A Season in Purgatory

by Dominick Dunne

  On the day of the night of Weegie Somerset’s dance, catering and florist trucks began arriving early in the morning at the great gray stone house next door to the Bradleys’. Delivery men carrying armloads of pink roses scurried into the house. Several hundred gold ballroom chairs were stacked in the driveway in front of the house while the trucks were being unloaded. Constant stood in the window of his parents’ bedroom and watched the activity. In the late morning he had a long talk on the telephone with his father in Florida. When he came back into the room, he said, “Come on. You’ve got work to do.”

  “What?”

  “Every year at Christmas my father gives turkeys and food packages and oranges to the poor of the city, and shoes to the little children. They traipse us down there every year, my brothers and sisters and me, all dressed up in our best clothes, and we hand out the stuff, and my father makes a speech, and my mother sits there in her mink coat like the queen, and the priests thank everybody. This year, my father says, I have to do it, and he says that you have to write me something to say.”

  “Like what? I wouldn’t know what to write,” I said.

  “Yes, you do. Christmas and peace and giving and loving and family, and all that shit. My father said anything about family always gets them. Work up a tear. Nothing long. Just a few paragraphs. You know how to do it. Oh, and get something in about Sandro running for Congress.”

  “Shouldn’t he be here, preparing for his campaign?”

  “He will be. After Florida. Then full steam ahead. Pa will call in the heavy artillery. They all owe him favors, all those politicians.”

  Fatty and Sis went with us to the auditorium of the Malachy Bradley School, named for Gerald’s father, in the section of the city called Bog Meadow. There were hundreds of bags of groceries, and turkeys, and crates of oranges, and boxes of children’s shoes. Fatty and Sis and the priests and nuns lined up the people and passed out the goods, but most of them wanted to receive their packages and their turkeys directly from the handsome young Bradley boy, so smartly dressed in his blue blazer and gray flannels from J. Press. A photographer appeared, and a cameraman from the local television station.

  “I see a resemblance in you to your grandfather,” an old woman said to him. “I’m Agnes O’Toole. Your grandfather Malloy, God rest his soul, lived right near us over on Front Street when they came over from the old country. God bless you, Constant. We’re grateful to your wonderful family.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Toole,” said Constant, smiling and friendly. At times like that, he was condescendingly good-natured to his inferiors, and they, in turn, were enchanted. “Certainly, I’ve heard my mother speak of you and your family.”

  “My late husband, Francis X. Moriarity, worked for your grandfather Bradley in the butcher shop over on Sisson Avenue,” said another old woman. “A fine man he was.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Moriarity. My grandfather always had a great affection for that shop on Sisson Avenue,” said Constant.

  “God bless you, Constant,” said person after person, receiving his packages.

  Constant basked in their praise and admiration. He became, if anything, handsomer, and more loquacious than he had been since the Labor Day dance at the beach club in Watch Hill. His spoiledness, his sullenness, vanished. All morose thoughts of Weegie Somerset evaporated, at least for then. He found a personal thing to say to each person to whom he spoke.

  “What’s your name?” he asked a little girl.

  “Maureen,” she answered.

  “Why, I have a sister called Maureen,” he said, picking her up and talking to her for several minutes. He faced her around so that the cameraman and photographer could get her picture. “Fatty, give me one of those Hershey bars for young Miss Maureen here.”

  When he stepped to the microphone, he was in full possession of himself. “I am so sorry my father and mother could not be here this year to greet each of you personally, but they have had to forgo a Connecticut Christmas this year. Business has taken my father to Florida. I talked to him this morning, and he said to tell everyone he will be back here handing out the turkeys himself next Christmas. My mother, too, sends her love and best wishes to all. Our parents are bringing us up to play some part, to get involved in politics and public service. My brother Sandro, as you probably know, is running for the rest of the late Congressman Lopez’s term. And we expect you all at the polls.”

