A Season in Purgatory

by Dominick Dunne

  “Who is it?” he heard a voice say behind the door.

  “It’s Harrison, Charlotte. Open up.”

  The door opened. Charlotte, in a nightgown, stood inside, peering out.

  “There’s been an accident,” said Harrison.

  “Constant, I suppose,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. He’s been taken to Southampton Hospital.”

  “I’ll get dressed,” she said.

  By four in the morning, most of the family had gathered in the corridor of the Southampton Hospital. Only Grace remained at home, with Bridey. It was her plan to come after the eight o’clock Mass. Harrison, standing apart, watched. Gerald and Jerry and Des were in consultation with a bearded Indian doctor in a pale blue turban at the end of a corridor outside the intensive care unit. Maureen, without makeup, sat on an orange Naugahyde sofa with Charlotte, saying a rosary with her silver beads. Kitt, hung over, stared out a window into the black night outside. Freddy Tierney was sent out to an all-night diner to bring coffee back for the family. “And call the main house,” Maureen shouted after him. “Tell Bridey to tell the new maid to go over and stay with the children in the cottage until we get back. What a swell time for Nanny to walk out on us.”

  “It’s a concussion,” said Des to the family.

  “How bad?” asked Kitt.

  “He’s still out. They’ve taken a lot of stitches in his head and face. Dr. Puthli, in the blue turban, seems to think he’ll be all right.”

  “What was the liquor content in his blood?” asked Harrison.

  Everyone turned to him in amazement at his question.

  “I hold you responsible for this,” said Jerry, pointing his finger at Harrison. His face was contorted with rage.

  “Me?” asked Harrison. “You hold me responsible?”

  “It was you who upset him. He hadn’t had a drink in months. You were the one who got him all riled up.”

  “You know something, Jerry? If you weren’t a cripple, I’d kick the shit out of you,” said Harrison. “How dare you say that to me?”

  Jerry, stunned, was momentarily speechless.

  “That is an outrageous thing to say to my son,” said Gerald. His voice was harsh. His face and eyes expressed coldness and hostility.

  “I demand you apologize to my brother,” said Maureen, bristling.

  “I will repeat it before I apologize for having said it,” said Harrison to Maureen. “The idea of holding me to blame for your brother’s drunk-driving accident is the guilty plea of an enabler, which is what all of you are.”

  “What are you doing here anyway?” asked Maureen. “You’re not one of us. This is for the family.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” said Harrison. “I’ll go back.”

  “He can stay,” said Kitt. “I want him here.”

  “You’d better get Sims Lord down here,” said Gerald wearily, to Jerry. “We need to prepare a statement in case the papers get hold of the story. Where’s Fuselli?”

  “He’s still at the police station,” said Jerry. He had given orders to Johnny Fuselli, who knew everything and could do anything and was known in various police stations and courtrooms as the dispenser of funds when records needed to be expunged. “Better let him be. He knows how to handle these things.”

  Harrison wandered down a corridor until he found a soft drink machine. Standing at the machine with her back to him was Charlotte, pulling wildly at the levers.

  “I can’t get this damn thing to work,” she said. “You do it, will you? I stuck the dollar in there, like it says, but nothing came out.”

  “You’ve got George Washington facing the wrong way,” said Harrison. “What do you want?”

  “Diet Coke. Oh, I don’t care. Just push any one. I had to get away from that family. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you. Now you’re the enemy, apparently. I love what you said about them being enablers. Didn’t I tell you about Jerry?” She looked down the long hospital corridor to where Jerry and Maureen were talking quietly. “Two shits that pass in the night,” she said.

  “What happens now?” asked Harrison.

  “Now the Bradley machine goes into operation. Johnny Fuselli. Sims Lord. A publicist from New York. And Jerry in charge,” said Charlotte. “I don’t know what Jerry does with himself between family crises.”

  “What happens when the machine goes into operation?”

  “I’ll be photographed rushing into this hospital with concern and love on my face, carrying some white peonies cut from Graces garden—they think of all those things—and some brownies that Bridey just baked all covered in Saran Wrap. A perfect little statement will have been written for me to give to any reporter who asks what my husband was doing out in a car with another woman going eighty miles an hour on the Montauk Highway at two o’clock in the morning.”

  “I didn’t know he was with another woman,” said Harrison.

  “They haven’t told me that yet either, but I’ve played this scene before, Harrison, and there’s always another woman in the car in this family,” said Charlotte. “That’s probably why Johnny Fuselli’s at the police station, to get her name removed from the records and pay her off.”

  “Have you seen Constant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe a few facial scars will do him good. Give him a little character. He’s too good-looking.”

  “Will you be all right?” asked Harrison.

  “Oh, sure. You get used to these things. You mustn’t think for a moment this was a first. The only reason I haven’t turned into a secret drinker is that there’s already one drunk in the family,” said Charlotte.

  Harrison turned back down the corridor.

  “Oh, Harrison?” called out Charlotte.

  “Yes?”

  “It was nice of you to come and get me. None of them would have remembered.”

