A Season in Purgatory

by Dominick Dunne

  Harrison stared at her.

  “Are you staring at my tits or my diamonds?” she asked.

  “Actually, your diamonds,” replied Harrison.

  “Smart boy. The current boyfriend is the jealous type.”

  “Oh. Tell me about him.”

  “He has a very flat stomach, like yours.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  Maxine laughed. “I know that. I just thought I’d toss it in. Dom Belcanto had a gut on him out to here, and I just didn’t want you to think I was confined to men with that kind of figure. Actually, you already met the guy.”

  “Pony, with the gun in the holster?”

  “Listen, he’s honest. He works. He’s not after my money. He’s faithful. He’s a pretty good fuck, three or four times a week, usually in the morning when he wakes up horny, which is not my favorite time, but so what? He uses Scope. You can’t have everything. You want a refill on your water?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s a picture of Sal and Dom taken here at the ranch years ago. That kid next to Sal is Dwane when he was about thirteen or so. Cute, wasn’t he? He left home when he was about sixteen and went out on his own.” She gazed at the picture fondly. “All my fellas,” she said.

  Harrison stared at the photograph. “Who’s that guy standing in the background behind Sal?” he asked.

  “He used to work for Sal years ago, in slot machines in Atlantic City. Johnny Fuselli. He left Sal to go with that billionaire Gerald Bradley as a sort of right-hand man, i.e., pimp,” said Maxine. “He was all right, Johnny, but he wasn’t a player, not in the league with Sal and Lansky and those other guys. Strictly second echelon. Third, even.”

  “Small world,” said Harrison. “I used to know him, sort of.”

  “Tell me this, Harrison. How would a guy like you ever meet up with a guy like Johnny Fuselli?”

  “One of the Bradley kids was a friend of mine in school. I used to spend time with that family. That’s where I saw Fuselli.”

  “Do you know what Sal thought about Gerald Bradley? Not much. That’s what he thought. ‘Don’t be deceived by appearances,’ Sal said to me once, after I saw Gerald in Vegas. Horny guy. He put the make on me and then sent me a fur coat. Sal said, ‘He puts on airs and sends his kids to fancy schools and gets them into posh clubs and mixes with the high and mighty, but I know the real truth about the guy. He’s a crook, same as me.’ Sal hated his guts. Sal said he was a double-crosser.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Sal met with Gerald a lot in the early days, but he never wanted any of his sons to be in on those meetings. Even Jerry, the crippled one. He didn’t want the association to rub off on his sons,” said Maxine.

  Harrison nodded.

  “Are you aware there’s a Bradley living here in Nogales?” asked Maxine.

  “What? Some kind of cousin?”

  “Not at all. Of the blood.”

  “How could that be?”

  “Desi, he’s called. Actually, Desmond Junior, I suppose.”

  “Really? How old?”

  “Twenty. Twenty-one. That sort of age.”

  “I remember now. Des married a maid in the family house in Scarborough Hill, Connecticut. That was before I knew them, but I heard about it. What a to-do there was about that. Cardinal Sullivan got the marriage annulled. Mary? Was that her name?”

  “No, Rosleen.”

  “That’s right, Rosleen. They paid her off. They sent her away. Does she still call herself Bradley?”

  “I guess so. I just call her Rosleen. She’s the dental technician for Dr. Sabiston in Nogales. She cleans my teeth.”

  “Do you think you could arrange for me to see her while I’m here? Or to meet up with Desi?”

  “How are the boys?” asked Harrison.

  “Fine,” said Claire.

  “Tell them I miss them.”

  “They miss you, too.”

  “I bought them some cowboy hats.”

  “They love presents. Oh, yes, they’ll love them.”

