Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Oh honey, don’t be late,

Wanna be there when

The band starts playin’—

Mom and Shirley and Artie joined in to belt out the last of the song, and Roy puckered his mouth like he was whistling along with them, but no sound came out.

“Your folks could just drop me off, Roy,” Shirley said, “if you’d like to be home alone for a while, with just your family. I understand.”

Roy turned and looked at her.

“What?”

“Maybe you’d just like to rest for a while.”

Roy took his left hand off the top of the cane, and held Shirley’s hand with it.

“Shirley Colby,” he said.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and no one said any more as the car rumbled on to the Garbers’.

There was roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed onions and stewed tomatoes, cornbread and biscuits, rhubarb and applesauce, and Mom was warning everyone to save room for dessert. Artie was afraid Roy might just pick at his food, the way he seemed so quiet and far away, but he really chowed down, taking seconds and thirds and almost gulping, and everyone seemed relieved by his hearty appetite, as if it was a sign he was really all right, and the others all pitched in and did the talking for him, laughing and chattering to beat the band, so there weren’t any empty spaces.

“Mince pie and apple pie for dessert,” Mom announced.

Roy looked up from his plate, staring at Mom with a little quizzical turn to his mouth.

“Mince?” he said.

“You want a piece of both, or just mince?” Mom asked.

“I forgot about mince,” Roy said.

“Your mother’s is the best there is,” Dad said.

“ Mince ,” Roy said again, like it was a foreign word he was learning.

“Whipped cream on it?” Mom asked.

“Last year I had coconut,” Roy said.

“They had coconut pie over there?” Mom asked.

“No. A real coconut. Off a tree.”

“Just imagine!” Shirley said, real perky.

“You’ve surely seen the world, son,” Dad said.

Roy wiped his napkin over his mouth, slowly, and set it down, folding and smoothing it on the table.

“I’ve seen—” he said, and everyone stopped eating, waiting for him to say what it was. But he just sat there, staring at the napkin. His hands began to tremble, and he put them in his lap.

“Coffee?” Mom asked.

Roy gazed at the napkin, and spoke in a kind of chant.

“I—have— seen .”

And he burst out crying, bawling like a baby, shaking and sobbing right there at the table, the tears streaming down his cheeks onto his plate, and he made no effort to stop or even wipe the tears. No one got up to rush over and try to comfort him; it didn’t seem right somehow, since none of them had seen . They all just sat at their places and bowed their heads.

For the first couple days he was home, it seemed like Roy was haunting the house. In his old high school clothes he looked even more the stranger, as if the dark veteran Corporal of the Marines who got off the train was trying to camouflage his years and his death-defying experience by wearing the casual costumes of youth. He walked noiselessly, seeming to float from one room to another, his dark face wreathed in the smoke of continual cigarettes.

Artie had to shoo away kids who came to gawk at the house, hoping to get a glimpse of the battle-weary veteran. He even had to give the brush-off to his own buddies, knowing Roy didn’t feel like meeting some kid and shooting the shit with him, answering dumb questions about the War. Ben Vickman had the nerve to turn up, acting like he was Artie’s blood brother or something, but Artie just gave him the brush-off. With Warren Tutlow it was harder; he came over to bring this terrific serving tray he had made in Shop especially for Roy. It was plywood, with a map of the South Pacific shellacked on it, showing the islands Roy had fought on outlined in red, white, and blue. Artie explained to Tutlow that Roy was trying to get his mind off the War, he thought, but he’d take it in and give it to him when the time was riper. Tutlow nodded solemnly, understanding the whole thing like a real friend.

Mom let in Iva Tully and some of the grown-up neighbors who came bringing pies and cakes, brownies and Toll House cookies, baked beans and cornbread, in case Roy was hungry for any of it. Roy was always polite, and sat there eating some of whatever anyone brought right away, but he didn’t say much except “thank you,” and ate all the stuff like it was the same thing, like he didn’t really taste any of it. When the person who had brought the food left, Roy would stop eating and take what was left out to the kitchen.

When Artie came home from school on the third day Roy was back, there was music, stuff about kissing once and kissing twice and how it was a long time since they were kissing.

Roy and Shirley were dancing in the living room. You knew it was “dancing” because the record was playing, otherwise it just would have looked like a guy and a girl were standing there hugging each other, moving their feet about a millionth of an inch every once in a while. Artie didn’t want to break up the clinch by saying anything, so he went straight back to the kitchen to pick around in the surplus food. Mom was there, bustling around in her going-out dress and shoes.

“Don’t take your coat off,” she said. “We’re leaving in a sec.”

“Where?”

“The Moose Lodge Catfish Dinner and Bingo for Bonds night.”

“That’s in Oakley Central.”

“That’s where we’re going.”

“All of us?”

“You, me, and Dad.”

“What about Roy and Shirley?”

“Shirley brought over some records. They’re dancing.”

“I saw.”

“Well. Let’s shake a leg now. We’re going to walk downtown and pick up Dad.”

“Sure.”

Artie knew better than to ask any questions. He was glad Roy and Shirley would get to be alone, especially inside instead of the back seat of a car. Roy had taken the car and gone out with Shirley both the other nights he was home, but it hadn’t seemed to make him feel much better. Artie was dying to know what had happened, or hadn’t happened, and if it hadn’t, why. He wondered if Roy’s wounded leg made it hard or impossible for him to make out with a girl. Even worse, he worried that the change in Roy, the unspeakable things he had seen , somehow prevented him from getting sexed up anymore, or maybe made sex seem unimportant, something that belonged to civilian life and was blasted right out of your mind by the War. But if that was true, Roy surely wouldn’t be out in the living room clinching with Shirley in time to the music. Maybe it was something that took a little while to get back, like you have to get your circulation going again after you’ve been out in the cold a long time.

Mom grabbed her coat from the hall closet and swung it on as she stopped briefly by the door to the living room.

“Okay, kids, there’s enough in the kitchen to feed an army, so have a good time.”

Roy and Shirley broke out of their clinch, but each kept an arm around the other.

“Thanks,” Roy said.

“We’ll be fine,” Shirley said.

“And don’t worry if we’re late, these ‘Bingo for Bonds’ nights go on to all hours.”

“Heck, yes,” Artie said.

Mom grabbed his hand and pulled him along out of there, as the Andrews Sisters crooned, “you’ll never know just how much I miss you—”

“Bingo for Bonds Night” was actually over a little after nine, but Mom suggested instead of going straight home that they have dessert at Verna’s, this great little truck stop joint on Route Nine. They had already had bread pudding and brownies at the Catfish Dinner, but nobody mentioned that. It was a night for not mentioning things, especially what was on anyone’s mind.