  “As drunk-driving accidents go, it was not a serious accident,” said Johnny Fuselli. “There were no deaths. The main destruction was to the Testarossa. Of course, Constant is banged up pretty good, but the girl’s not too bad. I got her transferred to a hospital in Garden City.”

  “Who is she?” asked Gerald.

  “Nobody really, Pa. A townie he picked up at the bar,” said Jerry.

  “Name of Wanda Symanski, some name like that. Polish, I think,” said Johnny Fuselli.

  “Symanski, good God,” said Gerald, about the name, in much the contemptuous manner that Leverett Somerset once used when he pronounced Irish names that caused him distress.

  “She’s nobody,” repeated Jerry.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Gerald. “Society girls don’t go public. Townies do. Especially when they get a sniff there’s money. You better find out everything there is to find out about her, Johnny. Marriages, divorces, abortions, any kind of police record. Go to the bar. Talk to the bartender.”

  “Hey, hey, Gerald. I know what to do. I know who to talk to. That’s what you pay me for.”

  Kitt and Harrison stood looking out the hospital window.

  “It’s getting light,” said Harrison.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” said Kitt.

  “What?”

  “Did you kiss Constant yesterday?”

  Harrison looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said.

  “Maureen said the new maid said you did.”

  “Good old Maureen.”

  “Did you?”

  “Constant kissed me.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “It’s true.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He wants me to write his book, I suppose.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No. I told everyone that before I came. I can’t wait to leave, Kitt. I do not want to get sucked back into this family. I haven’t enjoyed this weeked a bit, except for that blissful moment when Maureen switched on the lights and c
aught us with my dick in your mouth.”

  Kitt smiled. “You should have heard her tantrum.” She took Harrison’s hand. “What did you say to Constant that’s got Pa and Jerry so upset?” she asked.

  “I told him he shouldn’t run. I told him all that business from Scarborough Hill could be dragged up again.”

  “Oh, that old allegation. Don’t you think he’s suffered enough from that?” said Kitt. Her voice was surprisingly testy.

  “That’s exactly what your father said,” said Harrison, looking at her. “You all say the same things. Do you rehearse?”

  “Why don’t you drop it? Please. Constant was meant to lead. He was born for it.”

  “Then Constant should fashion his behavior to his ambitions.”

  “You’re a prig, Harrison. So self-righteous.”

  “Can I ask you something, Kitt? If it was you who was killed that night and not the new girl in town no one really knew very well, do you think your father and your brothers would have put up with such a half-ass police investigation as that one was? If they couldn’t have gotten the satisfaction they wanted from the police, they would have gotten Johnny Fuselli and some of his cronies to take care of the suspect Mafia-style,” said Harrison.

  “I don’t want to hear this conversation, Harrison. I don’t want to hear it! That was all so long ago. Especially now, here, in the hospital. We don’t even know if Constant is going to make it.”

  “I’m going to leave, Kitt. I’m going to go back to New York.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t say that, Harrison. Say Tuesday afternoon. Or Wednesday noon. Or Thursday morning. Or Friday midnight. Anytime. Anyplace. Give me a date. I’ll be there. Please, Harrison. Please. I love you, Harrison.”

  They were interrupted by Des. “My father wants to see you, Harrison,” he said.

  “Where is he?” asked Harrison.

  “In with Constant,” said Des.

  “With or without Jerry?”

  “Without.”

  When Harrison left, Des said, “Pa said for you and Maureen to go home, Kitt. Constant’s going to be okay.”

  “How are you?” Harrison asked Constant.

  Constant, bandaged heavily, nodded. His handsome face appeared swollen and heavy beneath the bandages, his eyes bloodshot.

  “I’m sorry about this,” said Harrison.

  Constant nodded again.

  “I believe we should have a little chat, Harrison,” said Gerald. He was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed.

  “Is Constant all right?” asked Harrison.

  “Banged up a bit. But all right,” said Gerald. “Sims Lord has been here. I would like you to have a talk with him. I told him you would be at the house at eight. After breakfast, he would like to talk to you.”

  “I’ve decided to return to New York, Mr. Bradley. I’m just going over to your house to pick up my bag, and I’m going right into the city.”

  “No, I’m sorry. You’re going to talk to Sims Lord first. I insist. Do you understand?”

  Harrison looked at Gerald. Then he looked at Constant. Each stared back at him.

  “Is this the machine at work? The Bradley machine again?” asked Harrison.

  Gerald ignored his question. “Sims will be waiting for you in the projection room. No one will disturb you there.”

  “I don’t take orders, Mr. Bradley,” said Harrison. “Constant here, the gubernatorial candidate-to-be, when he recovers from his drunk-driving accident, he takes orders. Des, the famed heart surgeon, takes orders. Sandro, the senator, takes orders. And Jerry, your deputy, your secretary-companion, takes orders. Johnny Fuselli takes orders. We all remember about the garbage bag, with the baseball bat and the clothes, do we not? But I do not take orders. I am not a member of your family, nor, thank God, am I in its employ.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Gerald, immediately conciliatory. “I understand that. Let me say that I would be most appreciative if you would meet with Sims.”

  “I would like to be told what it is Sims Lord wants to talk to me about in the projection room at eight o’clock in the morning before I decide whether I will see him or not.”

