All Souls

by Michael Patrick MacDonald

  Finally, about four EMTs and two cops charged into the apartment and rushed toward Joey, bleeding on the couch. Joey waved them off. “Forget me,” he screamed. “Take care of my brother!” One EMT was on the phone with a doctor at the City Hospital, and I listened as he spoke low and said they were losing Brian. Joey panicked and rushed to his brother’s side again. But they kept working on Brian and were able to revive him. They put him on life support, and eventually carried him out on a stretcher.

  From the window, we watched the crowd that had gathered outside, people stretching their necks to get a good look at Brian going into the ambulance. Reenie was at the center of a circle of women, throwing her arms around and giving her account of the episode. And right in the middle of the crowd was Moe Duggan, stretching his own neck like a nosy neighbor. I knew Reenie wasn’t mentioning his role in the stabbing. “Look at that fucker,” Ma said, “like he’s just a spectator. You wouldn’t know that he was the father of two kids who were just stabbed, never mind that he was the one who knifed them.”

  A week later I began the seventh grade at Boston Latin, and rode the English High bus with Brian, since Latin was just across the street from English. Brian was showing his scars and telling the story to everyone. The last thing he remembered before dying: Davey bouncing around the room, “Hey, Bri, you want a smoke?” People repeated those words for weeks whenever they saw Brian. We all got a kick out of the story. Brian and Joey were both fine, except for the scars, and they never did mention their father’s role. Ma never understood why, when she was called to Station 6 as a witness, none of the Duggans wanted to press charges against Moe.

  “Solid Gold” blasted from the TV set. I watched the show every Friday night, and played with Seamus and Stevie while Ma got dressed to go play the accordion at the Emerald Isle Pub in Dorchester. I wasn’t going out to Illusions anymore, so I was able to babysit when Ma went out to the Irish clubs. Kool and the Gang appeared on the screen, and Ma came out of the bathroom to watch their dance moves, telling me to zip up the back of her sequined minidress. I told her that minidresses were out of style, and that she should wear something longer. That even the younger girls at Illusions were wearing dresses to their knees, maybe with a little slit up the side. “Oh, that’s a good idea,” and she used her bare hands to rip a slit along the seam of the already too short dress. I hated to see her go out like that, even though all my friends raved about how nice-looking she was for a forty-year-old. Actually she was forty-five, but she got away with lying about her age to everyone, and made me do the same—even on official school documents.

  Ma started making another one of her commotions looking for her spike heels and her pocketbook. I turned up the television so I could still hear “Solid Gold” through all Ma’s rambling on about Kathy and her thieving friends who might have taken her stuff. I pretended that I was looking for her pocketbook out in the parlor. “Did you find it yet!” she screamed from the bathroom, as if it was a life or death situation. “Let’s see … Nope, it’s not under the cushions. Let me check the closet.” Ma was always hiding her pocketbook whenever any company came over from the neighborhood. And when they left, she would’ve hidden it so well that she couldn’t find it herself, and would start screaming that whoever had just left was a known thief, from a long line of thieves who would steal your last dollar as soon as look at you. She was yelling now about Julie Meaney, who’d just left the house with Kathy. “And what shoes did Kathy wear out of the house?” Ma asked, all out of breath now from the excitement. Kathy was always stealing Ma’s spike heels for a night out on the town on East 8th Street.

  Davey was pacing by the front door, oblivious to Ma’s uproar. He was in his own world until the loud thumps came from the metal door, like someone was in trouble again—in a family fight, or else running from the cops. Davey jumped and jerked his head toward the door, staring at it for a minute without responding, like he was imagining the trouble that might come through if he opened it. Then it banged again; it sounded like kicks this time. Davey unlocked the door. It swung open fast and a shotgun came through, pointed right at Davey’s head, backing him up against the wall. “Hey, c’mon will ya? Knock it off, huh?” Davey said, as if they were just playing around with him. I grabbed the two little kids to me, and yelled for Ma. About five other armed men in leather jackets and wool hats came charging into the house, covering each other as they checked around corners, guns pointed. One of them aimed at me, Seamus, and Stevie. Then another brought Ma out of the bathroom with her hands up. “My kids!” Ma tried not to cry when she saw the guns pointed at us. There was panic in her voice but she kept control, thinking fast, and trying not to make any false moves. The babies started to cry.

