A Season in Purgatory Page 6

  All thoughts were on college. Constant knew that his father expected him to go to Yale or Harvard. No Holy Cross, no Villanova, no Fordham for the Bradley boy. It had to be the Ivy League to please Gerald.

  That Christmas, the Somersets gave Weegie a dance in their house next to the Bradleys’ house in Scarborough Hill. Her photograph appeared in the newspaper, and she was called the most popular debutante of the season. Although Constant exhibited indifference, I knew he felt a pang of disappointment when he heard that invitations to Weegie’s party were in the mail and he had not received one. None of the Bradleys was invited. The snub infuriated Gerald Bradley.

  “I saved Leverett Somerset’s ass when he was in financial trouble,” he said to Grace.

  Grace cringed as she always cringed when Gerald used profanity. “I think it must have something to do with Constant and Weegie,” said Grace. “They don’t see each other anymore. It’s just as well, really. He’s too young to get serious. And she’s not a Catholic.”

  “My children should be at that party, and I’m going to find out why they weren’t asked,” said Gerald.

  “How?”

  “I’m going to call Leverett.”

  “No, Gerald. Don’t,” said Grace. “I think something must have happened, don’t you? With Constant and Weegie?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what I mean, but Mary Pat said that night last summer at the beach club dance, Weegie ran out crying.”

  “Hmmm. So they had a fight. So what? That’s no excuse for us to be humiliated by being the only people at the club not invited to the debut.”

  “Why don’t we take the children to Florida for Christmas, Gerald. We’ll stay at the Breakers. Let’s not be here when the party happens.”

  Constant, to everyone’s surprise, chose not to go to Florida. He was concentrating on his studies. Getting into Yale meant everything to him. I was summoned to come and keep him company over the holidays. On the train going up to the country, I spotted a familiar figure. There, in her mink coat, was Mrs. Steers, Sally Steers, looking too glamorous by far for the local train, reading a house magazine.

  “Mrs. Steers?”

  “Yes?” She looked up.

  “I’m Harrison Burns.”

  “Yes?” She did not recognize me. I blushed in embarrassment. I had in those days the kind of looks that people tended to forget.

  “I met you in Watch Hill. At the Gerald Bradleys’.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I do remember. You’re the friend of Constant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who writes?”

  “Hopes to.”

  “Yes. Sit down, for heaven’s sake. You never know who’s going to plop down next to you. I’d rather it be you.”

  “You’re not the sort of person I expected to see on the morning local out of Grand Central.”

  “I’m doing a house in Fairfield—the Hardwicks, do you know them?—and my driver’s sick, and I can’t drive. Such a nuisance. How are the Bradleys? Have you seen them? I don’t see them so much now that the house is finished. I finally weeded out all that reproduction Chippendale and got them to buy the real thing. Next Gerald will be into art. You mark my words. Rich people always atone for their sins with art.”

  “But he already has art,” I said defensively.

  “A very bad Renoir, too sappy for words, but Grace likes it, naturally, and that head of Christ by Zurbarán with the crown of thorns and the blood coming down the face. Puhleeze. I had to beg him on bended knee not to hang it in the living room.”

  I had heard she was not so much in evidence anymore. I assumed the ardor had cooled. “I’m on my way there now. But they’re in Florida for the holidays. Except Constant. I’m going over to keep him company for a few days.”

  She looked at me. “You’re very fond of Constant, aren’t you?”

  “We are friends, yes.”

  “I felt it was somewhat more.”

  “More?”

  “It happens in England, that sort of thing, in those public schools they have. You know, Eton, Harrow, those schools. Mad crushes, that sort of thing.”

  There was nothing accusatory or mocking in her voice or attitude, but what she was suggesting was a matter about which I was extremely sensitive. I was not then adept at deflecting conversation from one subject to another, so I remained silent, only looking at her quizzically, as if I did not understand her. She, unperturbed, seemed not to demand an answer.

  “When is Fairfield?” she called out to the conductor.

  “Next stop,” he said.

  She took a compact out of her bag, opened it, and looked at herself in the mirror. “Do I need lipstick?”

  “No.”

  She began to brush her hair. “Poor Grace,” she said.

  “Why do you say ‘poor Grace’?” I asked.

  “It’s that Catholic thing. Their wives are for children, not for pleasure. Keep them preggers, and play. I’m surprised she stopped when she did. Of course, there were those miscarriages. Three, I think. Or maybe four. Her little saints in heaven, she calls them. She tries so hard to please Gerald. All that ghastly singing of Irish songs around the piano after dinner. I thought if I had to listen to ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’ one more time, I’d go mad. That quivering contralto. She buys all her clothes in Paris, spends an absolute fortune, and still looks wrong. She didn’t even know how to lay the table properly, and all that sort of thing, when I started doing the house for them.”

  I was stunned to hear a mistress discuss a wife in such a manner.

  “You were there that day, weren’t you, by the pool, when Gerald and I were talking? I saw you, reading your book, but I knew you were listening. Gerald didn’t see you. I suppose someday you will write a book about them all. I mean, they are fascinating, in their Irish way. Oh, so keen to belong. But watch them. Twenty years from now. Or less. Fifteen. Ten even. Everyone in the country will know who they are. Mark my words. Tell me your name once more. I’m hopeless with names.”

