Макс Коллинз: Road to Purgatory

Pasty Ann sat between her parents in the front row — folding chairs had been provided to supplement stone benches — and they, like everyone, stood and clapped and cheered. Professional-looking photographers were snapping photos of both Michael and the crowd — later Patsy Ann learned that the Trib and the Sun-Times had sent teams, but even more exciting, so had Life and Look . On the sidelines stood another soldier, an officer.

Michael finally raised a hand to silence the audience. His voice was firm, though not loud, and the microphone picked him up fine; anyway, you could have heard a pin drop.

First, Mike acknowledged his parents, who stood in the front row to warmly receive applause. Both of the elder Satarianos were portly, much shorter than their son; in truth, Patsy Ann had never seen any resemblance between her boy friend and his balding, white-mustached, bulbous-nosed father Pasquale and the sweet but barrel-shaped and downright homely Sophia.

After all the build-up, what followed was a repeat of yesterday’s unmemorable “buy bonds” pitch. Mike’s unimpassioned rendition of what was obviously a speech prepared by others undercut whatever power it might have had. Still, the crowd did not seem to notice, hanging on every word as if hearing the Gettysburg Address.

Then after a conclusion that tepidly wished the crowd a happy Fourth, Michael’s voice rose, and Patsy sat up, recognizing a familiar edge.

“While you’re celebrating your independence,” Michael said, “setting off firecrackers, wolfing down a hot dog, tossing back a beer... please remember, and say a prayer for, our boys on Bataan.”

A thrill went through her: Michael meant these words; these were all his!

“The men I fought beside don’t enjoy freedom — this very moment they’re in Japanese prison camps. Don’t forget them! Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan!”

And the crowd was on its feet again, fists in the air, echoing him: “Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan! Back to Bataan!”

Patsy Ann noticed something peculiar: the army officer was not chanting along; he stood with arms folded, wearing a sour expression. A rather handsome man, about forty, in a business suit and fedora stood next to him — smiling.

Then Michael came down and shook thousands of hands and signed autographs, and Patsy Ann waited alone, seated on a stone bench, her parents wandering off to watch the baseball tourney.

Almost two hours had passed before the crowd dissipated. The governor and mayor were long gone; even the proud parents, Pasquale and Sophia Satariano, had moved along. Finally only Michael and the army officer remained, who was speaking to Mike in a curt, even harsh manner, though Patsy Ann did not hear what was said.

But she could understand Mike, as he told the officer, “I have my own ride.”

And then Michael Satariano, with his Medal of Honor and crisp khakis, walked right over to the stone bench where she sat. The army officer, shaking his head, stalked off.

Michael stood before her. Loomed over her. His face was expressionless; his real eye seemed as lifeless as the glass one in the scarred socket.

Hands folded in her lap, feeling very much a little girl suited to her silly sundress, Patsy Ann trembled, on the verge of tears. What terrible thing was Michael going to say?

“Captain’s mad at me,” Mike said, casually.

Then he sat down next to her on the bench, slumped forward a little; his good eye was next to her. It was as if they were still in high school and he’d caught up with her between classes.

“Why?” she managed.

He shrugged. “You heard that phony spiel they made me give. I’ve been doin’ that all up and down the East Coast. And every time, I mention the boys on Bataan. My forgotten comrades.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He turned to look at her, and the half-smile was so wonderfully familiar. “I’m not supposed to talk about them. We left them there to rot, and I’m not supposed to remind anybody about them... Yesterday, in Chicago?”

“I heard you on the radio.”

“Well, you didn’t hear all of it. The captain had warned them about me, and the broadcast engineer cut me off before I said my Bataan piece.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Newsreel guys got it, though, and the reporters. A couple of big magazines heard me today. We’ll see if they print it... Guys dying for freedom, over there, and the military muzzles somebody like me, for telling the truth.”

“That’s just awful!”

He shrugged. “Ah, it’s not so bad. Got its bright side.”

“How is that possible?”

Another half-smile. “I just got fired. I’m done. On inactive duty. No more bond rallies; no more rubber chicken.”

She laughed a little. “Public speaking, putting yourself on display... that must be torture for you.”

“Well, there’s torture and then there’s torture. But I would rather be back on Bataan.” Any hint of a smile disappeared. “I really would...”

“I... I kinda thought maybe you’d prefer being here, with me.”

“Of course.” But he wasn’t looking at her.

“...You feel guilty, don’t you?”

Mike turned to her, sharply — not angry, more like... alarmed.

She pressed on: “You’re the only American soldier who got off that island, except for General MacArthur and his brass hats, right? So you feel like you abandoned your ‘boys.’”

The faintest smile traced his lips; warmth filled the remaining brown eye. “You always were smart.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mike. You were brave... I read all about it. Everybody has. We need some heroes right about now.”

“Well, I don’t want to be one.”

“What do you want to be?”

His eyebrows arched. “I wanna be in the backseat of one your daddy’s Buicks... with you.”

Her lips pursed into a smile. “Well... you might get your wish. But a girl likes to be kissed, first.”

He did not respond to this cue.

Instead, he slumped again, his hands locked. He was staring at the grass. “You want a guy who threw you over to kiss you? Who didn’t even bother writing you back?”

“You didn’t throw me over for a girl. You threw me over for a war... My letters — you read them?”

“Every one.”

“That’s all I wanted. Just you to read them.”

He gazed at her, steadily, studying her. “You don’t have a guy?”

“I have a guy.”

Now he looked away. “...That’s fine. I told you not to wait.”

“ You , dumbo.”

He took that like a punch; then he laughed — no sound came out, but it was a laugh, all right.

And finally she was in his arms and he was kissing her, and the desperation in his kiss was wonderful, because it matched her own.

She drove them back to Pasquale’s Spaghetti House on North Third, across from the Egyptian Theater, where Sergeant York with Gary Cooper was billed with Maisie Gets Her Man . The restaurant was closed for the Fourth; the two floors of apartments above the place were the family’s living quarters — this was where Michael Satariano had been raised since the age of twelve.

He went up the back stairs while she waited in the car, and returned five minutes later in chinos and a tan crew-neck sport shirt — still vaguely military-looking. They drove around for a while, Patsy Ann staying behind the wheel — she gave him a tour of the modest Northern campus; Michael seemed interested in what classes she had and in which buildings.

When they drove past the modernistic limestone library, she told him she’d been working there part-time. He said he knew that from her letters. She wondered if he knew she’d been testing him.