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.
Reading was a love they had in common, though Patsy Ann preferred the classics—Emily Brontë, Jane Austen, and Charles Dickens among her favorites—while Michael’s tastes were terribly plebeian, running to pulp magazines and comic books. He had a large collection of Big Little Books, tiny square, fat books about comic strip characters and movie cowboys.
Back in high school, she had once teased him for buying a stack of the things at Woolworth’s—Tarzan, the Lone Ranger, the Phantom, Dick Tracy.
“Aren’t you a little old for Tom Mix?” she’d asked.
They were sitting at the counter sipping nickel Cokes after school, and he was paying no attention to her, flipping through the pulp pages between the garish covers.
Still paging through, he said, “My brother and I used to read these.”
“What brother?”
His eyes tensed; his voice took on an evasive quality. “I had a brother before we moved here.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died.”
“Oh, I…I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes thawed; his smile was warm, too. “It’s not your fault I’m a case of arrested development.”
You never knew what was important to a person—Michael had taught her that. He never again mentioned this mysterious brother, and yet she always remembered the controlled passion in Mike’s voice as he’d spoken about this lost child.
Funny thing—most everyone thought Mike was quiet, even stoic. That was part of what had attracted her in the first place—the mysterious brooding reserve that seemed to mask a reservoir of secrets, of experiences he chose not to share.
But they did talk, Patsy Ann and Mike. In the right mood, he would tell her what he thought—about teachers, about fellow students, about politics and even world affairs. Sometimes they talked about a future together…particularly in the afterglow of backseat lovemaking. (Prom night had been the first time.)
Much as she liked to escape to other ages and places through literature, Patsy Ann savored the notion of a simple life here in the Middle West with Michael, where they could both work and, when the time came, raise a family. Neither of them had adventurous yearnings or high-flown ambitions—just the hope of being part of a loving family in secure surroundings.
And in a small town like DeKalb, that hope was realized, every day. For one thing, the kind of prejudices you ran into in a big city like Chicago just weren’t present; even the three colored families in town were treated fine. That Michael was Italian didn’t seem to bother anybody—or anyway hadn’t since that time in seventh grade when the school bully called Mike a wop and Mike cleaned his clock.
Come to think of it, that was the day Patsy Ann knew she loved Michael Satariano, although they didn’t start going together till high school, sophomore year. Mike was a star short stop on the DTHS baseball team and quarterback on the football team, all-conference in both instances. Patsy Ann was leader of the cheerleading squad and secretary of the student body, so a romance between her and the school’s star athlete seemed star-crossed.
Even her parents didn’t mind—Mike was a good Catholic boy; so what if he wasn’t Irish? When they kept dating after high school, she and Mike had been sat down by her father, who let them both know that there would always be a place for Mike at the dealership, if the boy chose not to follow his folks into their restaurant business.
College offers had come along—several small schools offered sports scholarships, and Mike’s grades were good—but Patsy Ann’s boyfriend had just kept working with his folks at their restaurant, helping out, learning the trade. Patsy Ann had enrolled at Northern, and she and her “guy” had spoken often about the future—how she would get a job teaching high school lit somewhere in the area and he’d take over his family business.
After driving around till dusk, the couple wound up back at the park, where a dance band consisting of Northern music majors played in the bandshell, the folding chairs gone to make room for dancing. The clear sky glittered with stars, and an art moderne–slice of moon made the heavens seem more like the faux-variety you danced beneath in a ballroom.
The other couples were in their teens and twenties, with a few older married folks joining in, on the slow tunes. Michael demurred at jitterbugging, and was amusingly horrified by “The Beer Barrel Polka” and everything it wrought among the dancers. But he seemed happy to hold his girl in his arms for “The Very Thought of You.”
They did not stay for the fireworks, preferring to make their own by driving into the country to one of their favorite parking places, a little access inlet to a cornfield, whose tall stalks were brushed ivory in the moonlight, waving lazily in the evening breeze. They necked and petted in the front seat, but it wasn’t long before they crawled unceremoniously in back.
The sundress’s top gathered at her waist, the dress hiked up, her panties off but the sexy little wedgies on, Patsy Ann lay back, watching as Michael withdrew his wallet and found the little square packet.
“So what if I get pregnant?” she asked.
He thought about it, then, gently, said, “No. We’ve always been careful. We’ll be careful tonight.”
Other than that small moment of reality, the lovemaking was wonderfully dream-like; he was always so tender with her, and yet commanding. At first he just looked down at her pale flesh in the moonlight and said she looked beautiful; then he began to kiss her breasts, and was still doing that when he entered her. They came to climax quickly, together, in shudders that looked like pain but weren’t.
They cuddled in the backseat in their various states of disarray, the sundress bunched at her waist, his trousers and underwear clumped down around his left ankle like a big bulky bandage. They had fallen asleep when sharp cracks woke them both—Michael sat up straight, reacting as if to gunshots.
