Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

“How come we don’t have Shirley over for supper sometime?”

Mom and Dad gave each other a look.

“We hardly even know the girl,” Mom said, which wasn’t like her at all.

“But you should! She’s Roy’s girl now!”

“If we’d had all of Roy’s girls here for supper,” Dad said, “we’d have fed half the state of Illinois.”

“But this is different!”

“Wartime doesn’t make everything different,” Mom said. “That’s the same custard pie, and you’ve hardly touched yours.”

“Roy never gave a girl his ID bracelet before.”

“Artie,” Dad said, “an ID bracelet is not a five-carat engagement ring.”

“But that’ll be next. You do this first.”

“Time will tell,” Mom said.

Artie pushed his pie away.

“Fish- ee , if you ask me,” he said.

Mom looked at Dad and said, “Joe?”

Dad sighed and put down his fork.

“All right, son. The fact is, we don’t want to be out of line.”

“That’s right,” Mom said. “The Colbys are—funny.”

“You mean snooty?”

“Don’t go putting words in our mouths,” Dad said.

“But Shirley isn’t that way at all,” Artie said. “She’s just real quiet, and serious.”

“I’m sure she’s a very fine girl,” Mom said.

Dad nodded.

“And we’ll probably get to know her better when Roy comes back from Boot Camp.”

Artie shrugged, then played his ace, acting as nonchalant as possible.

“Too bad we can’t have her before then so she could read us the long, terrific letters Roy wrote to her, telling how he’s doing at Boot Camp and all.”

Mom’s mouth fell open.

“ Letters? ” she asked.

Dad grunted.

“Roy writing a postcard would be like me writing Gone With the Wind .”

“Well, I guess Shirley inspires him. Like in the Coty ads?”

“What’s perfume got to do with it?” Dad asked.

“The Coty ads in the magazines now, where they show the guy in the Army, and the girl waiting for him, and it says ‘His duty to serve—hers to inspire.’”

Dad rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Oh, carry me home to die.”

“Please, Joe! I don’t want to hear that when boys are dying.”

“Sorry, Dot. Artie’s got me coming and going.”

“All I said was Shirley must be inspiring Roy, since he wrote her this long letter about how he is and what he’s doing and everything.”

“You win, Captain Midnight,” Mom said. “Does Shirley like chicken and dumplings?”

“I think it’s her favorite,” Artie said.

“For supper, Thursday night,”. Mom said.

“Oh, carry me—”

Dad stopped, and cleared his throat.

“Carry me back to ole Virginny,” he said instead of the other one.

It was what he would say now when things seemed crazy to him for the rest of the Duration.

Artie was pretty nervous walking Shirley home from cheerleader practice. He knew darn well she’d like to come to supper at Roy’s house, but he didn’t know for sure how she’d like bringing his letter along to read to the folks.

“You get any more letters from Roy?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure he doesn’t have any time. He must have stayed up all night to write the one he did. I read it over and over before I go to bed.”

“I guess it’s a real good one.”

Shirley got the kind of look on her face like she did that night after the movies when she and Roy seemed to be hypnotized.

“I never knew what was inside him before. Because of—well, the things he did, I thought he was shallow.”

“Oh, no, he’s real deep,” Artie said loyally.

Shirley looked at him with her hypnotized expression.

“Just think. You’re his brother.”

“Heck,” Artie said, like it was nothing, and grabbed hold of a tree branch and snapped it back.

“You must know more about him than anyone else in the world, except for your parents, of course.”

Artie thought maybe Beverly Lattimore knew some stuff about Roy that he and his folks didn’t know, but he wouldn’t have said that even if Japs put bamboo sticks under his fingernails and set them on fire.

“They’d like you to come have supper with us Thursday.”

Shirley stopped in her tracks.

“Are you sure? It was their idea?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. Mom’s even making chicken and dumplings.”

“Oh, I don’t want her to go to any trouble.”

“Heck, she wants to. After all, you’re almost part of the family now.”

“Is that what she said? Your mother?”

“Well, I don’t remember the exact words, but it’s what she meant, I could tell.”

Shirley gave him a bear hug.

“Oh, Artie!”

She let him go and stepped back, beaming at him.

“Can I bring anything?”

Artie looked down at his shoes.

“Yeah. I told ’em you would.”

“What? I’m not even a very good cook! What in the world did you tell them I’d bring? Nothing like a cake, I hope—I’m a flop when it comes to baking.”

Artie looked up at the sky, like he was trying to identify an enemy aircraft.

“I told ’em you’d bring your letter from Roy.”

“Artie Garbed!”

“Well, they haven’t gotten any, themselves.”

“That letter is highly personal!”

“Isn’t there any regular stuff in it? I mean, like about the food, or how he likes bayonet practice or something? You could just read a part like that.”

Shirley looked like a bee had stung her.

“Bayonet practice,” she said.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, without even singing “The White Cliffs of Dover.”

Shirley sat very erect at the table, eating her chicken and dumplings in tiny bites, looking beautiful in her blue cashmere sweater. The trouble was, everyone coughed more than they talked. It was like being in the infirmary.

“There’s this neat new song,” Artie burst out suddenly. “I don’t know all the words yet, but the first part goes like this: ‘We’re Going to Find a Fella Who is Yella, and Beat Him Red White and Blue …’”

“Not at the table, we’re not,” Mom said.

“Well, it’s patriotic,” Artie said.

Mr. Garber cleared his throat.

“There’s all kinds of patriotism,” he said. “I like mine on the quieter side.”

“You like Kate Smith,” said Artie. “She’s not so quiet.”

“You won’t catch her singing about beating people black and blue,” his mother said.

“Not black and blue—red, white, and blue,” said Artie.

“These dumplings are scrumptious,” Shirley Colby said.

“Please have more,” Mom said.

“Oh, no, thank you, I couldn’t take another bite, I’ve stuffed myself so.”

“I hope you have room for some rhubarb pie,” Mrs. Garber said.

“Well, just a little,” said Shirley. “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

“I bet ole Roy would like to be here now,” Artie said. “I bet he doesn’t get chicken and dumplings and rhubarb pie in the Marines.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Dad said. “He hasn’t got around to writing us yet.”

“I just hope he’s getting enough to keep him going,” Mom said.

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” said Shirley.

“Did he tell you that?” Mom asked eagerly.

“Well, not exactly,” said Shirley, patting her napkin at the corners of her mouth.

“Artie tells us you got a letter from Roy,” Mr. Garber said.

“Oh, yes! I brought it along.”

“How thoughtful!” Mom said.

“That was, really neat of you, Shirley,” said Artie.

Shirley gave him a dagger look as she bent down and picked up her purse from beside her on the floor. She took out a long envelope, and a fat sheaf of folded pages. There must have been six or seven pages in the letter, written by Roy! Artie’s parents leaned forward, like they were going to reach for the letter. Shirley held it close to her chest, tight, like she was afraid the pages might fly away.