Road to Purgatory Chapter One Patsy Ann O'Hara unquestionably the prettiest coed on the Northern State Teachers' College campus, did not have a date for the Fourth of July. Apple-cheeked, strawberry blonde, her heart-shaped face blessed with Shirley Temple dimples, a beauty mark near her full lips, her big long-lashed dark blue eyes accented by full dark (cautiously plucked) eyebrows, her five-foot-five figure one that Lana Turner would find familiar, Patsy Ann had been a stunning beauty for so many years, she never thought about it really, other than to carefully maintain this gift from God. The former Homecoming Queen of DeKalb Township High (class of '38) considered herself more conscientious than vain -- meticulous about her grooming, maintaining an exercise regimen, avoiding excess sweets and too much sun, her selection of clothing as exacting as a five-star chef choosing just the right ingredients for a gourmet meal (before shortages, anyway). Today she had selected an appropriately patriotic red-andwhite- checked cotton sundress, its ruffled trim at both bodice and skirt accentuating her just-full-enough bosom and her Grable-esque gams, further set off by red-white-and-blue opentoed wedge-heeled sandals. The outfit perhaps seemed a trifle young-she was, after all, twenty-one ... ... but she wanted to look like a high school girl today, or at least invoke one, even if doing so risked occasional askance glances or even envious ridicule from females who never had looked this good, not even in high school. Anyway, the men would like it ... though she only cared about the reaction of one specific man sure to be at the festivities today ... None of the panting males at Northern State Teachers' College had even bothered to ask Patsy Ann out for the Fourth. This had nothing to do with a shortage of men -- fully half the enrollment was male, ranging from 4-F's to guys waiting for Uncle Sam's inevitable "greetings," as well as a number who'd received deferments. They had long since stopped trying, knowing she was "taken." The first several years at Northern, she'd been dating her high school boyfriend; and ever since her guy had joined the army and gone off to fight in the Philippines, Patsy Ann had been steadfastly true, a college woman wearing the high-school class ring of her overseas beau. Frustrated as some of the guys at Northern might be, they admired her for this loyalty -- so did even the cattiest females on campus. 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, D.C. 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 D.C. 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 schoolgirl, heart beating like a triphammer, she cherished the sound of his voice. Had she done the right thing, she wondered, not going in to 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) ... Road to Purgatory . Copyright © by Max Collins. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Road to Purgatory by Max Allan Collins All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
