Макс Коллинз - Road to Purgatory

No one but Patsy Ann’s young sister — little Betty, who was a high school senior already! — knew the truth; not even Mom and Dad. No one but Betty knew that Mike had broken it off with Patsy Ann before he went away, that he had kissed her tenderly and told her not to wait for him.

“Forget about me,” he said.

“You can’t be serious , Michael...”

But he was almost always serious.

“A war’s coming,” he said. “I’m not going to put you in that position.”

She’d felt flushed with emotion, some of it anger. “Doesn’t my opinion count in this?”

“No,” he said.

But she knew he didn’t mean that. She knew he was trying to get her mad at him, to help break it off...

She’d penned a letter to him every day. He had not sent a single reply, or at least none had made it back to her. And yet month upon month, she wrote to Mike, staring at his framed senior picture, suffering in stoic, noble silence, an English lit major wholly unaware that her love of romantic literature was influencing her behavior.

When she learned of Mike’s breathtaking heroism, and that he was coming home, Patsy Ann had gone to Pasquale’s Spaghetti House to see if Papa and Mama Satariano had an address for him. They did — their son was at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital near Washington, DC.

When he didn’t reply to her stateside letters, either, she dismissed it — after all, Michael was recuperating, receiving therapy. And then, a few months later, the local paper was full of Papa and Mama Satariano taking the train to DC to attend the presentation by President Roosevelt of the Congressional Medal of Honor — the first of the war!

How Patsy Ann wished she could have been there, standing next to Michael in the White House Executive Office as General Eisenhower lowered the looped ribbon with the golden star over his head...

For several weeks Michael had toured the East Coast, making speeches (she could hardly believe that, shy as he was!) and promoting the sale of war bonds and stamps. Banquets, dinners, receptions, receiving the keys to cities, shaking hands with mayors and governors and senators... how thrilling it would have been, to be at his side. Michael, though, probably detested all of it...

Yesterday, in Chicago, Michael had been flown into Municipal Airport and whisked away for a ticker tape parade down packed State Street. The key-to-the-city ceremony had been at city hall, with Mayor Kelly and various dignitaries lavishing praise on this “heroic native son of Illinois.”

Michael gave a speech, his voice soft and uninflected; but even Patsy Ann, listening on the radio, would have to admit the talk was not a memorable one, sounding nothing like Michael: “There are many who speak of giving their all, but are they willing to allocate ten percent of their earnings for war bonds?”

Still, as she curled beside the console, feeling like a school girl, heart beating like a triphammer, she cherished the sound of his voice.

Had she done the right thing, she wondered, not going into the city? Waiting for today, for what she hoped and prayed would be just the right moment?

Last night, she and her sister had sat in their loose-fitting man-tailored pj’s in the upstairs bedroom they still shared (Patsy Ann lived at home and had rebuffed any attempt by sororities to rush her).

Betty, dark-haired and cute, had been painting her nails cherry red as she said, “I don’t get it, sis. I mean, I can understand him wanting to break it off before he went over there and everything.”

Patsy Ann, seated at the dresser mirror brushing her hair, said, “I know. He was being noble. The far-far-better-thing-I-do-than-I-have-ever-done-before bit.”

“I saw that movie,” Betty said, moving to the next toe.

“It’s a book, too, not that you’d ever know it.”

“You don’t have to get short. Not my fault he hasn’t called or written.”

Patsy Ann put the brush down with a clunk. “No need to be ‘noble’ now — papers say, ’cause of his eye, he won’t see any more action. Why hasn’t he called ? What’s wrong with him?”

Betty shrugged. “Maybe it is his eye. Maybe he’s scarred and stuff, and doesn’t wanna make the woman he loves marry a freak.”

“What an awful thing to say!... But you could be right.”

“He’s probably home right now. At his folks’. Phone line runs both ways, you know.”

“You think I should call him?”

“Why not? You’re a modern woman, aren’t you?”

Patsy Ann studied her face in the mirror, as if girding herself for combat. “...I won’t do that. I won’t try to see him until tomorrow... at the Fourth. I’ll just be this, this... vision in the crowd!”

Betty nodded. “Yeah — that should work. These soldiers are really horny when they come home.”

“Where do you get that language?”

Another shrug. “It’s a brave new world, sis.”

“That’s also a book, y’know.”

Betty frowned. “What is?”

The first wartime Fourth of July in a quarter-century fell on a Saturday, the perfect day to set the stage for a weekend celebration of independence. The radio and papers, however, were filled with governmental caution — fireworks and large gatherings could attract air raids and saboteurs. On the East and West Coasts, celebrations had been banned in some cities.

Not in the Midwest, not in a heartland city like DeKalb whose principal exports were barbed wire and hybrid corn. The city fathers scheduled fireworks along with baseball, horseshoes, and archery, with musical programs all day long. Homes were draped red, white, and blue (materials available gratis at the city recorder’s) and when the Fourth dawned warm, not humid, a trifle breezy, flags flapped all over town.

Patsy Ann accompanied her mother, Maureen, a plump, plainer version of herself, to the parade Saturday morning; her rugged, handsome father, William, was driving the mayor and his wife — as owner of the local Buick dealership, Daddy always provided a number of vehicles.

Every float or vehicle draped in red-white-and-blue crepe, each band blaring military marches, created a near hysterical uproar in the crowd, applause, whistles, cheers. And when a vehicle would roll by with sailors or soldiers or marines, Patsy Ann could always spot in the midst of this frenzied fun a mother or two or three weeping.

The grand marshal of the parade was Sergeant Michael Satariano (he’d been promoted by the secretary of war at the Medal of Honor presentation). Patsy Ann had abandoned her mother to work her way to the curb, positioning herself prominently.

Seated up on the back of the convertible, in his crisp khaki uniform, Medal of Honor around his neck, Michael wore a small frozen smile as he raised a hand in a barely discernible wave. Despite how little he gave the crowd, they gave him back plenty; occasionally he would nod, and look from one side of the packed street to the other, a shy and retiring conqueror.

If he saw her, Patsy Ann could see no sign — not of pleasure or displeasure or even recognition. In her little red-and-white sundress, Patsy Ann had surely been noticed by every other healthy red-blooded American male here. Then, as the Buick rolled by, she could see the scarring around his left eye — not disfiguring, but there — and realized she’d picked the wrong side of the street to stand on.

And then he was gone, and she thought, That’s all it was — his bad eye... He just didn’t see me ...

That afternoon at Huntley Park, on the south side of town, the boulder-and-concrete bandshell, its red-tiled roof bannered with welcome home, mike! showcased various dignitaries and the guest of honor. The mayor introduced Governor Green — imagine the governor choosing DeKalb for the Fourth, over Chicago or Springfield! — who introduced “Illinois’s own Michael Satariano.”