A Season in Purgatory (29 page)

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.”

“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 tragedies 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.

“Right.” He lit another cigar. “It’s an amazing story. Never told before. And, of course, there’s Jerry’s terrible accident. I didn’t want to discuss it in front of him. This fine young man, crippled for life. Look at him over there, talking to Fuselli. My heart aches for Jerry. And Desmond, the doctor, who took a bullet out of a poor kid’s heart and saved his life, a black kid from Bog Meadow. Sandro, first in Congress, standing up for the rights of the poor and the homeless, and now in his third term in the United States Senate. Maureen and Freddy and their growing brood. Seven already, another on the way. The ambassadorship in Paris. Endless stories there. Mary Pat’s wedding to Count Philippe de Trafford. And Constant’s own marriage to Charlotte Stafford. It is a story of family and love. It is a story of the American dream. With pictures. There’s hundreds of pictures to choose from. Thousands even. Grace has been marvelous about keeping scrapbooks over the years. The research will be relatively simple for you. What do you say? You’re the perfect person, Harrison. You know us. You’ve lived with us.”

“No way, Mr. Bradley. That may be a good idea for Constant, but it’s not a good idea for me. I don’t ghostwrite,” said Harrison quickly, wanting to terminate the encounter.

Gerald reached out a hand and put it on Harrison’s
wrist. “What I am about to tell you is extremely confidential. Can you keep a secret?”

“What an odd question for you to ask of me,” said Harrison.

Gerald ignored his answer. “It is almost certain now that Constant is going to address the Democratic convention in New York in two years’ time,” said Gerald. “We are angling for prime time. We are hoping that he will make the nominating speech for the vice president. The national exposure for him will be staggering. There are those who say of Constant that he’s just a rich man’s kid who’s a bit of a playboy, but this will give people a chance to see what he’s really all about. Now what do you think of that, Mr. Harrison Burns?”