A Season in Purgatory

by Dominick Dunne

  “Kitt!” screamed Mary Pat.

  “I can’t believe what I’m listening to,” said Grace. She looked at her husband. “She couldn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  Gerald and Jerry looked at each other.

  “Didn’t Harrison ask you to dance?” asked Grace, trying to change the subject. She looked at me as if it were little enough I could have done for all the time I had spent in their house.

  “No, but that was all right. The music sucked,” said Kitt.

  “I hate that expression, Kitt,” said Grace.

  Constant, late, arrived in the dining room. His hair was wet. He was dressed with his usual flair, his blazer retrieved from the Porsche, a clean shirt open at the neck, gray trousers, loafers. Only the dark circles under his eyes belied the freshness of his appearance.

  “Morning, Ma,” he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “I’ve been swimming laps in the pool,” he answered.

  “Isn’t it still a bit chilly for that?”

  “Swimming laps in a cold pool is supposed to be great for a hangover,” said Kitt.

  “And how would you know?” asked Grace.

  “My roommate’s father’s an alcoholic,” she said.

  Grace turned to look at her son. “A Mrs. Utley called me at two in the morning looking for her daughter,” she said.

  “You see, Pa?” said Kitt. “A ladies’ man.”

  “Did you cut your mouth, Constant?” asked Grace.

  “Shaving,” said Constant.

  Bridey walked into the dining room from the kitchen with Gerald’s eggs.

  “Tell Bridey what you want for breakfast,” said Grace.

  “Just coffee, Bridey.”

  “You must have more than coffee. Bring him some juice and a boiled egg, Bridey.”

  “No, Ma, really.”

  “An English muffin then.”

  “You certainly were up late,” said Bridey. “He woke me up at three o’clock in the morning. I couldn’t imagine what in the world he was doing in my kitchen at that hour.”

  “Not three, no, no, no, Bridey,” said Gerald. “The dance was over at ten. He was back from the club long before eleven. Wasn’t he, Harrison? Harrison drove him.”

  They looked at me. Before I could answer, the sound of a car coming up the long pebbled driveway caught the attention of everyone. “Gracious, who could be arriving here at this hour of the morning?” asked Grace.

  Gerald and Jerry went to the window and looked out. “It’s Fuselli,” said Gerald. He nodded to Jerry.

  For a severely crippled man, Jerry Bradley moved very quickly. He left the dining room and walked across the hall to answer the front door before Colleen could get to it. Johnny Fuselli was standing there.

  “Move your car around to the back by the garage,” said Jerry. “My father doesn’t want to have too many cars in the driveway. Here’s the keys to the cook’s car in the garage. It’s a Pontiac. Drive it out of town somewhere and dump the garbage bag in the trunk. Then Pa wants you to come back here.”

  “What’s the big mystery?”

  Jerry ignored his question. “Make sure that garbage bag doesn’t get found.”

  “I wanted to take a quick swim in the pool first,” said Johnny. “Okay?”

  “We’ve got other things to do now than swim in the pool. Ask Bridey in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, but don’t tell her you’re taking her car.”

  “Mary Pat, tell Charlie I want to see him, and tell him to have the Cadillac gassed up,” said Gerald in the dining room. “I want him to take you girls back to the convent this morning,” he said.

  “No, Pa,” said Kitt. “Not till this afternoon. We don’t have to be back until five.”

  “Now. You have to leave now. I’m going to need Charlie this afternoon to drive me.”

  “We could take the train,” insisted Kitt.

  “Pack your bags, girls. You’re going now. Your mother and I will be over for Parents Day. Grace, why don’t you help the girls.” He signaled to his wife to get the girls out of the room.

  Kitt stopped at the dining room doors. “I sense a mystery in this room this morning,” she said. “What do you think, silent Harrison? You’re the writer in our midst.”

  I did not reply.

  “Mother Vincent will think we’ve done something wrong and you’re punishing us, Pa,” said Kitt.

  “Give your old man a kiss, girls,” said Gerald. While he was hugging his daughters, he turned to his wife. “Why don’t you drive back with the girls, Grace? You always enjoy seeing Mother Vincent. I’m sure she’ll want to hear all about Maureen’s wedding.” He looked at her with a steely gaze that demanded compliance.

  Grace, silent, nodded. She understood the look.

  “This Father Murphy you met last night, the one who worked so hard for Sandro’s election. Why don’t you ask him to dinner this evening, Grace? I’d like to meet him.”

  “Such short notice, Gerald,” said Grace. “He’s certain to be busy.”

  “Doing what? Attending a Sodality of Mary meeting? Or the Knights of Columbus potluck dinner? Or the Wednesday-night bingo game in the parish hall? Believe me, Grace, he’d rather come here to Scarborough Hill. You can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

  After the girls and Grace left the room, Jerry said to his father, “What’s with the priest? What are you inviting him to dinner tonight for?”

  “It might be good to have a priest in the house this evening, just in case,” said Gerald.

