Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

“Then how come he’s not in the Army?”

“Artie, I swear. Are you practicing up for the FBI?”

“All I asked was a simple question, like any good citizen would.”

They turned onto Main and Shirley stopped, threw down her cigarette on the sidewalk, and mashed it out with the toe of her loafer.

“For your information,” she said, “it just so happens that Clarence Foltz was wounded in Guadalcanal.”

Shirley started walking on, faster than ever now.

Artie had to take longer strides to even keep up with her.

“How come you didn’t say so? Did he know Roy?”

“There were thousands of boys on Guadalcanal. They didn’t all know each other.”

“Well, where was he wounded?”

“Aren’t you even listening? I told you, Guadalcanal .”

“I mean where in the body? Did he get it in the leg? The stomach?”

“How do I know?”

“Sounds like you know just about everything else about him. You sure must have talked to the guy a lot.”

“Of course I talk to him. We work together.”

Shirley started going even faster, so she was almost running now.

“Hey!” Artie said. “Where’s the fire?”

“I’m late!” Shirley said, and suddenly cut across the street.

Artie knew when he wasn’t wanted. He stopped, took off his cap, and scratched his head, watching Shirley make tracks for the Strand.

“Fish- ee ,” he said to himself.

“Highly suspicious,” said Warren Tutlow.

He was crawling out on the lower limb of the maple tree next to the Garbers’ garage, holding the basketball cradled in his right arm.

“That’s exactly what I thought myself,” Artie said, figuring “highly suspicious” was really the same thing as “fish- ee .”

Squinting through his glasses at the basketball hoop on the regulation white-painted wooden backboard nailed above the door of the Garbers’ garage, Tutlow gently lowered his right arm with the ball balanced in his hand. He was going to try a one-handed underhand shot from the limb of the maple tree, just like the hot-shot show-off he was sometimes. They were playing HORSE, so if Tutlow made the crazy shot, Artie would have to climb out on the limb of the maple tree and try and duplicate it, or get another letter against him. He was already behind, HOR to H, as Tutlow had made one ordinary free throw that Artie had missed, as well as one of his, stunt shots, an impossible two-handed backward fling while rolling down the driveway in Artie’s old wagon. Just as Tutlow was about to shoot, Artie screamed “Puget Sound!”

According to their own rules, it was fair for one guy to yell some weird-sounding name he might have learned in Geography or History class to try to crack up the shooter and make him miss.

“Swishum!” Tutlow yelled quickly as the ball was in the air, which was one of the words that was supposed to help make the shot go in and “swish” through the net.

But the ball hit the rim of the basket and bounced off harmlessly down the driveway.

“Tough luck, Keemosabee ,” Artie said as he ran to retrieve the ball.

Tutlow crawled backward on the limb of the maple and swung to the ground.

“If his name is Foltz—F-o-l-t-z—it’s probably German,” said Tutlow.

“That’s what I figured, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Oh, sure. ‘Foltz’ is as German as horseradish.”

Artie came dribbling the ball back up the driveway. “Horseradish is German?” he asked.

“Sure, they invented it,” Tutlow explained. “They eat it to make themselves meaner.”

“So maybe the Axis sent Foltz to infiltrate Birney when they lost their other agent,” Artie said.

“It’s exactly what they might do.”

“They probably figured Wu Sing Lee was too detectable, being yellow and all, so they wanted to try a white man.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Artie scratched his head, trying to figure out the sneaky strategy of the Axis at the same time as trying to figure out a new shot that he could make and Tutlow would find impossible to duplicate.

“The first thing to do,” said Tutlow, “is try to search his room at the Boardinghouse. You know Miss Winger?”

Artie stood on one leg and tried to bend over backward, seeing if he might have a chance for a one-legged, two-handed backward shot, but he couldn’t keep his balance.

“Heck, yes,” he said, straightening up again. “Miss Winger used to baby-sit for me.”

“Well, then, all you got to do is go over there and make up some excuse for going to Foltz’s room while he’s at work.”

“What excuse?” Artie asked.

He set the basketball on top of his head, wondering if he could run to the basket, toss up the ball a few feet and then bounce it in off his head like the Harlem Globetrotters did.

“Say you’re on a Treasure Hunt, and have to get something from the room of a new guy in town.”

“Too fishy.”

Artie gave up on the head shot and walked real casually across his front yard to the front porch steps, which were right on a straight line to the basket. He climbed to the top step and practiced aiming. Actually, he had practiced shooting from this position for the whole last week, but Tutlow would never know.

“You want me to sneak in and search his room while you attract Miss Winger’s attention?” Tutlow asked.

“No! I don’t want you setting any stink bombs in Miss Winger’s place.”

“Never said I would.”

“You and your chemistry set.”

“You going to take a shot, or can’t you think one up?”

“I can think up a shot, and a better excuse than you can, too,” Artie said. “This is one-handed, from the top step of the porch, without using the backboard.”

Artie took his stance, and just as he released the ball Tutlow yelled, “Horseradish!”

“Swishum!” Artie retorted, and the ball sailed cleanly through the net. It was a good sign: “Swishum” had overcome the German “Horseradish” hex, and Artie knew he was destined to trap the conniving Nazi spy who was posing as an Usher while he tried to sabotage the town of Birney.

“Have another oatmeal cookie,” Miss Winger said.

Artie nodded, and selected a big one.

“Don’t mind if I do. Boy, I tell you, Miss Winger, your oatmeal cookies still beat anything.”

Miss Winger gave him a pat on the knee, but it wasn’t sexy or anything, coming from Miss Winger. She was sort of like a kindly grandmother in a kid’s storybook, sparkly eyes behind rimless glasses, hair always up in a bun on top of her head, a high-collared gingham dress with a little velvet ribbon at the neck. She was plenty smart, though, and had actually been Artie’s favorite baby-sitter because of the neat stories she read him, like The Secret Garden , and the Dr. Doolittle books.

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you, Artie.”

“Well, I been busy with Scouts, and school, and work for the War Effort.”

“Isn’t it the truth? I’m glad you found time for a visit. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, just for old times’ sake. I got to thinking about you. Somebody mentioned the new Usher at the Strand was staying with you, and I got to wondering how you were doing.”

“Yes, Clarence Foltz took Mr. Veederman’s old room. You know Mr. Veederman got into the Coast Guard, at his age? He was thirty-seven years old.”

“Well, Henry Fonda was thirty-seven when he joined the Army. What’s he like?”

“Mr. Veederman? Why, he seemed to be your ordinary, fast-talking Vacuum Cleaner Salesman, but I guess beneath that smile there was quite a bit of pluck.”

“No, I meant Clarence Foltz, the new guy.”

“Oh, Clarence is a real gentleman. Very quiet and reserved. Spends most of the day in his room. He was wounded, you know, but he doesn’t like to talk about it.”