A Season in Purgatory Read Online Free PDF

everyone, for obvious reasons, called Fruity. He pretended not to mind the name. A louse, a gossip, an unpopular fellow, he was the single exotic in our youthful Catholic midst. When autumn began to turn cold, he wore his top coat over his shoulders, in a flamboyant manner, the sleeves dangling by his side or swirling around him when he turned abruptly to address somebody. It was a style made famous by the Duke of Windsor, he told us, whohad been a great great friend of his grandfather’s in Palm Beach, although few of us knew then who the Duke of Windsor was. Fruity had spent a summer in Beverly Hills and told lesbian stories about movie stars with great authority, which shocked, disappointed, or titillated his teenage audience. “Oh, yes, it’s absolutely true,” he told us. “Everyone in Hollywood knows about the two of them. It’s a notorious affair.”
    It was Fruity who started the rumor that I was transfixed by Constant Bradley. “I can see the famous Bradley charisma has transfixed you, Harrison,” he said one day on our way to study hall in his loud, affected voice, for all to hear. “You cannot keep your eyes off him.” I blushed. For a while, everyone in the school talked about it. Constant, untroubled, roared with laughter at the story, while I suffered in silence. Denials were issued. The story died down. Eventually, in time, Fruity Suarez was kicked out of school for making an unwanted advance toward Jerome O’Hagen, the captain of the football team, who reported him to the headmaster. Secretly, I was delighted to see Fruity go, although I remained silent, my glee unexpressed. Years later, on the Concorde, on my way to Paris to cover Marlene Dietrich’s funeral, I ran into a classmate from that period, and we reminisced about those days at Milford. “Whatever happened to Fruity Suarez, do you suppose?” he asked. “Just sort of vanished, didn’t he?” I thought for a moment, wondering to myself whether to tell him what I knew. “Yes, vanished,” I answered finally. “Perhaps dead, for all I know.”
    Transfixed. What an odd word. Was I transfixed by Constant Bradley? Yes, I was. I was completely transfixed by Constant Bradley.

2
    In contrast to the Bradleys, I often described my family as being merely well-to-do, but when my parents’ estate was settled, and our house sold, it developed that we were not that well-to-do at all. My father, it seemed, had made some bad investments. There was insurance, but I had very few assets and no relations to speak of, except Aunt Gert, a maiden lady, the older sister of my father, who would have taken me in, adopted me even, but it was not a prospect that I found enticing. Her life was drab. She raised money for the Maryknoll Fathers, who were missionaries in far-off places. And, by then, I had had a taste of the Bradley kind of life.
    “Are there things you want saved?” asked Aunt Gert. She was wrapping glasses and china in newspapers.
    “Why?”
    “For when you marry?”
    “Like what?”
    “The dining room table was your grandmother’s. And the sideboard.”
    “All right, I guess.”
    Later, going out, she said, “Where did you get that tie? It looks very expensive.”
    “It
is
very expensive. Turnbull and Asser. London. It belongs to Constant. He lets me wear his ties.”
    “Aren’t you seeing too much of those people?”
    “I don’t think so. I like them. I like their kind of life. They’re exciting.”
    “Your father wouldn’t have approved.”
    “But my father is dead.”
    She turned away. “Do you keep in touch with Detective Stein?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “If he had something to tell me, I’m sure he would have gotten in touch,” I replied. I did not like to talk about my parents’ murder.
    “Tomorrow is the anniversary of your father’s death.”
    “My father and mother’s deaths.”
    “Yes, of course. I am having a Mass said. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
    “All right.”
    “Is that beer