A Season in Purgatory Read online

Wandering from one room to the other one evening, after I had been staying there for several weeks, I heard Grace say, “Yes, he’s very sweet. I just wish he was taller. I want tall men for my girls.” I supposed she was talking about me. Kitt and Mary Pat were seated with her.

  “No, you want tall Catholic men for your girls,” said Kitt, and they all laughed.

  When Grace saw me, she motioned for me to sit beside her.

  “Where are you from, Harry?” Grace asked.

  Kitt whistled softly as she read a fashion magazine.

  “Ansonia,” I replied quietly. It was not a town where they were likely to have been.

  “You probably know the Rooneys, the Martin Rooneys?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “They live on—what is it called? Woodside Circle?”

  “I don’t know Woodside Circle, and I don’t know the Rooneys.”

  “Ruth was one of the Cudahy triplets?”

  “No.”

  “One of them married Teddy Aherne?”

  “No.”

  “They all made wonderful marriages, those girls.”

  “Mother, he doesn’t know the Rooneys, and the Rooneys live in Greenwich,” said Kitt, looking up from her magazine. “What’s that town of yours, Harry?”

  “Ansonia,” I said again.

  “Never heard of it,” said Kitt.

  “It’s near Derby.”

  “Believe me, Ma doesn’t know anyone there. No offense, Harry,” said Kitt.

  “No, no, of course not,” I said.

  Kitt resumed whistling.

  “So rare when all the girls in a large Catholic family make good marriages,” said Grace.

  “Whatever are you going to do about all of us, Mother?” asked Kitt. “You’ll never approve of anyone we bring home.”

  “The Blessed Virgin cries when you whistle, Kitt,” said Grace.

  “Oh, Mother,” replied Kitt.

  “Yes, Kitt, it’s true. I know. Ask Cardinal. Don’t whistle.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Grace turned back to me. “Harry. That doesn’t seem like a saint’s name,” she said.

  “It’s short for Harrison.”

  “Certainly there is no Saint Harrison.”

  “No. It was my mother’s maiden name.”

  “My, that’s very Protestant. Our neighbor Leverett Somerset’s mother was a Leverett.”

  “But we aren’t Protestant,” I said.

  “Constant said that your parents are dead?” asked Grace.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it an automobile accident?”

  “No.”

  “A plane crash then?”

  “No. They were shot by an intruder.”

  “Good heavens! You mean murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “How ghastly! Do you mind talking about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I won’t ask you anything about it. But just tell me this: did they catch the person who did it?”

  “No.”

  “You mean the murderer is wandering around loose?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of these days, they will catch him, you know. He’ll be arrested for speeding, or something, and it will all come out, and then you’ll have to deal with the whole thing.”

  “Mother!” said Kitt.

  “Well, it’s true,” insisted Grace.

  “Even so,” Kitt replied. “It’s Harry’s private business. Mother doesn’t mean to pry, Harry. She just can’t help it.”

  “I shan’t repeat what he said, but his words were very strong,” said Dr. Shugrue to Cardinal Sullivan, about his conversation with Gerald Bradley on the day of Constant’s dismissal.

  “Yes, yes, Gerald is quite terrifying when he is angry,” agreed Cardinal Sullivan. The cardinal went to see Dr. Shugrue at Milford, and then Dr. Shugrue went to see Cardinal Sullivan at the cardinal’s mansion. There were several meetings.

  “Gerald kept coming up with the name of someone in the class called Fruity Suarez. He said what Constant did is nothing compared to what the boy Fruity Suarez does. Who is Fruity Suarez, Dr. Shugrue?” asked Cardinal Sullivan.

  “Oh, Cardinal, don’t ask. The headmaster’s nightmare.”

  “Oh, you mean—?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, dear,” said the cardinal. “We have that problem in the clergy, too, from time to time.”

  Cardinal Sullivan came away with the distinct impression that Dr. Shugrue did not care for Constant Bradley. There was more to his dislike than the discovery of dirty pictures, but what that was the cardinal did not know, or did not choose to disclose to the Bradley family. The offer of a science building or a library had been made and accepted, but there was a stipulation. A paper had to be written by Constant, five thousand words on morality, before he could be reinstated. While the family went to a seaside cottage in Rhode Island, Constant was to stay behind in the house and write his paper. I returned to Ansonia. A friend of my father’s got me a summer job on the Hartford Courant. In the event that there might not be enough money for me to go back to Milford for my sixth-form year, I registered at a public high school. In late July I received a telephone call at my aunt’s apartment from Gerald Bradley.

  “Hello, Harrison.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bradley.” I had never talked to him on the telephone before. As always, he made me nervous.

  “My son needs to write a paper before the headmaster will reinstate him into Milford. Are you aware of that?”

  “Yes, sir. I thought he wrote it.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Yes, sir. He sent it to me.”

  “Not good, is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough, that’s for sure. Constant doesn’t have a way with words the way you do. I have a plan.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like you to write the paper for Constant.”

  “Me?”

  “You want to be a writer, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s a chance to see how good you are.”

  “But, uh, if Dr. Shugrue should find out?”