  The crowd, all clutching their bags, listened raptly as Constant spoke. He spoke with an easy familiarity, as if he were standing at the dinner table in the Bradley dining room, giving a toast. “I remember once my mother went to confession to Cardinal Sullivan. She couldn’t think of any sins that she had committed since her last confession, so she made some up. My father asked her later what sins she had made up. She said she was too embarrassed to tell him, they were so awful. ‘I want to know,’ insisted my father. She said she’d whisper them to him. He listened. ‘You call those sins?’ he said.” The crowd roared. Then he became serious.

  “We are a close family. My grandfathers, Malachy Bradley and Kevin Malloy, both lived here in the Bog Meadow section of the city and it remains close to all of us in our family. My father will be setting up scholarships here at the Malachy Bradley School for outstanding students to get college educations. In closing, I wish you a happy Christmas and a gift of loyal family relationships.”

  Later, driving west to Scarborough Hill in his Porsche, he was exhilarated with his performance. “Did you see the way they kept coming up to me?” he asked. “All those old ladies who said they knew my grandfathers?”

  “It was masterful with the little girl, little Maureen, Constant,” said Fatty Malloy. “It was like you were running for office.”

  Even Sis Malloy, or Prim Sis, as Mary Pat and Kitt called their cousin behind her back, was excited by the afternoon. She knew who all the people were, and tried to explain to Constant their place in the early lives of his grandparents, but Constant’s interest was in their reaction to him rather than in who they were. “Mrs. O’Toole was thrilled you said your mother talked about her family,” said Sis Malloy.

  “I just made that up,” said Constant. “I never even heard of the O’Tooles before.”

  “Oh, Constant, you’re such a tease,” said Sis.

  “You’re the one who should be running for office, Constant.”

  “I will be one of these days.”

  “When you run for whatever you’re going to run for, Constant, I want to be your campaign manager,” said Fatty.

  “And this guy’s going to be my speech writer,” said Constant, pointing his thumb in my direction. “It was a great touch to work in the cardinal, Harry. They ate that up. How did you know that story?”

  “You told me once at school.”

  “Do you remember everything I say?”

  I did remember everything he said, but I didn’t answer. “How did the photographer and cameraman know to come?” I asked.

  “Oh, Pa, for sure,” answered Constant. “He’s a friend of Tom O’Gorman at the paper.”

  “From Florida he arranged it?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  That evening we watched Constant on the local news at six, holding Miss Maureen, and the newscaster gave a glowing description of the bounty of the Bradley family every Christmas to the poor of the city.

  “I wonder if they’re watching next door,” I said.

  By eight o’clock, cars were beginning to line both sides of the street in front of the Bradley and Somerset houses. The shouts of parking boys could be heard. Constant’s elation of the afternoon vanished. It had been snowing for several hours; the trees outside the windows were shining white. We had dinner in the library, looked at television, and never mentioned the lavish affair that was going on in the next house. We drank two bottles of Mr. Bradley’s best red wine.

  I examined one of the bottles. I read the label. I saw the words Mouton Rothschild and the year 1955. I knew nothing about wine, but I knew enough t
o be impressed.

  “Life is too short to drink cheap wine,” said Constant, watching my reaction. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a third bottle and a corkscrew. Coming into the room, he tripped on a rug.

  “Don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough, Constant,” I said.

  “Mind your own goddamn business,” he said sharply. His sapphirelike eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t forget you’re only a guest in this house. I’ll drink what I want.”

  I blushed at the brush-off. It was true. I was only a guest, the kind of guest who could not reciprocate the generosity of the host. I had never asked him to Ansonia, or to meet Aunt Gert, and I never would. We sat for a few minutes in silence. Then I went upstairs to my room. I knew I would leave in the morning.

  Several minutes later the door opened and Constant stood there. “I didn’t mean that, Harry,” he said. “Don’t get hurt, or start feeling inferior. I’ve already got enough to deal with. Friends?”

  I nodded. “Friends,” I said.

  “We look on you as practically a member of the family,” he said. “That’s what Ma says anyway, and Kitt and I concur.”

  “You can be so nice, Constant, and then again, you can be so awful.”

