All Souls by Michael Patrick MacDonald Read Free Book Online

allowed to complain about our lot, and would get down on our knees to thank Christ for America and those orange blocks of government cheese from the welfare office. The Irish community came from all over Boston to support the African Missions. All our relatives would be there: my aunts, cousins, Nana and Grandpa. Our family usually piled into one of the souped-up cars my brother Joe was working on, with doors, hoods, and a roof that were all different colors. Joe was always fixing up big old cars that he could drive around while proudly smoking a cigar and checking out girls. Joe said he looked like a pimp, but my brother Davey called him Jethro and said that we looked more like the Beverly Hillbillies.
    One year we barely made it, breaking down on the dirt roads twice. The backfiring and clouds of exhaust let everyone know that we’d arrived. And we made a scene climbing out of the car windows too, since as usual Joe’s doors didn’t open. Ma hurried through the crowds to the side of the stage, and hollered up to the emcee, pointing to the accordion over her shoulder to let him know she’d be next to entertain. My grandparents had to run and hide for the shame, but the crowds loved Ma. She made everyone feel they were at a real party back home. Some even dropped their American middle-class airs, to toss each other around, doing set dances on the dirt in front of the stage.
    In the meantime, Kevin scouted out the scene for ways to leave with more than he’d come with, and I followed looking for my share. He played a game of darts with his only quarter, and in no time he’d won all kinds of stuffed animals. There was a dart table where you had to aim for the stars scattered across the backboard. What they didn’t realize was that Kevin had gone to Woolworth’s early that morning to snatch a whole box of those same stars to put on the ends of his darts.
    Before long Kevin ended up getting a job at one of the game stands. They were probably sick of him winning and figured it would be cheaper to pay him a day’s wages. He ran the games with energy and wit that drew customers from all corners of the field, all the while pocketing quarters when no one was looking. The more customers he drew, the better he made out, and the less likely that anyone would notice a shortage of profits. I watched my brother wheel and deal as I heard my mother’s voice from across the field belting out “The Wild Colonial Boy.”
    â€œLook, that’s Ma!” Kevin was proud of Ma and bragged to everyone around us that our mother was on stage. I was a little worried about it, though. I thought all the Irish would talk badly about Ma, as my grandparents said she was a shame to us all with her accordion, and her long hair and short skirts. “And that was how they captured him, the wild colonial boy.” Ma proudly stomped her foot through the last line of the song, and finished like she always did, with a loud “wo-ho!” Then Ma took another musician’s guitar away from him and finished up with her all-time favorite by Janis Joplin, putting on her country accent and really belting out “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, and nothin’ ain’t nothin’ honey if it ain’t free.”
    Soon enough Kevin’s pockets were full and so were mine. We had plenty of quarters to play more games, as well as prizes and Irish flags to wave all the way home out the windows of Joe’s shitbox. Before leaving Kevin led Kathy and Frankie into the woods where he’d hid his spoils and gave them their equal share. When we came back into the field, Kevin saw that there was one table he hadn’t gotten to yet: the one that sold raffle tickets for the gallons of booze hidden underneath, behind a tablecloth. He had gifts for everyone and didn’t want to forget Ma’s cousin Nellie. Nellie had come from Ireland when she was sixteen to live with Nana and