A Season in Purgatory (10 page)

“Give him hell, Pa,” called out Kitt.

“Kitt!” cried Grace in an astonished voice. “You simply cannot speak like that, especially in front of Cardinal. You must forgive her, Cardinal.”

“Mr. Somerset owes Pa money, so naturally he hates Pa, but Pa says that always happens in business when you bail someone out,” said Kitt.

“
Shhh
,” said Jerry. “I want to hear this.”

In the front hall, Gerald walked to the door that Colleen had left ajar. He did not ask his neighbor into the house. “You’ve come at an inconvenient time, Leverett. I happen to be entertaining Cardinal Sullivan,” said Gerald.

Leverett Somerset, in financial distress, was in no mood to pay deference to a cardinal.

“What have you done to me, Gerald?”

“Done?”

“Oh, please. No games. You pulled your money out of the deal. You did not tell me. It is indefensible,” cried
Leverett Somerset. His voice, with its classic old-family Yankee accent, traveled through the rooms.

“Why did you humiliate my son by not inviting him to Weegie’s party?” demanded Gerald.

Somerset looked at him, stunned. “Because of a party invitation, you did this? To get even? Is that it?”

“Getting even is a code of behavior I live by,” replied Gerald.

“That would be your sort of code of behavior, yes,” said Somerset. The contempt in his voice was unmistakable.

“Do I detect a superior tone in your patrician voice?” asked Gerald, unperturbed, in charge of the scene. Inside, the Bradley offspring enjoyed hearing the exchange. There was muffled laughter in the room. Leverett Somerset was no friend of their family, and their father was putting the Yankee snob in his place. Only Constant seemed uncomfortable, but his distress was unvoiced and went unnoticed.

“Are you aware of what your son did to my daughter?”

Gerald shrugged. “A spat. A boyfriend-girlfriend spat. It happens. What is the big deal? They’re only kids.”

“Do you want to know why my daughter would not have your son to her party? Or want to ever see him again in her life?”

“That is what I want to know.”

“Because your son assaulted my daughter.”

“Assaulted?”

“You heard me. Assaulted.”

Gerald stepped outside under the porte cochere and closed the front door behind him. At the same moment, following a signal from his mother, Desmond got up from the table and closed the dining room doors. The rest of the conversation was not heard inside. Constant, appalled by the charge, told me later. Words were exchanged. Hate words.

“He grabbed her. He twisted her arm. He tried to force
himself on her. He would have raped her if she had not started to scream. He put his hand over her mouth. He frightened her.”

“I do not believe that.”

“Believe it. And when you stand at your Communion rail next time to take Communion from your precious cardinal, thank your God I didn’t bring charges against your son. Weegie wanted to go to the police that night in Watch Hill. Her mother said to her, and I concurred, that people like us do not go to the police in such a circumstance. Nothing comes of it but bad publicity and a ruined reputation. The problem with that kind of thinking is that people like your son get away with assault and are only punished by not being invited to a dance.”

“Get out of my house, Leverett.”

“I’m not in your house, Gerald. I’m outside your front door.”

“Get off my property.”

Later, Constant related to me this conversation he had with his father after Leverett Somerset departed.

“Is this true, Constant?”

“Not true, Pa.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

“What happened?”

“She led me on.”

“And then backed off?”

“Yes.”

“That trick.”

“Yes.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“Only by some things I said. Nothing physical. I swear to you, Pa.”

“Thank you, Constant. I believe you.”

He began to go.

“You know, Constant, girls like the Somerset girl, and girls like the girls your sisters bring home from the convent, they’re for kissing, nothing more, especially at your age. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, Pa.”

“And stay away from the maids. At least maids in this house. We’ve already had that experience with Desmond and that tramp Rosleen, trying to nuzzle her way into the family.”

“Yes, Pa.”

“I’ll get Johnny Fuselli to put you in touch with some of the other kind of girls. It’ll be good experience for you. That way, there’s no problems. No misunderstandings. That’s all this is with Weegie Somerset. A misunderstanding. Aren’t I right?”

“Exactly, Pa.”

Jerry suggested a game of softball. Before his accident, he had been the best athlete in the family, and he still enjoyed games, even though he could no longer play. In the family, there was never any hesitation when games were suggested. They all loved to play, both the boys and the girls. Sides were chosen.

