Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Artie cleared his throat, making his voice go as deep as the “BO” ad on the radio.

“Well, I guess we’ll remember this day the rest of our lives,” he said.

“What? Why?”

Caroline blinked her eyes open and raised up on her elbows, looking surprised, like a horsefly had bit her.

“Caroline, this is V-J Day!”

“Oh,” she said, “I thought you were talking about you and me, in particular.”

She sank back onto the rock and closed her eyes again.

“Well, I was in a way, since here we are being alone together, you and me, on the day of Victory over Japan and the end of the Second World War, the biggest war in the whole history of mankind.”

“Mmmm,” she said.

She looked like she was falling asleep.

Artie checked the manly hairs on his chest and then crept over on his hands and knees and put his mouth down on Caroline’s.

She jumped.

“Artie!”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

“Giving you the V-J Day kiss you promised me back on V-E Day, that’s all.”

“I did? Promise you that?”

“Caroline, you turning into some kind of teaser or something?”

“Sticks and stones,” she said.

“Caroline, we’re not just kids anymore.”

“I’m certainly glad you’re aware of that.”

“I’m aware of you told me you’d kiss me on V-E Day, when you wouldn’t do it on V-E Day. What are you waiting for now, the United Nations?”

“I don’t just go around kissing people.”

“You went around kissing Fishy Mitchelman last year.”

“That was at parties.”

“That’s not all, according to Fishy himself.”

“He’s a boy.”

“What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”

Caroline sat up again and glared at Artie.

“ Boys lie ,” she said, and then turned over on her side, so her back was to Artie and his hairy chest.

“All boys aren’t like Fishy,” he said.

“That’s right. Fishy has rhythm. Most boys don’t have any at all.”

“You still stuck on him or something?”

“Fat chance.”

“You sure are in a lousy mood for V-J Day.”

“Artie, I told you it was a certain time of month. Besides, I don’t think it’s such a neat thing to go around celebrating dropping Atom Bombs and wiping out thousands of men, women, and children.”

“They’re Japs!”

“They’re human beings, too!”

“Wow. Some people sure forget easy. V-J Day isn’t even over and you’re feeling sorry for the Japs.”

“Why don’t you go swimming? Just because I can’t doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“What’s that got to do with the Japs?”

“Nothing. Nothing in the world.”

“Okay. I think I will.”

Artie stood up and walked to the creek. He waded in, and then flung himself into the water, diving down, holding his breath and moving fishlike over the rocky bottom, not coming up till he thought he would burst. He went and dried off, looking at the hairs lying flat and bedraggled on his chest.

“I sure will be glad when high school starts,” he said. “Everything will be different then.”

“I hope so,” said Caroline.

“You and me both.”

Artie went home and sneaked a beer up to his room. He didn’t feel like washing-up or changing for supper and he went down to the table just wearing his bathing suit and a grungy old khaki T-shirt.

Dad looked at him sideways and said, “This isn’t Camp Cho-Ko-Mo-Ko, son.”

Artie made a grunting sound and splatted some potato salad onto his plate.

“I wonder how long it will take the boys to come home now,” Mom said.

“Soon enough,” Dad said. “Let’s just be thankful it’s over.”

Artie scratched under his left arm and then raised it, searching through the new hairs of his armpit to see if he could find a chigger bite.

“If you mean Roy,” he said, “I’ll bet he waits till the last.”

“The view of your armpit is not exactly appetizing,” Mom said.

Artie put his arm down and let out a terrible belch. The odor of Pabst Blue Ribbon and potato salad spread through the room like gas.

“P-U!” Mom said, grabbing Her nose with a finger and thumb.

“’Scuse me,” Artie mumbled.

Dad threw his napkin down on the table.

“That does it,” he said.

His face was furious red, and Artie felt his own ears get hot.

“I said ‘excuse me’!”

“Go to your room.”

“My room ! For cripe’s sake, I’m fourteen years old !”

“Maybe that’s the trouble,” Dad said. “Now move !”

He really meant business.

Artie threw his own napkin on the table, noisily shoved the chair back, and slouched to his room, slamming the door behind him.

He was crouched on his bed, examining the cracks between his toes to make sure he didn’t have athlete’s foot, when Dad opened the door.

“You and me are going fishing,” Dad said. “Saturday. Up to Lake Minnekewanka.”

“Okay,” Artie said.

“Now go and apologize to your mother and see if she’ll give you some supper.”

“Yes, sir.”

They hadn’t gone fishing since Roy went off to War. The whole family used to go for a week every summer and sometimes just for a Saturday, up to Minnekewanka or Crystal Lake or the Reservoir, the four of them sitting in a rowboat holding their long bamboo poles over the side and “drowning worms” as Mom called it. The fishing wasn’t too great in Illinois, and sometimes you sat for a couple of hours without even a strike before pulling up the anchor and rowing to some other spot that looked like it might be a good place to hit a whole school of bass, but most times anyway you got enough bluegills or sunfish or perch to cook up a batch for supper. The main point though was to have a good time being out in the open, on the water, under the sun, together. Maybe that’s why without talking about it they hadn’t gone fishing since Roy had gone away; it would have been too sad out there in the rowboat with him missing.

Now since the War was over and Roy was safe and would be coming home before the year was out anyway, fishing seemed okay again, and besides, this wasn’t a family outing, just a man-to-man kind of thing with Artie and his Dad.

The lake was like glass, not even a breeze stirring. Artie and his Dad wore old straw hats with big brims to keep off the sun. They had sat in the same place for over an hour without saying a word. That was the nice thing about fishing; you didn’t have to talk just to hear yourself, you could just sit and keep your eye on the red-and-white bobber that dunked down into the water when you got a bite, and you didn’t even have to think about stuff, you could just be still and let your mind go blank.

When Dad spoke, his voice was low and soft. It was all right to talk, as long as you weren’t so loud you scared the fish away.

“You’re growing up now,” Dad said.

“I guess so.”

Another good thing about fishing was that you didn’t have to look at the other person when you talked, you could just concentrate on watching your bobber, so you never felt as embarrassed about stuff as you would if you had to stare into somebody’s eyes all the time.

“It’s not all peaches and cream. You got to make some effort. Otherwise, you’re liable to get off on the wrong foot for your whole life.”

“Sure.”

“Lots of fellas, along about your age, they get sneaky. Then it gets to be a habit. Like snitching beers. You can have a beer now and then, it’s no crime. Just be out in the open about it. Don’t go hiding in your room, or out in some bushes, be it beer or anything else.”

“Yes, sir.”