  “Harrison. Harrison Burns.”

  “Oh, of course. Harrison.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  “You won’t what?”

  “Write about them. They are my friends.”

  “You’re a damn fool if you don’t. What is writing but putting down what you see, what you know? You are having a bird’s-eye view of a dynasty in formation. Remember it all. Keep a journal. It will all come in handy. I wish I could write. Give me a call when the time comes. I could fill you in on a thing or two.”

  I looked at her, stunned by what I thought of as her disloyalty to the family that was paying my tuition at Milford and had taken me into their bosom, but I also did not want her to stop talking. I was caught between wanting to know everything there was to know about the Bradleys and hesitating to learn it from a discarded mistress. She seemed not to notice either my shock or my disapproval as she continued.

  “They discuss only their triumphs. You must have noticed that by now. Poor Agnes. The retarded one. Hidden away. Unmentioned. As if she had done something wrong. And Gerald Junior, or Jerry, as they call him. Do you know about the accident?”

  “I know he was in an accident.”

  “He was driving eighty miles an hour. And being blown at the same time. You didn’t know that? Your precious Constant didn’t tell you that? See what I mean?”

  “I didn’t know that. What happened to the girl?”

  “Broke her neck.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In a wheelchair somewhere. She’s all taken care of, of course. Financially, I mean. Gerald’s awfully good about that. Paying off for their carelessnesses.”

  I wanted to ask her questions, about Agnes, about Jerry, but I didn’t want to interrupt her.

  “Constant is the one, of course, in whom all hopes are centered. Gerald adores him. Grace, too.”

  “Why do you think all hopes are centered on Constant?” I asked.

&
nbsp; “Jerry had that frightful accident and is a cripple. Smart, of course, but no public career now. Desmond married a maid for ten minutes and then became a doctor. Sandro might run for something, governor or state senate. Maureen could amount to something. She’s the smartest, but she’s also a girl, and Gerald is not that advanced in his thinking. The other girls will all marry well—they’d better, if they know what’s good for them—but it’s Constant who’s going to be president of this country if Gerald has his way.”

  “Good God,” I said. I had no idea that Gerald Bradley’s aspirations were that high.

  “But your friend drinks too much.”

  “Oh, that. You mean that night at the club? You heard about that? With Weegie?”

  “Yes, I heard about that. But more. I have been married to two alcoholics. I recognize the signs. It’s the way he drinks. Notice it. He never sips. He gulps. One night at the club, he was always tapping his glass for the waiter to bring him another. Couldn’t wait. Couldn’t keep focused on the conversation until he had another full glass in front of him.”

  “He was just having a good time.”

  She took no notice of my defense of him. “One day he will be a drunk. You mark my words. Too much is expected of him. And all Gerald’s careful planning will go up in smoke.”

  The train came into the Fairfield station. Her mind reverted to the career part of her life. She gathered her things. She put on her dark glasses. She waved out the window to a chauffeur standing on the platform. “That’s the Hardwicks’ chauffeur,” she said. We said good-bye. She got off.

  Kitt was at the station to meet me, not Constant. I almost didn’t recognize her. The braces on her teeth had been replaced by a retainer. She no longer dressed like a child. She was becoming pretty. I noticed for the first time how much she resembled Constant. As always, she talked nonstop.

  “I hope you’re not disappointed it’s me here to meet you and not Constant. He’s in one of his moods,” explained Kitt. She took off her glasses and placed them on top of her head. It was a gesture she had copied from Maureen. “Friday night’s Weegie Somerset’s coming-out party, and he wasn’t invited. None of us were. Not that I would have been anyway, I’m too young. If you could have heard my father on the subject! That’s why they went to Florida, to get out of town. They’re at the Breakers. You’ve probably heard that. I’m so glad you could come. Constant couldn’t bear to be alone. There was only Fatty and Sis Malloy for company, and that wouldn’t do at all for Constant. At least he can bring you to the club. He brought Fatty to the club once, and he knew all the bartenders and waitresses from Bog Meadow, and shook hands with them. You can imagine how that went over.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m off to Florida tomorrow. I’ve been to a sweet sixteen party in Spring Lake. One of the girls at the convent had it.”

  We walked outside. Constant’s Porsche was double-parked. There was a ticket on the window.

  “Oh, hell,” she said. She took the ticket off the windshield and tore it in half.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” I said.

  “My father has a man, Mr. Fuselli, Johnny Fuselli—you met him in Watch Hill, the one Maureen thought was handsome in a cheap sort of way? He takes care of tickets and things like that for us.”

  “A gangster type in a red car?”

  “The very one.”

  “Won’t he need the pieces?”

  “Not Johnny. That’s what he gets paid for. Hop in.”

  “Are you old enough to drive?”

  “No, but I will be soon.”

  “Shouldn’t I drive?”

  “Not on your life. This is Constant’s new Porsche, and it’s my only chance to drive it. Now, where the hell are my glasses?” She looked in her bag.

