Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Artie kicked his toe in the dirt.

“Okay,” he said, “I guess we should go ahead and see.”

Tutlow shook his head as he headed onto the path.

“For a minute there,” he whispered, “I thought you’d gone yellow in the belly.”

“Oh, go button your lip,” said Artie, following along reluctantly but dutifully, wondering how come he had this funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

They had lost sight of Foltz, but automatically figured he must still be following the trail, otherwise they’d have heard him if he suddenly dashed into the woods. The boys walked stealthily, keeping their eyes peeled for a glint of silver parachute silk.

The path was leading them straight to the clearing with the rock where Roy used to go to think about life, or lie on the ground beneath blankets with a beautiful girl and do the most wonderful thing in the world. Tutlow had bent to a crouch as he walked and Artie had done the same and now he felt a crick in his back and stopped a moment, straightened up, and looked around him. He blinked in the brightness, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses. The afternoon sun lit the trees and Artie felt caught and suspended in the eerie brightness, when suddenly the sound came, a song, from a tenor voice that was pure and high but not a girl’s, a voice that was only a stone’s toss away in the woods:

So come ye back, when summer’s in the mea-a-dow,

Or when the vall-ey’s hushed and white with snow—

Tutlow sprang erect, then crouched again and scuttled into the woods, throwing himself behind a large rock. Artie scooted after him, his breath coming hard, burrowing against the cold stone next to Tutlow.

It’s I’ll be there, in sunshine or in sha-a-dow,

Oh, Danny Boy, oh, Danny Boy, I love you sooooo.

Tutlow nudged his elbow into Artie’s ribs.

“It’s a signal!” he whispered. “He’s calling his accomplice with code!”

“Shhhhhh!” Artie hissed.

Another voice spoke now, softly.

“Oh, Clarence. That was wonderful.”

Artie froze.

Tutlow dug his fingers into Artie’s shoulder and blasted a whisper into his ear.

“ It’s a girl! ”

Artie lay there rigid and breathless, afraid to move or speak.

The spy’s accomplice was not just “a girl.”

It was Shirley Colby.

There had to be some mistake, or explanation.

Artie lifted his head, straining to hear what was said.

“… for so long, I didn’t know if I could do it anymore,” came the voice of Foltz.

“Mmmmm, but you did, you did, so beautifully,” Shirley said.

Her voice sounded far-off and dreamy, like it was lulled by some kind of dope.

That must be it. The crafty Nazi agent had doped up Shirley and lured her to the woods against her will.

“Beautifully for you, because you’re so beautiful,” Foltz said.

His voice was not clipped and military now like it was when he was ushering, it was soft and bleary. It almost sounded like he was doped! Maybe that was it. Maybe Shirley was playing a double agent’s game, pretending to be taken in by the spy and all the time slipping some kind of dope into his Cokes and luring him into the woods to crack the secret of the whole Nazi network of sabotage in America.

“With your beautiful talent for it, you should do it all the time,” said Shirley. “You were born to sing—and write, and paint, and all those beautiful things.”

A bitter, choked kind of laugh came from Foltz.

“I was born to be miserable,” he said.

“Stop saying that!”

Shirley’s voice sounded sharp and clear now, untainted by any trace of dope.

“I’m sorry,” said Foltz. “It’s how I feel.”

Just then Tutlow blasted another whisper right into Artie’s eardrum.

“I don’t get it ,” he said. “ What’s wrong with the guy? ”

“Shut up and listen!” Artie hissed back at him.

Shirley was speaking again—softly, gently.

“Clarence—if we did what you want to do—would it make you happy?”

“I should never have even asked you. I should be ashamed.”

“Stop talking that way. Did you bring what you need—to do it?”

“Yes,” Foltz said in a kind of choke, “I brought it.”

“Well, then,” Shirley said. “Go ahead. Do it.”

Tutlow grabbed Artie’s arm and squeezed so hard Artie had to bite his own lip to keep from yelling.

“ She told him to do it to her! ” Tutlow whisper-shrieked.

“Shut your dirty mind!” Artie said with a croak.

His own mind was a jumble. He couldn’t believe that the “it” Shirley just asked Foltz to do was really It . But what if it was? Should Artie try to save her from doing something she’d regret for the rest of her life? Would she thank him later for protecting her from the dreadful power of her own passion? Or would she hate him forever? And what about Roy? What would he want his loyal brother to do at a time like this?

Artie couldn’t move or think. It was like being caught in a bad dream.

“What kind did you get?” Shirley asked.

“Here—they said it was supposed to be the best.”

“Oh, yes—I’ve heard of this kind.”

“Shall I do it now?”

“Be gentle,” she said. “I know you will.”

Tutlow reached down and grabbed his own gonads, protectively.

“ Holy Horseradish! ” he gasped.

Artie lay frozen, trapped in the nightmare.

The whole woods were still now, not even a breeze stirring.

Foltz spoke again, in a low, excited voice that sounded like he was gargling Listerine.

“I dreamed of this, I dreamed of it,” Foltz said.

“And now you’re doing it,” Shirley said soothingly.

“You’re wonderful. Oh, God, you’re wonderful. No other girl would let me do this, I know.”

“There, there.”

“Is that too much?”

“No. It feels fine.”

“It’s not too cold?”

“No. The sun is warm.”

“Oh, God.”

“Mmmmm. Feels good.”

“A little higher?”

“If you want.”

“Oh, God. I’ll never forget this.”

“ They’re doing it ,” Tutlow gasped.

“ You don’t know what it is they’re doing ,” Artie said desperately.

“ It ain’t touch football ,” Tutlow said hoarsely.

Artie couldn’t stand it any longer.

“ Don’t move ,” he told Tutlow. “ I’m going to see .”

Artie crept forward, moving dreamlike over the moist brown earth that smelled headily of spring, till he came to a rise in the land. He crawled to the top and peered over.

The first thing he saw was that Shirley and Foltz had all their clothes on, thank the Good Lord.

They were not doing It , but they were sure doing something weird and unnatural. Shirley was sitting on the rock, her skirt lifted halfway up her thighs, and Foltz was on his knees in front of her. He was rubbing his hands slowly, tenderly, on one of her legs. He was rubbing something onto the leg, some cream or lotion from a jar. Where he had rubbed, the leg was darker.

Now Artie got what was happening. Foltz was applying “leg makeup” to Shirley’s legs. Artie knew all about how nylon stockings had got too expensive because of the War so companies invented leg makeup for women to wear instead of stockings. Not many women in Birney used it, but evidently lots of working girls in cities who had to wear stockings to offices every day had gone in for leg makeup for the Duration. So that’s what Foltz had “dreamed of”—putting leg makeup on a girl’s legs! And that’s what Shirley was talking about when she asked him “what kind” he had got, and said she had heard of that kind—there were different brands of the stuff, like “Legstick” and “Stocking Fizz.”