  Gerald looked at Harrison for a long time before he spoke. “You have alluded on more than one occasion this weekend to the sad event that occurred in Scarborough Hill years ago.”

  “Apparently I do not possess the facility to forget that you people all have,” said Harrison.

  Gerald ignored him.

  “Would you all be so forgiving if it were Mary Pat or Kitt who got whacked over the head twelve times that night?”

  Constant turned his head away. Gerald continued to ignore Harrison’s words.

  “It is important for you to know from a legal point of view what your own complicity is in that long-ago event,” said Gerald.

  “Oh, I see. I have already told your son that I would not go to the police,” said Harrison. “Did I not, Constant?”

  Constant did not reply.

  “Still, I would like him to tell you,” said Gerald.

  “I know what it is. I am, I suppose, an accomplice. I carried a body. I lied to the detectives. I kept my mouth shut,” said Harrison. “But what about you, Mr. Bradley?”

  “What about me?”

  “What about your complicity in the case?”

  “Mine?” There was surprise in his voice.

  “You bribed me to keep me silent.”

  “I never bribed you.”

  “What do you call it then? You paid for my silence. Which of the two of us is going to look worse? A seventeen-year-old orphaned scholarship student who allowed his education to be paid for? Or a multimillionaire father who paid for it to protect his son?”

  “Lies, lies, lies. Yes, I paid for your education, but it had nothing whatever to do with a bribe. People of great wealth have always helped the less fortunate. My reputation for truth is well known,” said Gerald.

  “I beg to disagree with you, Mr. Bradley, about your reputation for truth. The first time I ever met you was in a limousine driven by Charlie after Constant was kicked out of Milford for having pornographic pictures of women eating each other’s pussies. We drove in silence most of the way across Connecticut from Milford to Scarborough Hill. I sat in the jump seat. I might not have been there for all the attention you paid me.”

  “Where is this long story going?” asked Gerald.

  “I’m getting to the punch line. When we reached Scarborough Hill, you said to your then sixteen-year-old son, and I quote, ‘You’re not like your brothers. You’ll always get caught. You could have lied, you damn fool, you could, should, have lied, said those pictures weren’t yours.’ ”

  “Like Jews who can spot anti-Semites, I can spot a Bradley hater, and you’re one. I said no such thing, ever.”

  “Yes, you did, didn’t he, Constant? So don’t talk to me about truth, Mr. Bradley. Tell Sims Lord I’ll see him.”

  “Did you enjoy the Madonna movie last night, Sims?” asked Harrison, pointing to the screen of the projection room that had once been a ballroom. They sat looking at each other sideways on chairs that looked forward to the screen. Neither seemed anxious to begin the conversation.

  “I did, yes. Did you?” asked Sims Lord.

  “I didn’t stay for it,” replied Harrison. “All those socialites nattering away drove me out, those friends of Grace’s. Baba and Sonny and Thelma and the rest.”

  “Hmmm.” He was having difficulty starting.

  “I am aware that I am an accessory,” said Harrison, helping him. “Shall we start there?”

  “That is the correct word, yes,” said Sims. “My criminal law mavens tell me that you could be charged with a variety of offenses, some of them serious, Harrison. Of course, I addressed my questions to them in veiled terms. What if? I asked. What if? No names. Suppose there had been such and such a crime, I said. Suppose there had been an accessory. That sort of thing. Nothin
g that could possibly be connected to an actuality. It is a common thing to do in the practice of law. Let me read from my notes here.” Sims reached in his pocket and took out his glasses. He put them on and reached into his inside pocket and took out a piece of paper. “Let me see here. Yes, yes, here it is. ‘Hindering a prosecution, being an accessory after the fact, conspiracy to obstruct justice,’ ” said Sims. “Of course, the specific laws vary from jurisdiction to jurisdiction.”

  “Yes, yes, I am aware of those charges. But you forgot one. You forgot receiving a bribe. You forgot that I could be charged with that too, Sims,” said Harrison.

  “Bribe?” asked Sims Lord.

  “Yes, Sims, bribe. You remember bribe. Writing out checks? For travel? For a year in Europe? For a higher institution of learning? That sort of bribe.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sims.

  “Oh, yes, you understand, Sims. You sent me the checks.”

  “Helping out a poor boy on a scholarship by paying for his education is not a bribe,” said Sims Lord.

  “When it pays for the poor boy’s silence, it is,” said Harrison.

  Sims, angry, folded his paper and put it back into his inside pocket. He removed his reading glasses. He rose quietly and began to leave. At the entrance to the projection room, he turned back to Harrison, who had not moved from his theater seat.

  “Have you given any thought to Grace Bradley in this? Are you not aware that she is a wonderful woman? I myself am not a Catholic, but it is my understanding that she is soon to be made a papal countess by the Holy Father in Rome for her outstanding work in Catholic charities. Do you have any idea what this will do to her? Have you no thought for that?”

  “What is it you are saying to me, Sims? Because Constant has a nice mother, his crime should be overlooked? I want to make sure I understand. The problem with Constant is that his trespasses have been forgiven him over and over, all his life. And all of you know it. It’s not enough that his mother is a nice woman.”