Michael Dooley

When Brendon Pennyridge failed to return to the cabin, his bunk mates went through his bag and shared out the belongings. The older men made sure they got the newest clothes and any money, one found a gold ring knotted into a handkerchief. 
Still unbalanced with seasickness, Michael Dooley was left with the empty bag, and a wooden box of papers. He saw the birth certificate and snapped the box shut, slipping it into his duffel bag, thinking it might be of use one day. He spent that night throwing up into Pennyridge's old bag, as the boat pitched and rolled its way across the Atlantic.
Once through immigration Michael found New York confusingly busy at the docks. Pushing with people looking for recently arrived relatives, loud with street sellers, the dockyard workers whistling to one another, as they loading and unloading ships with swinging nets of goods, suspended from rattling chains, running from huge cranes.
Clutching one of the letters Con occasionally sent home, Michael asked for directions, and was soon walking along sidewalks lined with brick town houses. As he travelling block to block, the signs of poverty increased, the streets running with groups of children, and strung with washing lines of grey wet clothes.
Finally he arrived at the stoop of no 43, just as a down-at-heel man was slamming the door shut, there was an angry shout from inside, and the man spat on the doorstep. He eyed Michael, as though daring him to comment, but they passed one one another silently. Beside the door, one of the window panes had the glass knocked out, a brown wool blanket had been stretched across it. Michael checked the address and knocked on the door. After a second knock, a woman poked her head out from behind the blanket.
"What?" She asked angrily, a native accent, the belligerent attitude of someone used to seeing off debt collectors.
"I'm looking for Con."
 "Never heard of him." She disappeared. Michael rechecked the letter, there was a flutter at the blanket, someone looking at him.
"Michael?"  The material was pulled aside, and there was the unshaven, black eyed face of his older brother, Con Dooley. He climbed out of the window, as though there was nothing unusual about that, and stood before Michael, his strong arms folded high across his stained vest, braces hanging loose round his waist, the top button of his trousers undone. "What are you doing here?"
"Con!" Michael was relieved, he went to embrace his brother, but Con roughly pushed him away, an aroma of stale alcohol hung about him.
"What are you doing here?" He repeated. Michael was taken aback, he waved the letter, Con snatched it out of his hand, looked briefly, then screwed it up and threw it away.
"What would you have me write? This?" He pointed at the doss house. "You always were a donkey Michael." He poked his wide eyed brother in the chest. "A donkey, farm boy"
"Con."
"Do you have an money?" Con roughly grabbed his brother and riffled through his pockets, taking the few coins, then began rummaging through the duffel bag, throwing clothes across the stoop. He found the wooden box and opened it,  but finding no money, tossed it to the sidewalk where some wood splintered off. He grabbed at Michael's lapels.
"Nothing?" He shook the boy, as though expecting coins to roll out from him." Not a little wad somewhere, that Pa sent you off with?"
"You said you had a house, with a wife and work enough." Michael didn't mention the money in the sole of his shoe. He pulled himself out of Con's grip, and began collecting his belongings. He tried to reinsert the broken side into the box but it wouldn't hold, he pushed it into the bag anyway. Con slumped on to the step, his head hanging down.
"You shouldn't have come Mikey." His face was deep in his chest, his voice muffled. The woman's voice called,
"Who is it Con?"
Con looked at Michael.
"No-one." He got up and climbed back in through the window.


(For Part One see 'Madigan')