Through the front window, blossoming just above the cornfield, they could see the fireworks going on at the park right now. They exchanged grins and resumed a cuddly position and enjoyed what they could see of it—not every attempt rose high enough.
Still, they got a kick out of what they did see: a shower of silver here…bursting rockets there…endless sprays and arrays of red and white and blue sparks…
Finally they got their clothes back on—though all the smoothing out in the world wouldn’t hide what the sundress had been through—and Patsy Ann had Mike take the wheel. He said little as they drove back into town; he appeared distracted.
For what seemed like forever, but was really just four silent minutes, they sat in front of her house, a two-story Dutch colonial on South Third, a few blocks from the park.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, finally.
“No. Everything’s right. Perfect.”
But there was something in his tone…
She thought perhaps she understood. “It’s difficult for you, isn’t it? Just picking up where you left off.”
He grunted a little laugh, gave her the half-smile. “
You’ve always been smarter than me. Not that that’s anything to brag about.”
She saw through the lightness and said, “You can’t do anything about it, Mike—your friends in the Philippines. You know MacArthur will go back for them, when he can.”
“Dugout Doug,” Mike said softly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Michael, there are things you can do for the war effort, if you want to.”
“Giving speeches?”
“No! I’m sure there must be other things. And—”
“Patricia Ann—it’s not just that I’m not over there, doing my share. Not just that I…escaped from Bataan, tail tucked between my legs…”
“Mike…”
“It’s that this life…don’t misunderstand, tonight was wonderful, like turning a few pages and having years just drop away…but I don’t know that I can…I don’t know that I…”
In the moonlight, his eyes looked moist.
“Michael. What’s wrong? What is it?”
He shrugged and something gruff came into his voice, a little forced, she thought. “Baby, things happened over there. You waited for me, but I didn’t wait for you. I was with ten, eleven prostitutes…Filipino girls mostly, plus a couple of nurses.”
She recoiled. “Why are you telling me that? You didn’t have to tell me that.”
He locked onto her eyes; his expression was hard but not unkind. “You need to know these things, so that you can understand that I’ve changed. I killed hundreds of Japs, Patsy Ann. Hundreds.”
“They’re the enemy.”
“Right. And I was side by side with Filipino Scouts who used to be our enemy, too. I’m not sorry I did it—it needed doing. A soldier does his duty…That’s what soldiers do, kill other soldiers.”
“Right…”
“But they were still people, Patsy Ann. And I killed them…You know the first thing I did when they let me out of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital?”
“No.”
“I took confession. I sought absolution for killing these people, only…I didn’t even know how many I killed. How many Hail Marys, do you suppose, for every fifty Japs?”
“Michael…it’s wartime…”
His eyes widened, and the one that wasn’t glass rolled. “That’s right!…but not here in this Saturday Evening Post cover, come alive. When I came here, what, ten years ago? I found this sheltered little world comforting. I…I had some experiences you don’t know about, ’fore I came here, when I was a kid.”
“You can tell me.”
“No I can’t. What I can tell you is, I lived here for ten years and I pretended that I was somebody I wasn’t. I pretended that those things never happened to me. That I was a normal kid, like you and your sister Betty and my pals Bobby and Jimmy and everybody else in this jerkwater town.”
“You don’t have to be cruel.”
“I don’t mean to be. But on Bataan, something happened: I sort of…woke up. Remembered who I was. And then today, tonight…I remembered something else.”
“What?”
His hands were on the steering wheel—as tight as if he were strangling someone. “I remembered that you can live in a town like this, and think you’re safe. And you’re not. Everything can get taken away from you, in an instant.”
“You’re scaring me, Michael.”
“I mean to. I still love you, Patsy Ann. But you need to know that I’m…having a little trouble. Sorting some things out.”
She touched his arm, tentatively. “That’s okay…I don’t care about those other women…”
He laughed harshly. “I tell you I slept with a dozen whores, and that I killed hundreds of men, and it’s the whores you forgive me for?”
She withdrew her hand. “Michael! Please! Stop…”
Again, the hard but not exactly cruel expression locked onto her. “Patsy Ann, if you love me, you’ll stay away from me. And because I love you, I will stay away from you.”
“Stay away…?”
“Not forever. Maybe just a few days. Maybe a few months. But I need time. Time to work this out.”
“I’ll help you work it out! Please let me—”
“No. You can’t help me with this. Do you believe I love you? That I still love you, and have since sophomore year?”
She leaned near him, almost close enough for them to kiss. “Of course I do. And you know that I love you, and that together we can face anything. If only we trust each other…”
“Then trust me—trust me that right now, at this moment, we are not right for each other.”
She began to cry; and the worst part was, he did not take her into his arms.
“Someday, maybe,” Michael said, raising his hand as if to brush away her tears, but stopping short. “Only, right now I’m not sure I’m fit company for any man…let alone, woman.”