  Bridey reentered with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Just leave the coffee on the table, Bridey. Don’t bother passing it around,” said Gerald.

  “That Italian guy drove out of here with my car,” she said.

  “I told Mr. Fuselli he could borrow it,” said Jerry. “He was having trouble with his.”

  “But I have the marketing to do this morning, and Mrs. Bradley’s clothes to be picked up at the cleaners, and—”

  “He’ll be back, Bridey,” said Gerald, waving her away.

  After she returned to the kitchen, there was a moment of silence, except for Gerald tapping his fingernails on the mahogany dining table. Then he spoke.

  “About last night. You didn’t hear or see anything last night, did you, Harry?” He stared at me. As did Jerry. Constant looked down at his plate. Throughout, he remained quiet as things were done for him by his father and brother. There was no censure. That would come later, in privacy. Here, in the turmoil whirling around them, there was only calm and order.

  For a moment I did not speak. I stared back at Gerald Bradley’s fierce unblinking eyes beneath his graying bushy eyebrows. He looked aged by the strong morning sun coming in the dining room windows.

  “I didn’t hear you reply,” he said. “Did you answer me?”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “I said, you didn’t hear or see anything last night, did you, Harry?” repeated Gerald Bradley.

  “Yes, I did. I, uh, I saw Winifred Utley,” I said, my voice scarcely above a whisper.

  “Oh, no,” he said, brushing away the incontrovertible facts as if they were annoying bugs at a summer picnic. “No, no, no.”

  “I did.” I began to cry.

  “You’re going to be all right, kid,” said Jerry. What he said was meant to be comforting, but there was a slight tone of impatience in his voice.

  “I’m not crying for me,” I said, sobbing now. “I’m crying for her.”

  “Let me be alone with Harrison,” said Gerald to his sons.

  Jerry and Constant rose from their places. For an instant my eyes connected with Constant’s. There was in them a look I did not recognize, as if another person’s eyes had taken possession of his sockets. Then he walked slowly to the door, opened it, and went out. Jerry remained behind.

  “I’d like to stay, Pa,” he said.

  “Then close the dining room door.”

  Jerry clos
ed the door and then returned to the table, moving his seat up next to his father’s.

  “This family has been a good friend to you, Harry,” said Gerald.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have made a home for you since the tragic deaths of your parents, have we not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I assume you are grateful for that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Constant has been your special friend, has he not?”

  “Yes, he has.”

  “Ever since your tragedy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they know yet who killed your parents?”

  “Probably a transient. A drifter, they think. Someone off Interstate Ninety-five.”

  He snapped his fingers, trying to recall something. “What’s her name? Your missionary lady?”

  “Aunt Gert.”

  “Yes, Aunt Gert. I sent her a rather large check for her Maryknoll Fathers.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He breathed in and exhaled noisily. The preliminaries had been established. The heart of the matter was at hand. “A terrible thing has happened here, Harry.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was, of course, an accident. A terribly tragic accident. You know that, don’t you?”

  I looked at him.

  “It is possible that others might misinterpret the sad facts, once they are known. People like us, we are targets for criticism. Should, at some point, you be questioned, you must say that you knew nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. Do you understand me, Harry?”

  I nodded.

  “I need your word of honor, Harry.”

  I looked away from him.

  “Have you heard from Yale, Harry?”

  “No.”

  “You applied for a scholarship, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are your chances?”

  “Dr. Shugrue has great hopes.”

  “And if the scholarship doesn’t come through? Where will you go then?”

  “The state university, I suppose.”

  “Is that the University of Connecticut?”

  “Yes.”

  “U-Conn, isn’t that what they call it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t have quite the ring in the ear that Yale does, does it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not really what you want, is it, U-Conn?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a smart boy, Harrison. A very smart boy. I know that. Shugrue knows that. I’m sure Yale knows that. You’ll probably even get your scholarship. But do you really want to go through college as a scholarship student? Waiting on tables for your classmates? Wiping up after them? That’s what it’s going to be like for you. Having your sport jackets paid for by Constant. Oh, yes, I know all about that. Wearing his shirts, his ties. Don’t you get tired of that? Don’t you want your own things? You’re even wearing Constant’s shoes; I noticed when you came in to breakfast. Where are your own shoes?”

  “In the garbage bag in the back of Bridey’s Pontiac that Johnny Fuselli drove out of here in,” I replied. “Along with half of the bat and all Constant’s clothes with the bloodstains on them.”

  Both Gerald and Jerry looked at me, aghast.

  “Look, Harrison,” continued Gerald. “I am prepared to pay your full tuition for all four years of college. I am prepared to put you on an allowance that will enable you to have the sort of things that people like Constant have. In fact, my New York lawyer, Sims Lord, will be contacting you shortly in this regard. To hand you a contract, signed by me. A guarantee in writing for a very privileged education. Witnessed. Notarized. Able to stand up in any court, in your favor. But there is a price for all this, Harry. A very modest price on your part. Silence.”