“I’ll ump,” said Jerry.

“Be careful of my daffodils,” called out Grace.

“Who has the bat?”

“Everything’s in the mud room. Bat, balls, gloves,” said Fatty Malloy. The Malloys always knew where everything was in the Bradleys’ house. The mud room was stocked for all sporting occasions, enough for family and guests. There were tennis rackets, and dozens of cans of tennis balls, and golf clubs, and dozens of packages of golf balls, and riding
hats, and riding crops, and croquet sets, and swimming pool gear, and gloves and softballs and bats.

“I’ll get very angry if my daffodils are trampled,” said Grace.

“Oh, Mother,” said Kitt and Mary Pat.

I hated to play with them. They were all too good. And they were all too merciless if you missed a ball, or made a mistake of any kind, or, God forbid, struck out.

“That was your fault, Harrison,” called out Jerry. “You let that ball go right through your legs.”

“Sorry,” I called back.

“Hit it to Harrison,” yelled out Sandro when Kitt was at bat, meaning that I would be sure to miss it.

She did. She hit it hard, straight out to second base. I caught it. I threw it to Constant on first. She was out. Cheers from Constant and Mary Pat.

“You would have to catch it the one time I’m up,” said Kitt.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You can’t be sorry about everything,” she said.

Constant was the star of the afternoon, of course. He hit a homer with Fatty and Mary Pat on base. He loped around the bases, joyously, savoring his moment. At home plate, he picked up the bat and swung it over his head. “And I did it with a cracked bat,” he said. Then, with both hands, he sent the bat flying high into the trees over onto the wooded area of the Somerset property. Kitt and I ran to retrieve it. “It has to be here somewhere,” she said. We couldn’t find it. The wooded growth between the two estates was heavy and dark.

“What’s the big deal? There’s about ten more bats in the mud room. Get another one, Fatty,” said Jerry.

Then Gerald called down from the terrace, “The
Wadsworths are complaining that you’re making too much noise and spoiling their Easter egg hunt.”

“Screw the Wadsworths,” said Jerry.

There were cheers and roars of laughter.

“How are my daffodils?” called out Grace.

“Trampled,” yelled back Kitt. “Every one dead or maimed.”

The family made their way back across the lawn, past the tennis court and the pool, up to the terrace of the house. It was time for Sandro to leave for Washington. Already the family referred to him as the Congressman. Charlie, the chauffeur, was standing by to drive him to the airport. Maureen and Freddy Tierney were flying to Chicago to spend time with Freddy’s family. Desmond was on duty at the hospital. Farewells were being said.

Through the woods a young girl appeared.

“Hi,” she called out. Only Constant and I were still near the softball area, collecting gloves.

“Hi, yourself,” said Constant.

“Now, don’t blame me for this, I’m only the messenger, but the Wadsworths sent me over to ask you to quiet down a little,” she said.

“We’re spoiling their Easter egg hunt. We already got the message by telephone. Look, we even stopped playing,” said Constant.

“Well, that’s my chore, completed.” She turned to go.

“What’s your name?” asked Constant.

“Winifred Utley.”

“Winifred Utley.” He repeated her name. “I’ve never met a Winifred before.”

“Indirectly you have.”

“How?”

“My name means nothing to you?”

“You have a very pretty face, Miss Winifred, but your name means nothing to me.”

“I know who you are. All the girls at my school know who you are. You’re famous. My mother once picked you up when you were hitchhiking and drove you home from Milford,” said Winifred.

“Oh, my God, of course,” said Constant. “Do you remember, Harry? Mrs. Utley? In a blue Buick. She went twenty miles out of her way for us. Brought us right here to the house.”

“I remember Mrs. Utley,” I said. I remembered Constant imitating her speaking voice as soon as we were out of the car.

“My friend Harrison Burns here was in the car that day. Rather ill-fated, that jaunt, as a matter of fact,” said Constant.

“How?”

“I got kicked out of Milford after that.”

“But I thought you were graduating from there in June.”

“I am. My father is giving a new library, and I got back in. It’s how bad rich kids get through life.”

“I think you’re a big tease, Constant.”