  He nodded in agreement. “I’m going out for a little air,” he said around midnight.

  “Pretty cold out there,” I said.

  “Need to clear the head,” he replied.

  “Want company?”

  “No.”

  Outside, he walked down the long driveway to the street. Some older people were leaving the party early and stood in a cluster under the portico in front of the Somerset house while the parking boys ran to get their cars. Constant retraced his steps before they saw him and came back up the drive. He walked past the front door and went around to the rear of the house, trudging across the deep lawn through the snow to the tennis court at the back of the property. A half hour later, when he had not returned, I walked through the snow across the lawn to the tennis court. He was sitting on a bench by the side of the court, listening to the dance music coming from the house next door. His head was in his hands.

  3

  The situation in Scarborough Hill between the Bradley house and the Somerset house did not improve. Just as Kitt predicted at Christmas, Gerald Bradley got even with Leverett Somerset, in the way that he knew how to get even best. Financially. He invited him to lunch at The Country Club. He never mentioned the dance from which his family had been excluded, as if it were a matter of no consequence to him. Instead, in the most businesslike manner, he told him of a surefire deal in Texas real estate, in which a great deal of money could be made quickly, the kind of rapid turnover by means of which Gerald had built his own fortune and at which he was known to be so skilled. The prospect of quick money was irresistible to Leverett, as Gerald knew it would be. The once-solid Somerset fortune had dwindled and disappeared over the years.

  Each man put up an equal amount. Gerald could afford to lose on the deal. Leverett could not; he borrowed to raise his share. Then Gerald, who knew the Texans, quietly pulled out of the deal, his money intact, without telling his neighbor, and Leverett Somerset, several months later, suffered a total loss of his investment. Kitt, the chatterbox, told me this at Easter. Things that appalled me later did not appall me then. So fascinated was I with that family that even what Gerald did to Leverett Somerset did not seem wrong to me. I took it as a sign of Gerald’s financial superiority.

  One day Maureen Bradley and a young man named Freddy Tierney, whom Constant had heard about from Kitt, came by the school in Maureen’s green Jaguar to see the plans for the new library that Gerald was building. Dr. Shugrue, the recipient of the Bradley largess, interrupted his overcrowded schedule to show Maureen the hilltop site where the groundbreaking had already taken place and then took her into the entranceway of the dining hall to go over the drawings of the new building. It was to be of red brick, surrounded by maples and hemlocks. “Lovely,” she said over and over, as she made suggestions for changes. She thought the windows on either side of the front doors should be larger. The architect, Louis I. Kahn, who had also designed a much heralded library at Phillips Exeter Academy several years before, happened to be there at Milford that day. He did not agree with her suggestions, but Maureen insisted. There was a bossy side to her. “My father thought so, too,” she said, and she smiled sweetly, implying, without stating, that her father was paying the bills, and it had better be done her way. After a look from Dr. Shugrue, the architect, courtly, courteous, complied. He knew there weren’t many Mr. Gerald Bradleys around to foot such enormous bills.

  “You see?” said Maureen. Her point had been proven. She looked to Freddy Tierney, as if wanting him to be proud of her for her expertise, and he was.

  Without the headmaster’s permission, she took Constant and me to lunch at an inn in the village. She and Freddy sat very close together and giggled and laughed through lunch. When Freddy excused himself to use the facilities, as he called it, Constant immediately said, “All right. Give.”

  They had met in Florida at the Breakers over Christmas. He was from Lake Forest. His family was in the meatpacking business in Chicago. He had graduated from Princeton and was working in the family business.

  “Isn’t he divine?” asked Maureen.

  “Bucks?” asked Constant.

  “Big bucks,” said Maureen.

  “Catholic?”

  “His sister was in my class at Sacred Heart. His father’s a Knight of Malta.”

  “All the right credentials.”

  Maureen whispered to Constant, “You promise you won’t tell?”

  “Promise,” said Constant. He crossed his heart.

  “We’re engaged.”

  “Well, well, well, this calls for champagne,” said Constant.

