Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

This time he went to small towns where there weren’t gangs of servicemen coming on passes and leaves to have a great time, towns with no attractions, off the beaten path, towns that rolled up the sidewalks at ten o’clock when the movie was over, towns where nobody knew Clarence Foltz and would believe, for a while, that he really was a wounded veteran of Guadalcanal. When they started to quiz him too closely about the actual nature of the wound, or what it was really like on Guadalcanal, he’d leave in the night and move on.

When he fled like that from a little town called Loogootee, in Indiana, a John Deere salesman gave him a ride to Birney, Illinois. He went straight to the only movie house, the Strand, where he saw Five Graves to Cairo and asked for a job. The regular Usher was leaving the next week for the Army and Foltz took his place.

Then he met the beautiful, lonely girl who worked in the ticket booth, the only girl who didn’t make fun of him, who listened to him, who took long walks in the woods with him.

So here he was, and here he would stay.

Foltz had finished his pitiful supper, and he put the empty pot back on the hotplate.

“So go ahead and expose me,” he said. “I’m tired of running.”

Artie stood up from his pow-wow position, remembering the old Oriental saying, “He who laughs last, laughs best.”

“There’s one thing you’re forgetting, Foltz,” he said. “My brother.”

“Don’t worry, I know she loves him. I know she’ll marry him when he comes home. I don’t mind playing second fiddle.”

“But Roy would mind. He’d kill you.”

Foltz jerked the closet open and grabbed his Usher outfit off a hanger.

“If you’ll excuse me now, I have to ‘get into uniform.’”

He croaked his harsh laugh.

“Shirley just feels sorry for you,” Artie said.

The blotches on Foltz’s red face got brighter, but he didn’t say anything. He just yanked his moldy bathrobe off and started unbuttoning the grubby pajamas.

Artie got the hell out of there, not wanting to see the nude body of the pre-vert.

The only thing left to do was call the guy’s bluff. Expose him for what he was to the whole town, starting with Mr. Risley, the owner of the Strand.

First, though, it was only fair to warn Shirley.

Artie was determined that he wouldn’t let her talk him out of it. As much as he liked her, he knew that right now she was under the influence of being a girl and couldn’t help herself. Even though what he was going to do might make Shirley both sad and mad, he knew he was doing the best thing for her, as well as for Roy and America. He had thought the whole thing over for three days and nights, during which he tossed and turned and slept only fitfully, wakened by dreams of bombing raids and refugees. He was so tired in school he had to pinch himself to keep his eyes open. Before he went to Shirley’s he took a cold shower and made himself a hot cup of Ovaltine for strength.

Shirley came to the door herself, looking all keyed up.

“Just the person I wanted to see!” she said, and grabbed his arm, leading him right to the living room where Mrs. Colby sat with her fingers pressed to her temples like she was trying to think of the answer to the $64 Question on “Dr. I.Q.”

“You remember Donna Modjeski, don’t you, Artie? Tell Mother about her.”

“Donna Modjeski’s real neat,” Artie said. “She was a cheerleader.”

Mrs. Colby glared at Shirley.

“You are not ‘a Modjeski,’” she said. “You are ‘a Colby.’”

It sounded like she was talking about breeds of cows, like telling someone, “You are ‘a Holstein.’”

Shirley went on like she didn’t even hear it.

“Well, Artie, Donna Modjeski is working in a defense plant in Indianapolis. Building airplanes. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Sure! That’s really neat!”

Mrs. Colby kept concentrating.

“No daughter of mine,” she said, “is going to be a ‘Rosie the Riveter.’”

“No one mentioned riveting,” Shirley said. “I’m talking about wiring .”

Mrs. Colby squinted.

“Factory work is factory work,” she said.

“Listen to this!” Shirley said.

She grabbed a magazine off the couch that was folded to a certain page, and began to read.

“‘… the work is exacting and tedious, but women’s nimble fingers are adept at such jobs.’”

She held up the page of the magazine like it was evidence.

“That’s wiring they’re talking about!” she said.

Mrs. Colby sighed.

“Propaganda in Wartime is not only used by the enemy,” she said.

Shirley flung the magazine onto the couch.

“It’s not propaganda—it’s the truth! It’s also the truth that out of six hundred and thirty-two occupations essential to War Production; there are only fifty-seven of them that can’t be done by women.”

“There are some women who will do anything,” her mother said. “There always were and there always will be.”

“ Some women! Mother, there are half a million women working in War Jobs.”

“Heck, yes!” Artie said. “Miss Winger has this niece who works in a Navy Shipyard in Boston.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Colby said.

“Mother, you can’t just stick your head in the sand. Things are changing.”

“I bet Miss Winger’s niece is as nice as Miss Winger,” Artie said, “and that’s about as nice as you can get.”

“Times may change, but values remain the same,” Mrs. Colby said, ignoring Artie’s comeback. “Of course in Wartime, standards are lowered, and indeed there are women who are only too glad for an excuse to go around with dirty fingernails and no makeup.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Mother, don’t you even read the ads?”

“I am not in the habit of perusing the Employment Section.”

“I don’t mean those kind of ads. I mean the ones for soap and hand lotion, where the women in War Plants tell how they use Pond’s or Hind’s or something and stay looking nice to keep up their morale.”

Mrs. Colby stood up.

“I won’t hear any more of this nonsense. I’m going upstairs and lie down. And I don’t want you hiking off “somewhere with your little friend. I want you here when your father comes home.”

“We’ll just be in the kitchen,” Shirley said. “I want to make Artie some lemonade.”

Mrs. Colby walked out of the room like nobody else was even there.

Shirley led Artie to the kitchen and he leaned against the stove while she started slicing up lemons with brisk efficiency.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said in a low voice just above a whisper. “Out of Birney.”

“Because of Foltz, you mean?”

Shirley nodded.

“It’s going too far. I care for him. Love him, I guess. I can’t help it.”

“You mean you don’t love Roy anymore?”

“Of course I do! That’s why I want to get away from Clarence.”

“You mean you’re in love with two guys at the same time?”

“Of course not. I can’t help loving Clarence, but I’m not in love with him. “I’m in love with Roy. It’s not the same thing.”

“I can make Foltz leave town. I’m going to tell on him.”

“No! It’ll just make a terrible mess. Besides, I want to go to Indianapolis. I can live with Donna Modjeski and work in the War Plant. I’ve got to do something real or I’ll lose my mind, I know I will.”

“But your folks won’t let you.”

“If they won’t give me their permission, I’m going anyway. I’m free, white, and eighteen. I’ve made up my mind.”

“So what if he follows you? Foltz.”

“I won’t tell him where I’m going. I’ve made up my mind about that, too.”