  “He won’t. It’ll be our little secret.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You might wonder what you get out of this?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I’ll be happy to do it.”

  “You must never say that, Harry. You must always put a price on everything. That’s what business is all about.”

  “I couldn’t take money, sir.”

  “A supporter must be rewarded for his support. You must learn that lesson early on, Harrison,” said Gerald. “Are you aware that your father’s estate is considerably less than what people imagined it was going to be?”

  “Yes, sir.” I wondered how he knew such a thing. It was information I had not even told Constant.

  “Are you aware that there might not be enough money to send you back to Milford for your senior year?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you would like to go back, would you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Consider it done. Your tuition paid for, that is. Providing, of course, that your report meets with Dr. Shugrue’s approval and Constant is reinstated.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is what’s known as a business deal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No one must know, of course. None of the others in the family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just you and me. And Constant, of course. The tuition money will be paid to your aunt. And she will in turn pay the school. That way, there will be no connection in the headmaster’s mind.”

  “I understand. But my aunt. What will my aunt think? My aunt has different ideas.”

  “Your aunt is apparently very fond of the Maryknoll Fathers. Missionaries. Good works. In foreign places. I am prepared to make a large donation through her to the worthy fathers. Believe me, Harry, I have been around longer tha
n you. It will be an irresistible offer.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I have great hopes for my son, Harry. I believe he has the makings of greatness in him. When he has outgrown his boyish pranks, that is.”

  I had heard from Constant that Gerald had had great hopes and political plans for Constant’s older brother Desmond, but Desmond had disappointed his father by becoming a doctor and disappointed him again by marrying inappropriately. Gerald thought it was a waste that his son’s aspirations were conventional. “There’s no real money in becoming a doctor,” he had pleaded with his son, but Desmond was not to be dissuaded from his calling. Gerald found some consolation, but not much, in the fact that Desmond went to Harvard Medical School. He enjoyed saying that his son was at Harvard.

  But then Desmond eloped with a maid in the house.

  “You married who?” cried Grace, when Desmond came to tell her his news.

  “Rosleen.”

  “Rosleen? The maid? Who opens the doors? Who passes the peas? You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious, Mother.”

  “Well, we’ll see to that. Have you given a thought to what your father’s reaction is going to be? Bridey, get me Cardinal on the telephone. We’re going to have this marriage annulled.”

  From that moment on, Rosleen was referred to by Grace as Miss Whatever-her-name-is. Bridey, whose distant relation Rosleen was, collapsed in tears. “She’s not a bad girl, Mrs. Bradley. She comes of decent parents. She’s never gone astray.” But her tears were not for Rosleen. They were tears of embarrassment at the impertinence of Rosleen for reaching so high above herself. She sorrowed, but she did not want to be part of Rosleen’s disgrace.

  “I can’t call Cardinal, Mrs. Bradley. I just can’t. She is my own flesh and blood,” pleaded Bridey.

  “How long have you been with me, Bridey?” asked Grace.

  “Seventeen years, madam,” replied Bridey.

  “Don’t I send you back to Ireland every year for two weeks and pay all expenses so that you can visit your family?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And were you not allowed to meet His Holiness the Pope and kiss his ring? And receive his blessing? Right here in this very house?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “How many people do you know who can say that?”

  “No one, madam.”

  “And didn’t I hire all your little cousins and nieces from Ireland to work as maids in our house here, and at the seashore, even that slow one with the learning disability who ruined all my Porthault towels because she couldn’t figure out the new washing machine?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And arrange for a scholarship for your nephew at Holy Cross Dental School?”

  “Loyola.”

  “What?”

  “Loyola Dental School. Not Holy Cross.”

  “Whatever. Didn’t I arrange for the scholarship?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Shall I go on listing things, or have I made my point?”

  “You’ve made your point, madam.”

  “Thank you, Bridey. Get me Cardinal on the telephone.”

  Gerald, in crisis, took over. He was a bad husband in that he kept mistresses, but he was his wife’s most devoted ally in the raising of their children and in their ever-more-important status in public life. He cheated on her, but he denied her nothing, always encouraging her to entertain and never complaining about her extravagant gifts to the Church or questioning her enormous bills from the Paris couture. Her handling of Desmond’s transgression, calling Cardinal Sullivan the first thing, met with his utmost approval. He had been off with Sally Steers at the time. “Marvelously handled, Grace,” he said warmly, and she basked in his praise.

  “I make no secret of my distaste for Rosleen,” he said to Desmond in the presence of the whole family at dinner. “This must be a lesson to all of you in the family. You are marks for adventurous people trying to better themselves through you. When the time comes for marriage, your mother will find the right person for each of you.” In a week’s time, Cardinal Sullivan assured Gerald and Grace that there would be no trouble obtaining an annulment, but that such a thing would take time. Desmond was sent to Europe until matters were straightened out. A Mr. Fuselli, an acquaintance of Gerald Bradley’s, was dispatched to remove all records of the marriage from the registrar’s office. Rosleen, the maid, was sent away. Money was paid to her. Not a lump sum, but a generous monthly allowance, an assurance that nothing untoward in the way of publicity would ever be done, or the money would stop. Rosleen resisted the suggestion that she return to Ireland. Instead she traveled west. She had friends in Arizona. Desmond then returned to medical school.