  Claire was not one to long for the impossible, to yearn for lost love. They sat together in Borsalino’s, toying with Northern Italian food, making conversation. They had to talk about something. He did not tell her about meeting Rosleen Bradley and young Desi in Nogales, which she would have enjoyed hearing about, because it might accidentally overlap somehow into his reluctant reentry into the Bradley circle, with his imminent luncheon engagement with Gerald Bradley, whom she hated, or his love affair with Kitt, which he could not bring himself to discuss, for fear of hurting her.

  “What do you want to do about the dining room table and the sideboard?” Claire asked.

  “What about them?”

  “They were your grandmother’s, weren’t they? That’s what your aunt Gert said when we got married. Do you want them sent in to your apartment?”

  “Oh, no,” he said quickly. “Leave everything. Don’t disrupt the house. I certainly don’t need a dining table and sideboard. I don’t think I’ve eaten home once since I moved there.”

  He tried to tell her about Esme Bland and Dwane Lonergan and Maxine, but she was indifferent to the complexities of their story.

  “I think you get so involved in the lives of the people you write about so you can avoid dealing with your own,” she said.

  “That’s not so,” he said, although he knew it to be so. Claire had always seen right through him.

  “It wasn’t ever really good, was it?” she asked. He knew she was talking about their marriage.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” he replied.

  “You’re like a roommate, with privileges. You’re not like a husband, or what I thought a husband was going to be like. What is the matter with you? There is a part of your life that is shut off. Sometimes I feel you have a terrible secret.”

  He sat in silence.

  “Say something, for God’s sake,” said Claire.

  “At the Cranston Institute, Esme Bland said that to me. She said I had a secret.”

  Leaving, he tried to kiss her, a kiss of affection, but she turned her head away.

  “Love to the boys,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t forget the cowboy hats.”

  10

  “Well, Harrison, we meet again. Who would have thought?” said Gerald Bradley. He was already ensconced in his favorite booth in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons restaurant in New York when Harrison Burns was brought up to his table. Seated to his right was his son Jerry. In front of each was a martini in a stemmed glass. The crutches that Jerry now used were by his side. For a moment Harrison and Gerald stared at each other, assimilating the changes of sixteen years.

  “Hello, Mr. Bradley,” said Harrison.

  “It’s like old times,” said Gerald expansively. “It’s nice to have you back with us.”

  Harrison, momentarily bewildered by the words “like old times,” merely nodded.

  “You remember Jerry, of course.”

  Harrison and Jerry looked at each other but did not say anything.

  “Sit down. Sit down, Harrison. What will you have to drink?” He clapped his hands and hailed the managers. “Julian, Alex, someone, come, come, come. This is Mr. Burns, a wonderful young writer and a great friend of my son Constant. They were in school together. He’d like to order a drink.”

  “Just Perrier, please,” said Harrison, speaking directly to the captain.

  “Wise choice, I suppose. You must still have things to write today,” said Gerald. “But a shame to miss a good martini, I always say.”

  “Yes, I remember,” said Harrison. “I was recently complimented on a martini I made. I gave you full credit as my teacher.”

  Gerald chuckled. “I always like recognition,” he said. He watched Harrison as he looked about the room.

  “You’ve been here before, of course.”

  “Once, but I was not seated in this room.”

  “This is the room to be seated in,�
� said Jerry. “This is where you see everyone.”

  Harrison ignored Jerry.

  “There’s Dr. Kissinger over there,” said Gerald.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s Felix Rohatyn. You know who he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s S. I. Newhouse. Of course, you know him.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the corner there, Philip Johnson, with the owllike spectacles.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t seem to be impressing you, Harrison.”

  “They’re probably telling whoever they’re with, ‘There’s Gerald Bradley. You know who he is, of course? He’s the only man allowed to smoke a cigar in the Four Seasons.’ ”

  Gerald chuckled again, as he lit a cigar.

  “So you know that, do you?” he asked.

  “It is a widely heralded piece of trivia,” replied Harrison.

  “You’ve seen my daughter, I understand?” said Gerald.

  “I’ve seen two of your daughters,” replied Harrison.