  “Mr. Bradley. I saw what happened. I saw Winifred dead. I saw the bat that killed her. It was the bat we lost at the softball game on Easter Sunday when Constant threw it into the woods. He had already hit her with the bat, many times. I helped him move her.”

  Suddenly Jerry, silent until then, spoke. His voice was not pleasant. “You realize, of course, that makes you an accessory to the crime, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is a very serious charge.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know what the consequences of this could be for you?” asked Jerry.

  I looked at him. I realized at that moment that I had never liked him. Nor he me, from my first night at dinner in that same dining room when he belittled my aspirations to become a writer. His father intimidated me. He did not.

  “Do you?” he repeated.

  “Less, I would think, than the consequences for the person who actually killed Winifred,” I said. “Mercifully, I missed that part.”

  “That’s enough, Jerry,” said Gerald, waving his hand at his son to back off. “Let me handle this. More coffee, Harry?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Constant is a good boy. You know that.”

  I felt his statement did not demand an answer, and I gave none.

  “He is a young man with a great future.”

  I nodded my head but did not reply. We sat in silence.

  “These things pass,” he said. “People forget. Life just goes on.”

  “Oh, I won’t forget.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “No. I am to blame, too. I lifted her up. I helped him carry her off your property back to the edge of the Utleys’ place.”

  “I want you to tell me exactly what happened. After you brought my daughters home, did you then return to the club to bring him back here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you drive the Utley girl home, too?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the Utley girl?”

  “Her name is—was—Winifred.”

  “Of course. Did you see Winifred when you went back to the club to pick up Constant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Constant did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Why don’t you dump Pimple Face and drive home with me?’ ”

  “Did she reply?”

  “She said, ‘I came with Billy Wadsworth, and I’m going home with Billy Wadsworth.’ ”

  “How did Constant act?”

  “He was drunk.”

  “Drunk? How could he be drunk?”

  “He slipped the bartender in the men’s locker room twenty dollars.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked him the same question you just asked me.”

  “What happened to you when you got home?”

  “I went to bed.”

  “What did Constant do?”

  “He stayed downstairs. He said he wanted another drink.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was awakened by Mrs. Bradley. About two.”

  “Go on.”

  “She had received a call from Mrs. Utley saying that Winifred had not come home. She came into the room to see if Constant was in bed.”

  “And he wasn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Was that the first time you knew he hadn’t gone to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if there was a plan for him to meet the Utley girl—I mean, Winifred?”

  “If there was, he didn’t tell me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mrs. Bradley thought Constant was downstairs in one of the rooms with Winifred. She asked me to go look. She told me to drive Winifred home.”

  “Yes?”

  “I did as she told me to. I turned on the lights. I went through all the rooms. He wasn’t there. Then there was a tap on the window. He was standing outside. He asked me to go with him.”

  “And you went?”

  “Yes. That was when I saw her. She was almost dead.”

  “That was when you say you carried her?”

  “That was when I help
ed Constant carry her.”

  Gerald and Jerry looked at each other. Again no one spoke.

  “I would like to go to my room,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. Go to your room. Rest. We’ll talk later,” said Gerald. Then another idea came to him. “Perhaps it would be better if Johnny Fuselli drove you over to your aunt’s house in Ansonia. Stay there until you go back to school. It’s best you are not here. How do you feel about that?”

  “All right.”

  “No, Pa,” said Jerry. “That’s not a good idea. He drove the girls home from the club and then went back and picked up Constant and brought him home. It’s going to look funny if all of a sudden he’s not here.”

  “We don’t know what he’s going to say.”

  “He’s not going to say anything. He’s Constant’s friend. You’re not going to say anything, are you, kid?” he asked.

  “Stop calling me kid,” I said. “It doesn’t fit the bill anymore. I’ve become old overnight.”

  I rose and walked to the dining room doors. Just as I was about to open them, Gerald spoke again.

  “Didn’t you have a little sneaker for my son? A little fairy feeling?”

  I turned back to look at him. The discovery of that feeling by Constant’s family had been a great fear for me, but, once it had been verbalized, I looked Gerald in the eye as I gave my answer so he would understand that it was not a hold he had over me. “I would not put it that way, but if I ever did, sir, I don’t now,” I replied. The feeling had ended, I realized, with the look I saw on Constant’s face as he calmly used the tail of his Brooks Brothers shirt to wipe his fingerprints off the baseball bat with which he had killed Winifred Utley.

  4

  Three hours later, at twelve-thirty, the body of Winifred Utley was discovered by Belinda Beckwith, a fourteen-year-old friend of Winifred’s, as she cut through the wooded area that separated the estates of Leverett Somerset and Gerald Bradley. Belinda, already aware that Winifred was missing, first saw a foot, shoeless, sticking up from a cluster of leaves. She approached what she knew would be her friend’s body and saw a vestige of the pink dress Winifred had worn at the club dance the night before. Fearful of fainting, reluctant to scream, she retraced her steps to her own house, where she hysterically told her mother of her frightful discovery. Mrs. Beckwith first called the police and then went immediately to the home of Luanne Utley.