Joseph Wambaugh: The Secrets of Harry Bright

Sidney Blackpool stood up, and came forward like a sleepwalker. “I have most a the expense money here. I can’t use it now.”

“I want you to keep that and I want to write you a check.”

“Not now.” Sidney Blackpool threw the envelope on the desk. “Not now.”

“Sidney, I think it’s urgent that you talk to your police psychiatrist.”

“I don’t …”

“Listen to me, please,” Victor Watson said. “I’ll share a secret with you. I hope it helps. Sometimes, Sidney, sometimes the father of a dead son has to be careful not to turn the awful outrage against the boy. Sometimes he might come to feel that the son failed in his obligation to survive the father. Don’t confuse your torment with mine, Sidney. My son didn’t fail me. My son was murdered . Now I beg you. Take the money.”

Sidney Blackpool stared with eyes as bright as desert gemstone and said, “I can’t. It wouldn’t do any good now. It’s too late.”

It was nearly 10:00 P.M. when Sidney Blackpool found himself approaching Mineral Springs. He’d started out driving aimlessly and suddenly found himself here. He was surprised to be here and yet he wasn’t. He was clutching at a shapeless idea. It was just beyond his grasp, a flitting sparkling image. The elusive fireflies would almost alight. Then they’d flutter. It was something very familiar, but kept drifting away.

He drove down the main street and saw Beavertail Bigelow staggering into the Eleven Ninety-nine Club. He proceeded to the other side of town and turned left on Jackrabbit Road. He drove to the end of the cul-de-sac and parked his car. He got out and walked to the door of Harry Bright’s mobile home and saw that the broken door had been temporarily nailed shut. He cut his finger on a nail trying to straighten it. Finally, he went to the Toyota and got a screwdriver. He pried the nails loose from the door frame. He jerked it open and entered the mobile home and turned on the light.

Harry Bright’s easy chair felt wonderful. He saw that his finger was bleeding on the arm of the chair and he wiped the blood on his shirt. He looked at the wardrobe closet, at an empty holster that would never be filled, not with the same gun. He had to smile, a crooked smile like the one he’d seen on Patsy Bright. Good thing Harry Bright’s gun wasn’t there. Good thing.

Then he got up and went into the kitchen and found a fifth of bourbon. It would do. He poured a water glass full of it and went back to the easy chair. He sat and drank and watched the fireflies flitting across his mind.

He got up and went to the videocassette machine. He turned it on and rewound the spool to the beginning. Then he opened the other cabinet door and switched on Harry Bright’s modest little sound system. He took the tape that Coy Brickman had shoved in his pocket and slid it into the machine. Then he rewound it. When everything was ready, he switched on the television, but turned the volume all the way down. He punched the play buttons on both machines and went over to Harry Bright’s easy chair and made himself comfortable.

While sitting in Harry Bright’s chair and drinking Harry Bright’s whiskey he watched The Enchanted Cottage . Since he knew what was happening he didn’t need its sound. Instead, he listened to Harry Bright saying, “This is happy Harry Bright coming to you from the Mineral Springs Palladium out on Jackrabbit Road …”

While Harry Bright sang “Make Believe” and Sidney Blackpool watched The Enchanted Cottage , the fireflies in his mind flitted away. The elusive sparkling image took shape. He settled back and felt the way one feels when a fever finally breaks: tired, tingling, yet strangely restful. Pretty soon he felt a kind of peace that scared him and excited him.

The sand had stopped drifting. He wished he could share this with Victor Watson but knew he must tell no one. Not ever. At last he understood. The dream about Tommy Blackpool. Where he could re-create his son. Or the essence of his son.

His heart stalled from the joy of it. Now it was perfectly clear. As clear and pure as the desert sky at dawn. He was so happy he began to weep. Now he owned it. It was his and his alone: the merciful magical secret of Harry Bright.