Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

It was not just the uniform that made Roy look different, but the body inside it. It seemed like he’d been issued a whole new physique to go with the new outfit. His spine had been replaced by an iron crowbar, his chin filed and sharpened, his shoulders yanked back and broadened like some huge metal chains were pulling on them. Even his smile was different. Instead of curling up at the corners, it went across his face in a straight, military line.

His mother cried when she saw him.

His father puffed up, throwing his own shoulders back and standing straighter.

Artie saluted.

Shirley Colby fainted.

It was right at the train station, and several people screamed when Shirley swayed and started to fall but quick as a whip Roy caught her, lifted her in his arms as easily as picking up a rag doll, and carried her inside. Roy gently laid her down on a bench and waved away the gathering crowd.

“I’ll handle this,” he said, in his new, deeper voice of command and assurance.

Everyone backed away, respectfully.

“Will she be all right?” Artie’s mother asked in a whisper.

Artie cupped one hand over his mouth, and imitating the resonant voice of the great radio newscaster H.V. Kaltenborn, he spoke in his mother’s ear the thrilling new slogan that covered so many Wartime situations, including this one:

“‘The Marines have landed, and have the situation well in hand.’”

Back home in the afternoon Roy took off his uniform and got on his old, brown corduroys and black and red flannel shirt and white wool socks and saddle shoes, but still, he was changed. It was like a new person had put on the old clothes; it was not a scruffy high school kid who was wearing them, but a fighting man in disguise.

In front of his mirror with the bedroom door closed, Artie practiced looking like Roy. He had always wanted to look like Roy, ever since he could remember, and it got his goat when friends of his folks told him he looked like his Mom or Dad. “You’re the spittin’ image of your father,” his Dad’s pals would rumble heartily, while his Mom’s buddies would coo that “You’re your mother all over again.” He liked the way his Mom and Dad looked, but he didn’t want to look like either one of them. He wanted to look like his brother, and it made him mad that his own hair was so darn light, almost the color of straw, instead of nearly black like Roy’s. He figured having dark hair was manly, and blond was for kids and girls. He used Brylcreem on his hair like Roy did, but it only made it gummy and slick instead of darker. He wished he was thin like Roy, too, instead of a little bit chubby, and in front of the mirror he tried sucking in his cheeks to look gaunt but he couldn’t hold them that way for long. The one thing he really could imitate was the way Roy moved and walked, and he used to practice slouching and hanging loose, but now he threw his shoulders back and stood ramrod straight before the mirror, hoping to perfect a state of permanent “Attention!”

“Okay, troops, muster up!” Roy called before supper, holding a bag he’d brought back from Quantico, Virginia, that held presents for everyone. He gave his mother a gold and scarlet pillow with tassels that said on it “Quantico, Virginia, U.S.M.C.” and had the emblem of the Marine Corps; his Dad got a real regulation Marine fatigue cap for wearing at work; and Artie got an official shoulder patch of Roy’s own battalion! He wanted his mother to sew it right away over the heart of his best white sweat shirt, but she said it would have to wait till after supper.

“So what did you get Shirley Colby,” Artie asked, and for a split second Roy looked embarrassed and blushy, but then he suddenly let out his old Hermit Caveman’s laugh—“yee-hee-heeheh-heh-heh-whooooo!,” poked his finger in Artie’s gut and said, “That’s for me to know and you to find out!” just like he used to say, and right then he was like the old horsing-around high school guy he used to be, as if that guy was still inside him, hidden now by the U.S. Marine, and could pop out for a little while if he wanted to, like Superman changing back into Clark Kent the mild-mannered reporter when the occasion demanded.

Roy was asked to speak to the whole school at Auditorium the next day, and then he was all Marine again, somber and straight, his eyes dark and solemn and his mouth that thin military line. The Band played the Marine Hymn and everyone sang it like crazy, and then Mr. Good-leaf, resplendent in his bandleader outfit, came to the microphone to introduce Roy.

Ben Vickman reached across Caroline Spingarn to pinch Artie on the leg and whisper loudly, “Wonder if Old Man Goodleaf is gonna say your brother flunked Chemistry and English before he ran off to join up?”

Artie didn’t even lower himself to answer that; he just made a face like he’d smelled a skunk, and shook his head sadly at the jealous little twerp like he really was sorry for anyone so stupid. Even better, Caroline Spingarn, who had rosy cheeks and reddish blond hair that turned under like June Allyson’s, scooted away from where she was sitting on the floor so she was farther away from Ben Vickman and closer to Artie. She smelled wonderfully of Camay—“the Mild Beauty Soap.”

Actually, Artie was really nervous that Mr. Goodleaf might say something embarrassing about the old Roy who was wild and got into all kinds of trouble back in his other, old life in high school that seemed about a million years ago now.

“We are here today,” Mr. Goodleaf said into the microphone, “to hear from a young man we all know …”

Uh-oh , Artie thought, and crossed his fingers on both hands.

“… a young man,” Mr. Goodleaf went on, “who has just come through with flying colors the most rigorous physical and mental training of the world’s finest crack fighting outfit, the United States Marines.”

There were cheers and whistles and Artie yelled with relief, shaking his fists in the air.

Roy sat in his red and blue dress uniform on the auditorium stage beside Mr. Goodleaf like a statue in the park, immobile, stern, as if he didn’t hear the words or the cheers, that those things didn’t matter anyway. Artie bet that a Jap could have gone right up and put a samurai sword to his throat and Roy wouldn’t even have flinched. Or Beverly Lattimore could have done a striptease on the stage, flinging her bra right onto Roy’s lap, and not even his Adam’s apple would have bobbed in his throat.

“As we all know,” Mr. Goodleaf said, “our fine boys who will graduate this June are’ anxious to go into the Armed Forces as soon as they have their diplomas. One of our boys, in the sacred privacy of his own conscience that none has a right to question, decided he could not wait until passing that milestone, and chose to enlist immediately after the infamous sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Now, he is about to be the first of the many brave boys of Birney who will risk life and limb to defend us all from the forces of tyranny. Let’s give a hand to our own Roy Garber.”

The noise was bigger than if Roy had just scored the winning basket with one second on the clock in the final game of the State Tournament.

Mr. Goodleaf waved for silence, and the crowd managed to control itself.

“Before I ask Roy—that is—Private Garber—to say a few words to us, one of our own students has been inspired to write a verse that I think expresses a bit of what all of us feel. Would Warren Tutlow come up here, please?”

All eyes shifted and scanned the room, a murmur swept up from the crowd, and little Warren Tutlow stood up, pushing his thick glasses firmly back against his nose, and strode manfully to the stage. Artie was proud that old Tutlow had come through with one of his knockout poems just for Roy; he was a real friend and patriot.