  “It certainly does not. You’re not out of trouble yet, although Shugrue says you’re trying hard. But Freddy wanted to meet you before we told the family, as you were the only one not at the Breakers over Christmas.”

  I believed myself to be as happy in those days as I had ever been. But then, suddenly, it came to an end. Constant and I had taken our college boards, and we were anxiously waiting to hear if we had been accepted at Yale. I had applied for a scholarship.

  I went back to Ansonia for Easter vacation. Aunt Gert wanted me to go with her on a driving trip to Halifax—there were priests there she had raised money for—but I didn’t really want to. Then a letter came from Constant.

  Dear Harry. Tried to call. No answer. Leave Aunt Gert to her missionaries, for God’s sake, and get your butt over here to keep me company. I need someone to talk to. You can tell me the plots of all those books you read, and whether they’re good or not, and I’ll pretend I’ve read them too. Like The Great Gatsby you’re always talking about. Shugrue will be impressed. I’m tired of being a cheap success at bad parties. “Oh, isn’t Constant marvelous?” “Isn’t he the funniest thing ever?” “Isn’t he handsome?” You know it’s all crap. I don’t have to pretend in front of you. Let me know what train you’ll be on. Sandro won the runoff. He’s off to Washington. Pa’s ecstatic.

  Constant

  P.S. Maureen’s engaged to Freddy. Did you see the announcement in the New York Times Sunday? Summer wedding. Ma’s over the moon.

  Of course I went. Halifax could wait. They were all home that Easter. The curve of the staircase in the hall was filled with dozens of lily plants. Maureen and Mary Pat and Kitt did a great deal of shopping for new suits and Easter hats, although they wore black lace mantillas to church. The papers were full of Sandro’s victory in the congressional runoff and Maureen’s engagement to Frederick Tierney of the Chicago meat-packing family.

  At The Country Club, Gerald walked with a new swagger as he herded his family and their guests in to dinner. We went through the religious rituals of Holy Week. Holy Thursday. Good Friday. Holy Saturday. Easter Sunday. Cardinal Sullivan came to Scarborough Hill for Easter lunch. All the fa
mily was there, with the new additions of Freddy and me. The lunch was Bridey Gafferty’s Easter specialty. Roast lamb. Browned potatoes. Mint jelly. And chocolate soufflé.

  That day during lunch, Leverett Somerset came to the door of the Bradley house. One of the maids answered the door. The gentleman, as the maid referred to him later, said that he wished to speak to Mr. Bradley.

  “The Bradleys are at Easter dinner,” she said.

  “I would like to speak to Mr. Bradley. Now,” said Mr. Somerset. There was a commanding tone reinforced by several drinks that sent the maid, Colleen, scurrying on her mission, leaving the distinguished neighbor outside the front door, like a tradesperson.

  Colleen came into the dining room. Constant was on his feet, holding a wineglass, in the middle of a toast to Freddy Tierney. Grace with a lifted hand cautioned for the maid not to interrupt. “We’ve checked him out, of course, using all of Pa’s Chicago connections, and you all know about Pa’s Chicago connections,” said Constant. The family laughed. “And he passes muster. He is very midwestern, from good people, substantial, which means money, and he is conscious of all the amenities. Ma likes him because he reads his missal at Mass. Pa likes him because he reads the financial pages first. And Maureen likes him because, well—”

  “Now, wait a minute, before you get too graphic, Constant, about what Maureen likes about Freddy. Remember, we have a cardinal here,” called down Desmond from his end of the table.

  Cardinal Sullivan roared with laughter, and the family chimed in.

  “Ignore my sons, Cardinal,” said Grace. “What is it, Colleen?”

  The maid murmured something into Gerald Bradley’s ear, but he ignored her secrecy. “Speak up, speak up,” he said.

  “There’s a gentleman called Mr. Somerset at the front door,” said Colleen.

  “Tell him we’re at lunch.”

  “I did, sir. He insisted on seeing you.”

  “Ask him to wait,” said Gerald.

  “I think he’s been drinking, sir,” said Colleen.