  I knew we were all going to die, I just knew it. I could feel my heart beating against Seamus’s and Stevie’s heads as I covered them.

  “I got ’em,” one of the guys shouted from Frankie’s room. They all rushed in to where Frankie was, except for one who stayed behind to cover us with his gun, telling Davey and Ma to go and sit still on the couch with me and Seamus and Stevie. Davey looked around the room fast, as if he might be planning an escape. Just then we heard fighting and Frankie yelling in the back room. Ma started to plead and cry.

  That’s when the intruder with the gun pointed at us said he was a cop, and that we were being raided for drugs. He held up his badge; it was upside-down. “Drugs!?” Ma screamed. Davey sat rocking back and forth as he always did, laughing at the cop, or maybe trying to get him to laugh along, and then turning his head away, looking nervously out of the corner of his eye at the gun. The gunman yelled at him, “Hey … Stop that! Stop it!” Davey just looked at him again. That’s when the guy cocked the trigger and screamed, “I said fuckin’ cut it out!” “Cut … what … out?” Davey asked, looking at the gun as if he wasn’t sure he was even allowed to talk, and then looking away from the gun, back at us. The kids were crying, especially Seamus, whose face was covered in tears, looking at Ma. “Stop moving so fast,” the guy said. “What are you doing?” “Oh, Davey does that,” Ma explained with a smile, like we could all be the best of friends if we connected. “He rocks back and forth. You see, he’s mentally ill,” she added, looking for some sympathy. “Yeah, schizophrenic!” Davey said proudly.

  “Yeah, well, we all got our problems … just sit still.”

  Just then they brought Frankie out, shirtless and sweaty, bent over like the handcuffs were hurting him. I thought he looked like a criminal, which was a real surprise to me. Frankie’s no criminal, I thought. I guess I would’ve looked like a criminal too if I was the one being brought out in handcuffs. I realized the ones who had him in handcuffs looked a lot like the gangsters I’d seen around town. “Frank!” Ma screamed. Two guys stood in front of Ma, blocking her from getting closer. Four other guys rushed Frankie headfirst toward the door. “Where are you taking him?” Ma pleaded, her voice shaky, as if she was struggling to stay calm.

  “He’s goin’ to jail, ma’am.” Now they were calling her ma’am. They held up the shotgun they’d found in Frankie’s room. It was the one that Coley and Ma had got in the D Street Project back when we moved into Old Colony and had to protect ourselves. It had gone missing, and Ma figured someone had stolen it. But Kevin had kept it hidden, under the bed in Frankie’s room. “He says he owns the gun, ma’am, but that he can’t find his license. Besides that, we found ten hits of acid.” I knew then that Kevin had gotten Frankie into trouble again, hiding his stash in Frankie’s room. But Frank wasn’t about to rat on Kevin. Just then, one of the guys handed the shotgun to the one who was keeping us all under cover like we were Ma Barker and her boys, and they all left. We weren’t allowed to follow them. We looked out the window and saw the ladies on the stoop clear the way for Frankie and his captors. They put him into an unmarked car. I still wasn’t sure they were really cops; they’d acted more like gangsters. I hated the cops plenty for all the beatings I’d seen them giving out during the busing troubles. And now�
��Especially if those bastards are the law, I said to myself—I could see how some of the kids in the neighborhood could start to feel like criminals whether they were or not; or even why they’d be proud to be outlaws.

  The court made a deal with Frankie: he wouldn’t be prosecuted if he joined the service. So Frankie went into the Marines. Ma was thrilled to see him get out of Old Colony. Even though he’d stayed out of trouble with his boxing, Ma said it was getting so that trouble would find you easy enough these days.

  Everyone missed Frankie. We’d all started to go to his fights, except Ma, who said she couldn’t bear to see Frankie get hurt in the ring. Davey missed Frank the most, though; the two of them had gotten close, and like the rest of us Davey felt safe in Old Colony with a brother who could box. When Davey had first been set free from Mass Mental, there were people in Old Colony who didn’t know he was one of us—and who thought he seemed odd. But any time he was teased, Frank was the first to his rescue. One time a gang of kids Frankie called “the pretty boys,” with their perfect hair and pressed clothes, were making fun of Davey and his bouncy step. “Hey, Frank, some maggots are botherin’ me!” Davey shouted up one of the tunnels. Frankie sent Davey back to where the pretty boys were hanging out by the incinerator, and stayed hidden in the tunnel to watch the teasing himself. As soon as it began, he walked up to them saying, “You fuckin’ with my brother?” They begged for forgiveness, saying they didn’t know Davey was a MacDonald. And off went Frankie, with Davey bouncing behind him and looking back at the pretty boys with a tough-guy stare and clenched fists.