And he got out of the car and walked away.
She clambered out onto the sidewalk, and the prettiest girl in town just stood there with tears smearing her makeup and snot glistening on her upper lip, and she cried, “Goddamn you, Michael Satariano! Goddamn you!”
But if he heard, he gave no indication, just walking down the tree-shaded sidewalk, until his silhouette blended with the dark.
TWO
For as many times as Michael had accompanied Papa Satariano to Chicago, the Loop remained intimidating in its size and bustle and sprawl. Of course, to the Satarianos, Chicago meant the Near West Side of the Randolph Street Market and Little Italy, where twice a week Papa S. could buy wholesale his vegetables, fruit, virgin olive oil, spices, fish, sausages, ricotta, Parmesan, Romano and Provolone cheeses, and other supplies.
Despite the relative nearness of DeKalb, Michael had only been to Chicago a handful of times otherwise—a high school field trip to the Art Institute, and occasionally taking Patsy Ann to the theater or on some other special date.
Going down State Street the other day, seated on the back of a Cadillac convertible, waving at the cheering crowds, well-wishers surging toward him only to be held back by police, people hanging out of windows gesturing frantically as a snowfall of torn paper…from ticker tape and old phone books…cascaded down, that hadn’t seemed like Chicago. More like some bizarre dream, or nightmare…
Now, alone in the family’s 1936 blue Buick business coupe, Michael felt small as the great masonry buildings reflected off his windshield, magnificent structures ranging from would-be Greek temples to starkly functional modern tombstones. For a boy whose adolescence had mostly been spent in a small town, the crowded rectangle of the Loop—defined by the elevated tracks—seemed a cacophony of traffic roar and intermittent train thunder, a towering world of thronged sidewalks, mammoth department stores, and giant movie palaces.
The imprint of the war on the city made itself evident from buy bonds posters and service flags in storefront windows to horse-drawn wagons that mingled uncomfortably with autos, slowing traffic and providing the streets with an earthy sort of litter. The vehicles didn’t have the alphabet of ration stickers Michael had seen on the East Coast, but that would come soon enough. Women on the sidewalks—the city’s fabled wind exposing legs sans silk stockings—outnumbered men, at least those roughly in Michael’s age group, who when you did see them were often in uniform.
Michael’s destination was one of Chicago’s most impressive monuments to itself: the Federal Building. On Dearborn between Adams and Jackson, extending to Clark, the massive turn-of-the-century structure—an ornate cross-shaped edifice with a classical dome—served as the Midwestern administrative center of the US government.
Michael was in uniform, because he had been summoned to the Federal Building at the request of Captain McRae, the army public relations officer. Perhaps McRae had changed his mind about switching Michael’s military status to inactive duty; that was fine with Michael, as long as he was given something constructive to do—he had no intention of putting up with any more of this PR baloney. He was a soldier, not a flack.
He performed a minor miracle by finding a parking place on the street and headed inside. If Michael had felt small before, walking across the three-hundred-foot-high octagonal rotunda, his footsteps echoing like tiny ineffectual gunshots, made him feel infinitesimal. An eyeblink ago he’d been in a steamy jungle; now he was surrounded by polished granite, white and sienna marble, mosaics and gilded bronze.
As imposing as this rotunda had been, the federal facilities themselves proved to be a utilitarian cluster of offices, hearing rooms, and conference chambers. Michael checked the slip of paper on which he’d written his captain’s instructions, found the corresponding number on pebbled glass, and knocked.
“Come in!” a mellow male voice called.
Beyond the door, Michael found himself in a small one-room office facing a scarred wooden desk, behind which a man of perhaps forty sat in a swivel chair that was the cubbyhole’s most lavish touch. Filing cabinets hugged the left wall, and stacks of white cardboard boxes did the same at the right, stopping at a window whose whirring fan was aided by an afternoon that was fairly cool to begin with.
In one corner, right of the door, stood a hat tree on which a trenchcoat, dark gray fedora, and lighter gray suitcoat were neatly hung; in the other corner, a water cooler burbled. A single wooden chair faced the desk, waiting for Michael.
It was as if the young soldier had entered the office of the guidance counselor at DeKalb Township High.
A six-footer with alert gray eyes and a ready smile, Michael’s host—in a white short-sleeve shirt with a copper-colored tie—rose and extended across the desk a hand, which Michael shook, the grip firm but not overdoing it. The man’s boyishly handsome face—spade-shaped, faintly freckled—seemed just a trifle puffy. Overwork, Michael wondered, or maybe this was a drinking man?
Possibly both.
Michael had noticed this quietly affable fellow on the periphery of the events in Chicago a few days ago, when the mayor and various politicians and dignitaries had been making their Medal of Honor fuss in front of public and press. Just another vaguely official presence in a fedora and crisp suit and tie, the man had spoken in an intimate, whispering way with both Captain McRae and Governor Green.
Road to Purgatory Page 4