that, doing something but not telling you for months or years, so when he does, you can both laugh.

Memories for me are usually like those paintings where the artist looks like he’s only been told about art but never actually seen it, been given the paint and brushes but zero direction on how to use them. Sometimes it’s barely a seeing memory, but more of a feeling or a smell. Those kinds of memories jump out when I smell it again, but I can never remember where from. Or I remember a memory had a particular smell, but I’ve never been able to find that smell again, and I couldn’t tell you what the smell even is.

It wasn’t a hammer, it was a camping mallet. A thick wooden handle, a rounded heavy block at one end. It was flying so fast that it went clear through the fence panel. Then lay silent, weighing down the earth. I don’t remember any smells from this memory, but I remember the sound of breaking wood exploding behind me.

We had been assembling fishing shelters in the back garden, really, they were tents with an open front. We had to make sure they all worked properly before a boy’s trip. There were four to put up, and my brother had been doing none of them. I kept asking him to help, but he wouldn’t. My polite requests quickly turned to exasperated pleas, and I soon gave up. By the time I’d assembled the third tent, I’d had enough and went over to tell him I wasn’t doing the fourth.

I marched over, something snappy and bossy in my head, ready to fly. He stood up as I got closer. I began whatever line I had prepared as he picked the mallet up. My sentence was soon cut short as the mallet came hurling through the air, perfectly in line with my head. It really was incredibly aimed.

I don’t remember him throwing it, but I remember it flying towards me, soundless. I ducked and heard the crash behind me as it broke through the fence. The mallet burst into the neighbor's garden like an enraged dog, hot on the trail of some scrambling, wide-eyed rodent. I half expected it to come flying back. I sensed we were both frozen for a moment, both contemplating the alternative outcome. Less about the possible injury, more the trouble we’d have been in.

I stood up slowly. He turned and began walking back to the house. Walking with purpose. He’s going to blame me for the broken fence, I thought. I caught up to him as he neared the back door, just as Dad stepped out. I was going to beat him to it.

“Joey just threw a mallet at my head!” Snitch.

Dad didn’t flinch. He looked at me plainly, “Well, did it hit you?”

“No, I ducked, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.” Dramatic.

“Then what are you complaining about? It didn’t hit you.”

I could feel my brother's satisfaction radiating at my Dad’s indifference, it warmed my face.

“What?! He threw it so hard there's a giant hole in the fence!” I piped up indignantly.

“Sounds like you got lucky then. Where’s the mallet?”

“In the neighbor's garden, it went through the fence!”

“Well, if the hole is big enough, you can climb through and get it. Otherwise, you’ll have to go round the front and knock.” He said matter-of-factly as he walked off.

By this point, I was in disbelief. I wasn’t even angry anymore. I’d heard about the younger sibling getting away with murder. Here he was, getting away with attempted murder. Which in my young mind, was exactly the same as murder murder. Successful murder. So dramatic.

Another round of drinks is pouring. I brought up the mallet story. I led boldly with the mallet being thrown, the lightning-fast duck, how I’d only asked him to put up a tent. Joey looked at me quiet, serious, a rare look. “That’s not why.” His lips folded inwards, blocking any other words.

I felt a little ashamed I’d brought it up. In an instant, I knew it wasn’t the real reason he’d thrown it.

“I thought it was, well, what was it then?”

“You can think that, never mind.”

“Come on Joey I want to know.”

“Never mind.” he wasn’t annoyed, just moving the conversation along.

He was protecting me from something. My little brother. From a memory of myself. As I was, not as I want to have been. I can’t remember what I did to make him throw the mallet. It was bad enough that he wouldn’t want to embarrass me with it in front of our friends. My brain must have blocked it out, replaced it with something harmless like asking to put tents up.