  Joe missed Frankie too. He’d just bought his new pimpin’ van from our neighbor, Cookie. We’d all envied Cookie in her blue van with ocean paintings on the side, and “The Blue Goose” written on it in sparkly country-western-style letters. Cookie was so big, she had the driver seat pushed so far back that you couldn’t see her head when she drove by—she looked all breast and belly. Joe had to get new bucket seats, and he couldn’t wait until Frankie got out of the Marines, so they could ride around picking up girls.

  The Blue Goose was like an apartment, with a table, sink, and a bed. And Joe stole Ma’s curtains to hang in the windows. As soon as Kevin stepped inside, he called it his new pad. Joe never locked his door—he had no need to in Old Colony. So Kevin and his friends Okie, Joey Earner, and Timmy Baldwin practically moved in, playing cards, drinking, and inviting girls over, whenever Joe was home sleeping. One night Davey made a commotion in the street, banging on the side of the Blue Goose and demanding to be let in. Kevin and his friends had girls over and had locked Davey out. “I want some action too,” Davey yelled, peeking through the rear windows. That’s when Joe went down and kicked everyone out.

  The next morning, Joe arrived at his new mechanic job forty minutes outside the city. He turned around and saw Joey Earner crawling out of the bed, scratching his head, and asking, “Where are we, Joe?”

  The only one more excited than Joe to see Frankie leave the Marines after three months was Davey. Frankie came home with a bald head and all kinds of military clothes and boots. He was even more obsessed with working out now, jogging five miles a day—sometimes we’d spot him running backwards along the beach, wearing his combat boots. Joe waited until Frankie was ready to party at night, but Davey started to follow Frankie on his runs. Then Frankie got an apartment with Davey in Old Colony. That’s when Frankie started getting Davey to focus on his appearance. He taught Davey to shave correctly and more often, got him punching the heavy bag, and doing a hundred push-ups a night. Davey said he was feeling good about himself, said he was going to try to meet a woman. He started wearing Frankie’s clothes. But Davey was six-foot-one, three inches taller than Frankie, and sometimes he’d mix Frankie’s dress clothes with gym clothes. We suddenly started seeing Davey with his hair slicked back and parted in the middle, wearing a silk disco shirt with Adidas sweatpants that were too tight and too high. But he was walking with a less edgy step, and even if he looked funny, he often had a more relaxed look in his eyes, living with his buddy Frankie.

  At the close of the school year in 1979, everyone was thinking about the murder. Francis Stewart had gotten his throat slit by his sister’s boyfriend, Charles Fuller—a born-again minister from the neighborhood—as he’d walked alongside Fuller at Houghton’s Pond. We all seemed to be able to brush off the stories of gunfire on Broadway, and now and then there’d been vague talk of suicides and overdoses. But that was like background noise, and didn’t matter much. We were shocked that a neighbor could be killed so brutally by someone he thought was a friend. No one wanted to say much. Everyone knew you had to be careful what you said, and who you talked to, about things like this. You never knew who was on what side, or who was related in our neighborhood. But despite the worried look in people’s eyes when they opened the papers every day to get the update on one of the most brutal murders we’d heard of, the shock only lasted so long. Summer arrived, and soon everything was back to normal for most of us.

  “Jesus, I love you,” Davey mumbled, pacing past me and the women on the stoop watching the black-and-white TV that someone had carried outside on another hot August night. Then he picked up his pace, and with each “Jesus, I love you,” he got louder and louder, until he screamed the words out at the top of his lungs in the middle of Patterson Way: “Jesus, I love you!” People came to their windows, and some even came outside for a better view. The teenagers selling drugs on the corners looked a little nervous. Davey was in the middle of the street now, blocking a few customers from coming down Patterson. Eventually, they just swerved around him, and the teenagers poked their heads into the car windows for a second before the customers sped off again.