“I think you’re adorable, Winifred.” He looked into her fresh lively face, the face of a fifteen-year-old, a face that depended for its prettiness on her youth. It would probably never be so pretty as right then. “What are you doing here?”

“I just told you that. The Wadsworths sent me over.”

“I meant, what are you doing here in the city?”

“We’ve moved here. My father is the new president of Veblen Aircraft.”

“Where do you live?”

“Right near you. We’re on Varden Lane, behind the Somersets’ house.”

“I know that house. The Prindevilles used to live there.”

“That’s it.”

“There’s a shortcut behind our tennis court.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps a midnight rendezvous is in order.”

“On the shortcut, you mean?”

“Yes.”

She giggled. “Not likely. I’ve heard of your reputation.”

“From whom?”

“All the girls at school talk about Constant Bradley.”

“Good or bad?”

“Depends on who’s doing the talking.” She giggled again and ran off through the woods the way she had come.

Two nights later Constant, Mary Pat, Kitt, and I had dinner at The Country Club. It was the girls’ last night before they returned to the convent. Grace and Jerry attended a political fund-raiser in the downtown part of the city. Gerald had gone to New York “on business,” as Constant always said with a wink when he thought his father was with one of his lady friends.

“He’s got a new one. Eloise Brazen,” he said.

“Certainly your father didn’t tell you that,” I said.

“No. Fuselli did.”

“Who is she?”

“Career girl. My father likes career girls. Less problems extricating himself when it’s over.”

“No more Sally Steers?”

“Sally bit the dust.”

Most of the talk at dinner was about Maureen’s wedding. It was to be the first time that Mary Pat and Kitt would be bridesmaids.

Constant was in a good mood, entertaining his sisters,
even teasing the waitress, who refused to serve him wine because he was underage.

“My father lets me have wine at home, Ursula,” he said to the waitress. Constant always remembered the names of the help.

“Then you better go home to your father,” she replied.

“Oh, these provincial places,” said Constant.

“He’s only teasing you,” Kitt said to the waitress. “He’s a big tease. He knows perfectly he can’t have wine at the club.”

There was an elaborate clearing of the throat from Mary Pat. “Uh, oh,” she said, ominously.

“What?” asked Constant.

“Check out the door to the dining room.”

The Somersets were arriving with their daughter. Mr. Carmody, who seated the members, led them to a table next to ours, but midway across the dining room Leverett Somerset, without halting Mr. Carmody, changed his direction and guided his wife and Weegie toward an empty table at the opposite end of the room.

“Sit here, Weegie,” he said. He seated his daughter with her back to our table.

“Well, at least we’re almost finished,” said Kitt.

Constant excused himself from the table. “Be right back,” he said. He walked out of the dining room and turned right toward the men’s locker room. Beyond the locker room was a men’s bar for drinks after tennis and golf. The bartender, Corky, was just closing up.

“Hi, Corky,” said Constant.

“Mr. Bradley,” he replied.

“Can you give me a drink, Corky?”

“You know I can’t serve anybody under eighteen.”

“Yeah, I know. But there’s nobody around.”

“Club rules. State law.”

“Yeah, I know.” He placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “Have you seen my cousin, Fatty Malloy?”

“I saw him at Father Curry’s wake last week.”

Constant placed a second ten-dollar bill on the bar and pushed the money toward the bartender. “Come on, Corky. Scotch.”

“Vodka. It looks like water,” said Corky.

“Pour in a little more.”

“Take it in the locker room. Don’t drink it in here. I need this job.”

When Constant returned to the table ten minutes later, I could tell he had been drinking. He did not look in the direction of the Somersets’ table. From another room came the sound of dance music.

“What’s the music?” Constant asked the waitress.

“There’s a junior club dance in the lounge,” answered Ursula.

“How come you aren’t there, girls?” he asked his sisters.

“No dates, and besides I’d rather be having dinner with you sixth-formers,” said Kitt. “Much better than dancing cheek to cheek with those pimply faces, like Billy Wadsworth. You have to promise on the way out we pass through the lounge so that everybody can see we’re with you, even though you’ll probably be mobbed on the dance floor by all the preppy girls wanting to dance with you. Promise?”