Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

“When are you going to go?”

“Soon as I can. Next week, maybe. On the Greyhound.”

She started squeezing the lemons with grim determination.

“Wow,” Artie said in the low, conspiratorial tone that Shirley was using. “This is really something!”

“Yes,” she said. “Finally.”

Artie stayed home on Saturday night instead of going to Ben Vickman’s party. He knew darn well the whole “party,” the records and dancing and Cokes and potato chips were just an excuse for playing spin-the-milk-bottle, and he sure didn’t want to spend the evening watching Fishy Mitchelman smooch it up with Caroline Spingarn. Besides that, the kids were still kidding him about what happened at Caroline’s party. When bigmouth Vickman invited Artie he said, “You can come if you don’t tip anyone over—including yourself!” Everyone got a big yuk out of it, and at recess the guys grabbed each other when they saw Artie coming and pretended to “dip,” making high-pitched screams that were supposed to be an imitation of Marilyn Pettigrew when she was felled by Artie’s over-zealous embrace.

Artie told Vickman he was busy studying for a merit badge in Botany.

He told himself he had too many serious things on his mind, what with worrying about what was going to happen with Shirley, Foltz, Roy, and the War, to mess around with seventh grade social life.

He told his folks he had a crick in his back and just wanted to lie on the davenport and read through Mom’s new magazines.

Mom and Dad had the radio tuned to “The National Barn Dance,” and they were hopping and twirling around to the music of the “Barn Dance” regulars, Lulu Belle and Scotty, Arkie the Arkansas Woodchopper, and the Hoosier Hotshots. Mom and Dad were real giggly because it was Saturday night and they were having their Pabst Blue Ribbons along with a big bowl of popcorn. It used to make Artie feel kind of funny that his folks got a little bit tipsy on beer most Saturday nights, but then he saw this ad in a magazine where the Brewing Industry Foundation explained that “A cool, refreshing glass of beer—a moment of relaxation—in trying times like these, they too help to keep morale up,” and he realized it was all right. It sure was better than the nights when they sat around after supper looking glum and worrying about Roy.

Artie was only skimming through the Ladies’ Home Journal while his mind kept jumping back to wondering how the heck he could help Shirley convince her mother it was okay for nice girls to work in a War Plant. He knew she was bound and determined to do it anyway, but ‘she’d feel a lot better if she got her mother to approve, so she wouldn’t just have to sneak out and hop the Greyhound.

He stopped flipping pages when he came to this ad that showed a nice girl who was doing exactly what Shirley wanted to do. The ad, for Pond’s hand lotion, told the story of “Hilda,” who said: “Dick enlisted two months before Pearl Harbor—I wanted to be doing something necessary, too, so I found my job helping to build planes. I get up at 4 A.M. and don’t get back home till 4 P.M. It seemed outlandish at first, but now I like it. I do have to watch out for my complexion, though …”

Artie figured Mrs. Colby might be impressed that “Hilda” was still worrying about her complexion, which meant she was being ladylike even though she worked in a factory.

Artie ripped the page from the magazine, and Mom turned around to look.

“Hey! You tearing up my new Journal? ”

“Must be a pinup,” Dad said.

“Not in the Journal ,” Mom said.

“Come on, it’s just an old ad,” Artie said, folding it quickly and sticking it in his pocket so he wouldn’t have to explain anything.

Mom came toward him, holding out her hand.

“The ads have stories on the back of them sometimes, and I haven’t read this month’s stories yet.”

“There wasn’t any story on it,” Artie said.

“Then let me see.”

“I swear.”

Dad took a swig from his glass of beer and gave Artie a wink.

“Some of those gals in the ads now, they got gams as good as Grable.”

“Aw, come on,” Artie said, feeling his face get hot.

He hated when his Dad talked about gals and gams and things to do with sex, especially when he winked.

Mom was still holding her hand out.

“Artie, I want to see what you tore out.”

“I need it. For school.”

“You can have it back as soon as I look at it.”

“Novschmovzkapop,” Artie said disgustedly, taking the folded page from his pocket and handing it over.

“No language, son,” Dad said.

“That’s from the funny papers, Dad. The guy who’s always saying ‘Novschmovzkapop.’ It’s the strip where the little girl holds the hanky up to her kid brother’s nose and says, ‘Now blow.’”

Dad took a swig of beer and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Carry me back to ole Virginny,” he said.

Mom had unfolded the page and was looking it over, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.

“‘Dick enlisted two months before Pearl Harbor’?” she read out loud.

“It’s just a crummy ad,” Artie said, reaching to take the page back.

“Ad for what?” Dad asked, and came to look.

“Oh, brother,” Artie sighed. “I guess it’s a federal case now.”

“‘… so I found my job helping to build planes,’” Mom read.

Dad looked over her shoulder and continued, saying “‘I get up at four A.M. and don’t get back home till four P.M.’ Who is this, ‘Rosie the Riveter’?”

“‘… It seemed outlandish at first, but now I like it …’” Mom went on.

Dad grabbed the page away and said in a high voice, imitating a girl, “‘I do have to watch out for my complexion, though.’”

Mom grabbed the page back.

“Hey, you’re messing it up!” Artie said.

“What’s this got to do with school?” Mom asked.

“Lemme have it. Please?”

“I will if you tell me what it’s for.”

“Okay,” Artie said. “It’s for Shirley.”

Dad put down his glass of beer and Mom turned off “The National Barn Dance” and came and sat down by Artie next to the davenport.

“Shirley wants to do what the lady in the ad is doing,” Artie explained. “Work in a War Plant, making airplanes. So I thought I’d show it to her. That’s all.”

“All what?” Mom asked.

“All there is to it.”

His mother kind of looked at him sideways, like maybe there was more, which of course there was. Artie had to be real careful not to give away the part about Shirley wanting to get away from 4-F Foltz, and he told his brain to be on guard . He figured he wasn’t lying, he was telling the actual truth, but just leaving out the part that would ruin Shirley’s life if anyone else knew about it.

“Where?” Mom asked.

“What?”

“Where would she work in a War Plant?”

“Wherever they have one. Donna Modjeski is working in one in Indianapolis, where they make planes.”

“It’s a pretty far piece to Indianapolis,” Dad said.

“Anyway, her mother doesn’t want her to,” Artie said. “That’s the whole story.”

He was proud of his craftiness, telling the truth as far as it went, but leaving out the part about Foltz. He figured he could hold his own in an enemy interrogation, as long as they didn’t threaten to beat his privates to jelly, and only wanted to match wits.

His mother put her hand to her mouth, covering a grin.

“Marcelline Colby must be having kittens,” she said.

“Speaking of kittens, let’s not get catty,” his Dad said. “I doubt you’d be much more thrilled than Miz Colby if you had a daughter wanted to go off and work in a War Plant.”