  Davey disappeared, and then we saw his silhouette pacing the rooftops across the street, bouncing higher than ever, and screaming at the top of his lungs: “Jesus, I love you!” The women on the stoop all looked at me, asking me why he was doing that. I just kept staring at “Happy Days” on the TV set, and started playing with the vertical knob on the set to keep the picture from jumping. “I don’t know,” I finally answered. “Maybe he thinks Jesus can’t hear him.” I wished that Frankie would get home. Since he and Davey had moved into the apartment across the street, Frankie was the only one who could make him calm down. I usually made Davey worse with all my questions. Finally Ma came walking up the tunnel with Nellie. The two of them were laughing away at one of Nellie’s stories until they heard it: “Jesus, I love you!” from the rooftop. “Nellie, go get him down, will you?” Ma said; then she came over to the women on the stoop, smiling and asking how everyone was doing, to take the attention away from Davey. Nellie walked across the street to yell up to Davey. “Get down here, will you, you son of a bitch, you’re tormenting your poor mother!” Then she started screaming as Davey showered her with the small pebbles that covered the rooftop, telling her that she had the Devil in her. Nellie came staggering over to us, laughing, “Well, he’s right about that one,” she admitted. She pulled out her bottle and took a swig. The women on the stoop all laughed with Ma and Nellie.

  Davey’s silhouette disappeared. One of the teenagers selling drugs followed him for my mother, and came back to tell us that Davey had gone toward Carson Beach and looked as if he were calming down. It was nine at night now, and we turned our attention away from the TV set to watch the drug traffic, the teenage girls coming out all dressed up for a night of partying, and the arguments and fights breaking out from people’s open windows. “Ach, it’s gonna be another long hot night, huh?” Nellie said, sitting down on the stoop and taking another swig. “This is a great place. I wish I could get an apartment in Old Colony,” she added. “I’m stuck with the niggers over in Dorchester.” Nellie was trying to make conversation with the women on the stoop, but they just ignored her since Ma had gone up to the apartment to check on the babies. Nellie was an outsider, and there was no welcome for her, only looks when she took her swigs, as if we’d never seen drinking before in these parts. “K
eep her with the niggers,” one of the women muttered, staring back again at the jumping picture on the TV set.

  I met up with my friend Danny every day after work at the carpentry job I’d been given that summer through the welfare office. One boiling hot day we went to Carson Beach before it got dark. Davey was there, sitting on the beach wall with his head down. No pacing, no rocking back and forth, and no chain-smoking. I’d never seen Davey look so calm. As if he was letting go of all the battles he’d been waging through his August days, and nights. Only the night before he’d attacked me in the streets, calling me Michael the Dark Angel. When I was a little kid, he’d always told me about Michael the Archangel, who I was named after. But on this night, he’d said that everything had changed, that I’d fallen from the heights, just like Lucifer, who I’d thrown out of heaven, gaining favor with God myself and ruling the heavens. Now it was all over. I was no longer in God’s favor; I’d become the Dark Angel, in league with Satan. Danny had been with me when Davey said all that. I was always getting embarrassed by Davey’s crazy talk and often tried to make light of it all. I’d called my brother a fool, and he’d quoted something in the Bible that said it was a great sin to call another man a fool, and that I would definitely burn. But now Davey looked peaceful. We called over to him, but he didn’t respond; he just kept staring at the sand.

  I went home to mind Seamus and Stevie later that afternoon. As usual, Ma called every once in a while to ask about “the babies,” as we still called them, and to have me feel Stevie’s back while he slept, to make sure he was still breathing. Seamus was three now, and Stevie two, but ever since Patrick, Ma never really trusted that her babies weren’t dead when they were just soundly sleeping. “Put down the phone and put your hand on his back to make sure he’s breathing,” she said. “Come on, will ya, Ma,” I said. “Just do it,” she said, “I’m not hanging up until you come back and tell me.” Stevie was on the couch on his stomach, and I felt his back go up and down a few times before returning to tell Ma. I took my time, because I knew that if I came back to the telephone too soon, she wouldn’t believe I’d done it. “All right,” she said, “I’ll be back later, I’m meeting Nellie up Broadway.”