  Early on, he distinguished himself in his chosen field, and, at thirty-three, became the president of St. Monica’s Hospital, the youngest president ever, although there were those, among them Dr. Francis X. Gerrity, who said that the Grace Bradley Wing, built by Desmond’s mother, had hastened his ascendance to the presidency, over Dr. Gerrity, who at fifty-eight had had reason to expect that the presidency would be his.

  Then Desmond performed an emergency operation, while wearing a dinner jacket, having been called to the hospital from a dancing party at The Country Club, on a young black boy named Walter Potts, who had been shot in the heart during a gang fight in the Bog Meadow section of the city. In a daring medical feat that astonished the interns and nurses in the operating room, he held the wounded heart in the palm of his hand while he removed the bullet, and then sewed it up and replaced it in the chest of the young man, who, to the amazement of all, lived. The operation was reported on the front pages of the morning and afternoon newspapers of the city and then, with a little help from Gerald, who had a gift for promotion, in the national weekly magazines and, of course, all the medical journals. He told his son’s story over and over, referring always to Walter Potts as “a little black kid this high, about as tall as a trash can.”

  Even at The Country Club, members who did not ordinarily speak to Gerald stopped to congratulate him on his son’s medical celebrity, and Gerald began to see the advantages of having a son in the business of what he called “good works.” There were other sons to carry on his dynastic dreams, Sandro, of course, but particularly Constant. And the club members, who did not go to Desmond themselves for their medical problems, or to St. Monica’s Hospital, began to send their Irish maids to him, as an acknowledgment of his abilities.

  For two weeks I worked nights on Constant’s paper, while keeping my daytime job on the Hartford Courant. I had never worked so hard on anything. I wanted to do it for Constant, whose friendship I treasured, so that he would be reinstated at Milford for our senior year, and I wanted to do it for Gerald Bradley, who had shown me the possibilities that he foresaw for Constant’s future. I saw my own future being in Gerald Bradley’s hands, as if he might do for me, when the time came, what my own father could never have done.

  I found that, in writing in another person’s name, as if I were Constant Bradley, I possessed a courage that I did not ordinarily possess when writing in my own name. All my timidity vanished. My dead father had found me flawed and imperfect, and I had accepted his judgment; but writing as Constant I became sure of myself and experienced true joy in the writing process. I wrote about Constant’s grandfather, as if he were mine. And his father and mother. I wrote about being a member of a large Catholic family. I stressed the importance of family, something I had never felt in my own life. I wrote about the obligation of the wealthy to help others who were less fortunate. I wrote about the significance of early education, particularly an education at Milford, in preparing Catholic boys to enter the Ivy League colleges and to carry with them the Catholic values learned at school. I wrote about leadership. I wrote about a future public life that would embody the values that I had learned at Milford. All these things would have sounded preposterous coming from my lips, but not from the lips of Constant Bradley.

  I
mailed the twenty double-spaced typed pages to Gerald Bradley at an office he kept in New York. As per his instructions, there was no covering letter. I waited but heard nothing in reply. A week went by. Then two. Finally a telephone call came to me at my aunt’s house. It was from Gerald. He invited me to come to spend the Labor Day weekend at the seashore in Rhode Island. He said the whole family would be there. There was to be a celebratory dinner in honor of Constant. I waited for him to say something about the paper that I had written, but he said nothing.

  “What is the reason for Constant’s celebration?” I asked.

  “He is returning to Milford,” replied Gerald. “The cardinal has arranged everything.”

  That night Aunt Gert told me that she had received the tuition money for me to return to Milford for my sixth-form year. She told me that she had also received a donation of five thousand dollars for the Maryknoll Fathers. She was alternately joyful and perplexed.

  “Why would Mr. Bradley do that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Your father didn’t like him,” she said. “He said he mixed with disreputable people.”

  “I don’t believe you’re going to turn down the five thousand dollars for the Maryknoll Fathers, are you, Aunt Gert?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “They need the money so badly. Bishop McGurkin will be so pleased.”

  “So Gerald Bradley can’t be all bad, can he?”

  “There are people who think that money buys everything. I think Mr. Bradley is one of those.”

  “But you’re not going to turn down his money?”

  “Be careful, Harrison. That’s all I ask. Their kind of life, it’s very dangerous to be around those people when you don’t have their kind of money.”

  * * *

  Their cottage at Watch Hill was a huge shingled structure with fourteen bedrooms and verandas across the front and sides looking out to the ocean and the golf course. Even though it was only rented for the season, Mrs. Steers, the decorator, had come from New York to pull it together for them. It was Mrs. Steers who knew of the house and told Gerald about it. She had summered in Watch Hill as a child and knew everyone there. It was Mrs. Steers, forty, handsome, twice divorced, who told Gerald all the things he wanted to know so that his children would grow up familiar with things he had never heard of when he was their age. From her he learned about sheets and towels that came from Paris, which people who knew about such things recognized at once without being told they came from Paris, and nothing would do for his house from that moment but sheets and towels from Paris with scalloped edges and floral terry cloth.