  “I was speaking of Kitt,” said Gerald. There was a slight sharpness of tone to his voice.

  “Yes, I saw Kitt. It was quite a surprise.”

  “Did you find her changed?”

  “Of course I did. I hadn’t seen her in sixteen years. I’m not altogether sure I would have recognized her right off, but I heard someone else say, ‘That’s Gerald Bradley’s youngest.’ She was still wearing a retainer on her teeth and her hair was long, halfway down her back, the last time I saw her. What I saw in Maine was a thirty-year-old woman, extremely lovely, handsomely dressed, and terribly alone.”

  “And how did she seem to you?”

  “As I just said, terribly alone.”

  “I didn’t want her to marry Cheever Chadwick.”

  “She told me that.”

  “Cheever Chadwick’s an asshole,” said Jerry.

  “Yes, yes, an asshole,” agreed Gerald. “I rather think Cheever’s got that word cornered. May I ask you what you were doing at the Cranston Institute?”

  “It was a work-related visit,” replied Harrison.

  “Are you writing about it?”

  “About the institute, you mean? No, not specifically.”

  “What then?”

  “A person who has lived at the Cranston Institute for a great many years figures in an article that I am writing, having to do with a murder.”

  “Would that person be Esme Bland?” asked Gerald.

  Harrison sipped his Perrier and did not reply. “Perhaps we should order,” he said. “I have a great deal of work to do this afternoon. I’m on what we call in my trade a deadline.”

  “Yes, of course. We always order the swordfish, Jerry and I,” said Gerald. “Grilled, no butter, splendid for the waistline. Not that you have to worry about your waistline, I see.”

  “I’ve become a swimmer,” said Harrison, patting his slim stomach. “The swordfish is fine with me, too.”

  As Jerry waved for the captain and gave the orders, Gerald continued talking to Harrison. “I went to Esmond Bland’s funeral. As you know, he was the father of Esme. I met him several times at the White House during my ambassadorship, and he dined with us in Paris once or twice. My God, what a funeral that was. Five, six years ago, it must have been. People had to stand outside on Fifth Avenue. There was no more room in St. Thomas’s. He was a very popular fellow, Esmond Bland. A snob, but popular. Kissinger over there spoke, and Esme had this big black woman from the opera who sang. I forget her name. I often wonder about my own funeral. I wonder if anyone would come.”

  “It is interesting to me how many people worry about that,” said Harrison. “I mean, what difference does it make? You’re dead.”

  “You’d fill St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Pa,” said Jerry. “There’d be an overflow.”

  “I wonder,” said Gerald, musing for a moment on the subject.

  There was a moment’s silence. Harrison looked at the Bradleys. “I think we should come to the point of this lunch,” he said. “Kitt said there was something you wanted to discuss.”

  “You’ve quite changed, Harrison,” said Gerald, who was not about to be rushed. “Not so wimpy as you used to be. I suppose early recognition has done that for you, given you that confidence. As I was being shaved this morning, I found myself reflecting about you and Constant, Harrison. Marvelous, when you think of it, the way both of you have done so well. I’m sure you’ve followed his career in Congress.”

  “Yes. Somewhat.”

  “How old are you now, Harrison?”

  “Five years older than Kitt, the same age as Constant, but that’s not the point of the lunch, is it?” said Harrison. He waved away the smoke from Gerald’s cigar.

  “Oh, does the cigar bother you while you’re eating? Waiter? Would you take this away? Thank you. Yes, let’s get down to brass tacks. I have a business proposition to make. How are you fixed for money?”

  “What a peculiar question. Suppose I asked you that,” said Harrison.

  Gerald laughed. “I would answer, ‘I’m fixed very well, just read the Forbes list.’ Seriously, I know you take nothing from the trust fund Sims Lord set up for you,” he said.

  “I do quite well on my own,” replied Harrison. “Why this interest in my finances?”

  “Yes, I know you do. We take a great interest in you, from afar, don’t we, Jerry?”