  “They’re on top of your head,” I said.

  She roared with laughter. “I’d love a cigarette,” she said.

  For a novice Kitt handled the car very well. “Look at that creep, will you?” she said, honking the horn at a slow driver. She cleared the busy section by the railroad station and we headed west out Asylum Avenue for the drive toward Scarborough Hill. Kitt never stopped talking.

  “Doesn’t your family ever want you?” she asked.

  “My family is one maiden aunt who talks about missionaries all the time,” I replied.

  “Are you Constant’s ott?” asked Kitt.

  “I don’t know what an ott is,” I answered.

  “Someone who’s always available.”

  I blushed. I was always available.

  “My mother has otts. They’re people who are useful and do convenient things. Mother has otts who write the place cards for her but who aren’t asked to the party and pretend they don’t mind. She’d a godmother to their children but she wouldn’t dream of having them be godmother to any of hers. It’s an unequal friendship.”

  “Are you asking me if that’s what I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Don’t let him boss you around. He has the tendency to boss.”

  “Don’t go too fast.”

  “I will if I want to.”

  She increased her speed as we got closer to the tree-lined streets of the west side of the city.

  “Great excitement. Sandro’s running for Congress. I bet you didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Congressman Lopez died in office, and Sandro’s going to run for the rest of his term.”

  “Isn’t he awfully young?”

  “He’s almost twenty-six. Pa doesn’t think he’s too young. Pa says he has charisma.”

  “Is he qualified?”

  “The Catholics will all vote for him. Pa will see to that.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Winning is all that matters. Family motto. We all used to think my brother Desmond would be the first to run for office. After Jerry’s accident. But he wanted to be a doctor, and then he married a maid. Did you know that?”

  “I think I may have heard something about it.”

  “Oh, the to-do over that. Ma’s tears. Pa’s rage. The cardinal placating. Poor Rosleen. She didn’t know what hit her. She was quite pretty, but there was no way she would do at all. My father said to Desmond, ‘You sleep with girls like that. You don’t marry them.’ Poor Bridey, the cook, I felt so sorry for Bridey. She was Bridey’s second cousin, or in-law, or something, I can never keep all Bridey’s relations straight. We’re all meant to marry well, you know. Constant is always supposed to bring home boys from Milford for Mary Pat and me to meet, but you’re the only one he’s ever brought.”

  I couldn’t help but feel that I was somewhat of a disappointment in that department.

  “Of course, all my friends at the convent are mad about Constant. But whenever I bring any of them home, he doesn’t even look at them. He just likes girls like Weegie Somerset. You wait and see. He’ll marry a Protestant when the time comes. Oh, and the to-do about that when it happens, if he doesn’t marry a Catholic.”

  “I’ve never heard a family talk about being Catholic as much as your family does.”

  “But you’re Catholic.”

  “But we didn’t talk about it all the time. I think you’re driving too fast.”

  “I can’t imagine what happened between Constant and Weegie. Something. I mean, they didn’t invite any of us to the party, and Mr. Somerset owes my father a lot of money. My father will get even with Mr. Somerset. My father always gets even. They say that’s Irish, getting even.”

  “Slow down, Kitt.”

  “Oh. You’re right. There’s a policeman behind us. Red light flashing.”

  “You’d better pull over. What about the license?”

  “Just keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

  It was an un-Christmas Christmas in the Bradley mansion. There were wreaths on the doors and electrified candles in the windows, but there was no Christmas tree. The house, usually bustling with noise from so man
y occupants, seemed eerily quiet. Constant’s presents had been left on the bench in the hall beneath the stairway, as well as two for me, one from Grace and one from Kitt, but he exhibited no curiosity about them in the days before Christmas. By then I was used to his spoiledness, his sullenness, his occasional bad temper, especially when he drank, but I was still in his thrall, and overlooked such deficiencies, as they were rarely directed toward me. When he wasn’t the absolute center of attention, he was restless. He whistled little tunes under his breath, or paced, or tapped his foot incessantly, or snapped his fingers, or cracked his knuckles, or beat time to a song on the radio.

  “You’re not relaxing to be around,” Kitt said to him before she left for Florida.

  Constant looked up, surprised, as if she had discovered something secret in him.

  Fearing she had upset him, she mocked herself. “You lack my inner peace,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her and assuming an expression of nunlike humility.

  “Fuck you,” he replied, good-naturedly. They both roared with laughter.

  Bridey, the cook, wanted to serve us our meals in the dining room, with candles and flowers, but Constant said he preferred to eat on tables in front of the television set. A few times Fatty and Sis Malloy came by for lunch or dinner. Their lives were pointedly different from the Bradley kind of life, and they seemed pathetically grateful to be included in anything at the grand house in Scarborough Hill. Fatty worshipped Constant and seemed not to mind when Constant teased him unmercifully.

  “I ran for the car as soon as I got your call,” said Fatty.

  “The last time Fatty ran was when he missed the ice cream truck,” Constant said to me.

  “I think you hurt his feelings,” I said later to Constant.

  “Fatty’s used to having his feelings hurt. He knows we all love him,” said Constant.