Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Fishy came to the door with a bag of potato chips he was eating, which was probably his breakfast.

Trixie was lying on the couch wearing a pink nightgown and reading a movie magazine.

“Whatcha doin’?” Artie asked.

“Lookin’ for what’s cookin’,” Fishy said, and grabbed his coat.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” said Trixie, without looking up from her magazine.

Artie was glad to get out of the place. It smelled like boiled cabbage and perfume.

“We can’t mess around in town,” he said out of the side of his mouth as they crossed the railroad tracks. “I’m supposed to be up in the Devil’s Foothills with Roy, hunting for the Phantom Caveman. Actually, him and Wings Watson and Bo Bannerman went to Moline to see Bubbles LaMode, so I’m helping cover for ’em.”

“ Fish-ee! ”

When he said it, Fishy rolled his eyes around in his head like Barney Google. That was his trademark. So many things seemed strange, or “fishy” to him, and he said it so much and googled his eyes around that way, that everyone called him that, except for teachers, who called him Monroe Mitchelman, and thought he got his nickname because he liked to fish, which was really a laugh, since he’d never be able to sit still long enough to wait for a bite.

When they went by Old Man Bittleman’s black Buick, Fishy stopped, screwed off the silver radiator cap, tossed it up in the air, twinkling, caught it, and stuffed it in his pocket, then walked away whistling, right in broad daylight, like nothing had happened.

“Why’d you do that? ” Artie asked.

“If we wanna play broomstick hockey, that’ll be the puck.”

“Great idea!” Artie said, looking back over his shoulder to see if Old Man Bittleman was coming after them with a shotgun. He joined in whistling with Fishy, trying to look natural, like he hadn’t just been an accessory to a crime.

They found an old, stubby broom in the alley behind Main Street, and Fishy swiped a garbage can lid to use for the goalie to defend with, and went out to Skinner Creek for the game.

When Fishy got tired, Artie built a fire, and they sat by it singing the popular song “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” at the top of their lungs. Fishy said he had something that would make them even hotter than a flame in a heart.

Artie tried to look excited instead of scared.

Fishy slowly drew from the pocket of his pants a small, brownish booklet. Not a real book, or magazine, but a special kind of thing on rough paper that Artie immediately recognized as something called a “three-by-five.” It was called by its size, which was three inches high and five inches wide. Artie had only seen the outside of them before, and was not sure he wanted to see the inside.

Fishy opened it to the first page.

There was a cartoon drawing in black and white of Pop-eye the Sailor Man, and his skinny girl friend, Olive Oyl. In the regular comics in the Sunday paper Popeye smoked a pipe and had a tattoo on his arm and ate spinach to make himself strong. Olive was thin as a rail and had her hair in a bun and no chin but Popeye loved her anyway. Artie liked them, Popeye and Olive. They were funny and familiar, like friends.

Fishy turned the page, and his breath came faster, smelling of stale potato chips.

There was a picture of Popeye unbuttoning his pants, and Olive Oyl pulling her skirt up.

On the next page, Popeye pulled his thing out of his pants.

Fishy’s potato chip breath came heavier as he turned the pages, showing Popeye sticking his thing into Olive Oyl, who looked scared but seemed to like it at the same time, just the way real girls were supposed to, and Artie made himself pretend to be excited, saying “hubba-hubba-hubba” right along with Fishy, whose eyes were now tilted and glazed like a moron’s.

Fishy got up and went behind some bushes and came back pale and slack in the face, and Artie, who didn’t want to show he felt sickish, suggested they go to Damon’s Drugs and get some rainbow Cokes, he would even treat. It was still a couple of hours till Artie was supposed to meet Roy there, but he figured they could just hang around and look at the comic books.

They were sipping their rainbow Cokes, made from every kind of syrup at the fountain, and Fishy was tapping his hands on the table in time to “The Chattanooga Choo-Choo” playing on the radio.

Suddenly the song stopped and the radio crackled.

The voice of a man who sounded like a minister, deep and doomlike, said they were interrupting this program to report that the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor, the American Naval Base in the Pacific. The Japs had bombed American ships and the American Army Post without any warning, killing American sailors and soldiers.

The regular program resumed, and the song went on again, but Artie couldn’t think about ham or eggs being finer in Carolina or anywhere else. He felt dizzy, like someone had spun him around with his eyes closed. He blinked, and looked at Fishy.

“Fish- ee ,” Fishy said in a low voice, not even googling his eyes around.

Mr. Damon, the druggist, came out from behind the fountain and took off the white apron he wore, like maybe he was going to get a gun or a pitchfork and go join the fighting.

“This means war,” he said.

Artie stood up. His throat felt dry.

“Roy,” was all he could say.

He grabbed his coat and ran.

The streets were the same, as if nothing had happened. Artie thought maybe everyone would run outside, rally with their neighbors, and decide what to do. Then he realized lots of people might not have heard yet, they might not have had their radios on, so they still were enjoying the peace and quiet of Sunday afternoon without even knowing their country had just been attacked. He wondered if maybe he should yell out the news as he ran, like Paul Revere warning that “The British Are Coming,” but it didn’t seem the right thing to do without a horse. He cut across the Hixons’ front yard at the corner of Main and Sycamore and charged right through their scraggly hedge of bushes, figuring anything goes in Wartime. Farther down Sycamore, he saw the first sign of his country preparing. Old Man Syvertson, bundled up in his mackinaw and scarf and earmuffs, was hanging the American flag from his front porch. Artie touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his brow, giving the Cub Scout salute, as he passed.

“The Japs attacked Pearl Harbor!” Artie shouted when he burst into his house, but he realized before he was finished that his folks had heard the news.

Iva Tully, the widow who lived next door, was standing in the living room.

She had beat him to it.

As if that weren’t enough, she ran to Artie and hugged him, pressing his face against her stomach.

“Thank God he’s too young,” she said.

“Mrs. Tully just brought us a nice peach pie,” Mom said.

“Only half of one,” the widow said. “It was all I had in the house.”

Mrs. Tully always took pies and cakes to people in time of emergencies—funerals, weddings, illnesses, epidemics, and, evidently, Wars.

“Thanks,” Artie said, wriggling out of her woolly grip.

Mrs. Tully patted him on the head and sniffled.

Dad came up and took her by the elbow, gently, and led her to the door.

“We sure do want to thank you, Iva.”

He closed the door behind her and sighed.

“Old vulture.”

“Now, Joe,” Mom said. “She means well.”

“Listen,” Artie said, “does Roy have to go fight the Japs?”

“Where is he?” Dad asked.

Artie turned around as he took his coat off.

“Uh, he’ll be right along.”

“I didn’t hear the car,” Mom said.