  Jerry nodded in agreement.

  “I happen to know exactly what you make, as a matter of fact. I was impressed,” said Gerald.

  “How would you know that?” asked Harrison.

  “I make it my business to learn things like that when I have a proposition to make.”

  “Johnny Fuselli up to his old tricks, stealing I.R.S. forms, I suppose,” said Harrison.

  Gerald chuckled. “I’ll ignore that. I rather admire your feistiness. It comes through in your work.”

  They sat in silence for several moments.

  “Well, I’m waiting,” said Harrison.

  “Would you like to make some real money?” asked Gerald.

  “What is real money?”

  “Oh, a house in the country. A Jaguar car. Tickets on the Concorde. A portfolio with Salomon Brothers. Any or all of the above. Whatever you want it to be. How would you describe that?”

  “Provocative. What does one have to do to make real money?”

  “Do what you already do so well. Write.”

  “Write what?”

  “A book for my son.”

  “Which son?”

  “Constant, of course.”

  “Write a book in Constant’s name, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would write the book and Constant would get credit for it as the author?”

  “Yes.”

  “That cannot even be called a lateral move in a career. That is what is known as a backward step,” said Harrison. “Why in the world do you think I would be interested in doing that?”

  “For a great deal of money,” answered Gerald.

  “I earn enough money.”

  “Hear me out. Hear me out, Harrison. Constant is running for governor. A book would be a marvelous thing. It would give him a credibility. There is always that slightly playboy image to him. People say he drives too fast, he drinks too much, he chases girls. Actually, he has given up the polo, rarely drinks, and is married to Charlotte and has the children and so forth, but the image lingers.”

  “What sort of book are you thinking of?”

  “A memoir. A family memoir. An American saga. Back to the grandfathers coming to this country from Ireland and working their way up. Bog Meadow. The Bradley butcher shop. The Malloy plumbing shop. My parents struggling to send me to good schools. Grace’s parents struggling to send Grace to the Sacred Heart Convent. Our meeting. Our great love. Our marriage. Our children. Our tragedies.”

  “Your tragedies?”

  “With so many in the family, you know, people like us have more tragedi
es than most to cope with. The miscarriages, for instance. Grace’s little saints, she calls them, who look down on us. And Agnes. Agnes in the institution. I am aware you saw Agnes. We have done everything to protect her privacy over the years, but perhaps it’s better to let that story come out. Jerry thought so. Not that she wears nun’s clothes, I don’t mean that. I understand you saw her in the Sacred Heart habit. I meant her affliction. There are so many families having to deal with the same tragedy, mental illness, it would be helpful, even inspirational, to discuss it with compassion. And coming from Constant, in his words—your words, but his words, if you know what I mean—it would give great importance to this fine young man to be the one to relate Agnes’s tragedy for the first time.”

  Harrison put down his fork and pushed the swordfish away from him.

  “Something wrong with the fish?” asked Gerald.

  “No.”

  “And Kevin. Kevin, whom we rarely discuss, came after Jerry and before Des. Kevin died in Vietnam. We didn’t want him to go. We could have gotten him out of going. Everyone else was getting out of going. But he signed up. He wanted to fight for his country. I have been able to locate a member of his crew. He would be able to provide you with the details of the flight.”

  Harrison stared at Gerald as he talked.

  “Oh, God,” said Gerald suddenly, spotting someone.

  “What, Pa?”

  “There’s Johnny Fuselli coming up the steps. Head him off, Jerry. I asked him to wait downstairs, but you know Johnny. He always oversteps. Take him over to the bar and have him sit there and wait. I don’t want him to come into this dining room. Tell him I’ll be another half hour or so. And then come back here.” Gerald waited until Jerry had lumbered to his feet, picked up his crutches, and was on his way before he turned back to Harrison. “Where were we?”

  “You had located a member of Kevin’s crew to discuss his death in Vietnam,” answered Harrison.