Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Artie was itchy for Roy to get back and be part of it all. He wanted his brother to see him playing quarterback for the freshman team, and maybe even go with him on a double date. Roy could drive, and Artie would get to sit in the back with Gay Ann Fenewalt, maybe even unhook her bra and place his eagerly trembling hands on her bare boobs. In the meantime Artie worked hard at football and school, and even helped out his Dad on the weekends.

One Saturday morning Artie was pumping gas at Joe’s Premium when a beat-up old Plymouth coupe rolled up. Artie wiped his hands with the greasy rag that he wore jauntily in his hip pocket, and went around to lean on the driver’s window.

Some girl was behind the wheel, and she smiled at him.

“Fill ’er up?” Artie asked.

“You sure have grown, Artie.”

He blinked, and looked at the girl again.

“Shirley?”

“I guess I’ve changed too,” she said.

Her hair was cut so short it looked like a tight black cap pulled down on her skull. Her beautiful bangs were gone, and she wore almost no makeup. For a second, Artie thought of those women in France who had their heads shaved because they had made out with German guys during the Occupation, but he realized Shirley had probably cut her hair like that so it wouldn’t get caught in the airplane factory machinery. Her cheeks had a hollow look and she seemed a lot older, but still real pretty, especially when she smiled.

“Hey, this is great!” Artie said. “Can I buy you a rainbow Coke at Damon’s? I get off in an hour.”

“I’d love it. In the meantime, give me a dollar’s worth of Regular.”

It was almost like old times, having the Cokes at Damon’s. But the times were new, and the two friends were different now. It was sort of spooky, but exciting, like people who had known each other years ago at some summer camp and now were grown up.

Shirley had bought the coupe she was driving with her own money she’d made at the War Plant, and she’d even saved up some more to go to college. She wanted to do it on her own, and not have to take from her folks when they could use it themselves. She was going to start Urbana the first of the year, and in the meantime, get some reading done and have a long visit with her parents. She had planned to wait to come home till after Thanksgiving, but everyone got laid off because of the War ending.

“What about Donna Modjeski?” Artie asked. “Did she get laid off too?”

“Donna got married,” Shirley said. “To a man she met in Indianapolis. He’s older. But very nice.”

“What about you?” Artie said.

Shirley held up her left hand, which was bare of any jewelry, and wriggled her fingers.

“No wedding ring,” she said.

She smiled, and put her hand back in her lap.

“Didn’t even fall in love,” she went on. “Met some nice guys, though. I dated some. Decided I was pretty normal, after all.”

“You’re not!” Artie burst out. “I mean, you’re better than normal.”

Shirley laughed, smiling.

“Well, at least I’m not worse, anyway.”

Artie sucked up the rest of his Coke, and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, you’re home from the War now. That makes about everyone, except Roy. He’s still down at Parris Island.”

“How is he?”

“Okay, I guess. I mean, we really don’t know. He never was much at letters. Except to you.”

Shirley’s cheeks turned as bright as if she had rouge on them, and she stirred the ice at the bottom of her glass.

“I was such a kid,” she said.

“You want to see him again?”

“I doubt that he wants to see me . Anyway, I’m not expecting any miracles. That’s not what I came home for.”

“No, I didn’t mean you did.”

“It sure was nice seeing you , anyway.”

Shirley smiled, and stood up. Artie offered to walk her home, forgetting she had her own car now. It was probably just as well. They might get real sad, thinking about the old walks, realizing now the Bluebirds were finally over the White Cliffs of Dover and the world was free, but other things hadn’t turned out like they thought.

When Roy finally came back home from the War the parades were over. The biggest parade of all had been for the first guy home, and it turned out to be Burt Spink! He hadn’t even got overseas, but was stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas, where he was only a private in the Quartermaster Corps, which meant he probably just helped get the other guys uniforms clean, but he was the first to get home so he got the best parade. A few weeks later a whole crowd from Oakley Central came up with the High School Band to welcome back some of their guys who had fought in the tanks with Blood ‘n’ Guts Patton, but after that mostly just the family and friends of the guys who got back went down to the station to greet them. You couldn’t keep having parades all the time, they got old just like everything else, and besides, people were busy now going about their new Post-War lives.

Artie knew that was the way Roy wanted it. He hadn’t even come straight home from Parris Island, but stopped off with one of his new Marine buddies who lived in Atlanta to “have a little R’n’R,” as he said on the postcard he sent. When he finally got home one day in late October, the town just went on about its business. Artie got an excuse Mom wrote so he could get out of school and go to the station with his folks. The only other people waiting for the train were the Minnemores, and that was just because they were going to Chicago.

When Artie saw Roy, he was just as glad the bands and cheerleaders and everyone weren’t there to greet him. His uniform was rumpled, like he’d slept in it on the train. His face was puffy, and there were deep purple blotches under his eyes. The eyes didn’t seem to focus exactly, and the grin on his face was kind of crooked, like he was just coming out of a pileup in a football game.

Roy didn’t carry his cane, but he swayed a little when he walked to the car.

“How’s the leg?” Dad asked.

Roy slapped his thigh.

“Good as gold,” he said.

When he got in the car he unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his belt, and his stomach bloated out like an inflated innertube. He patted it and belched, and the car smelled like some kind of stale, sweet syrup.

When they got home and Mom brought coffee out for everyone in the living room, Roy took a half-pint bottle from his hip pocket and splashed some in his cup.

“Coffee Royal,” he explained.

“Good whiskey?” Dad asked.

“The best. Real bourbon. Sour Mash, from Kentucky. Try a splash?”

“I’m just a beer man,” Dad said.

“Well, whatever Roy wants,” Mom said, “he deserves it.”

Dad nodded.

“There is a time to plant, and a time to reap,” he said.

“And a time to rest,” Mom added.

“I had me some real good R’n’R in Atlanta,” Roy said. “The best. All I need’s a little sack time, and I’m ready to roll. Go out and get me a piece of that Post-War world.”

“There’s plenty of time,” Mom said.

“You gave some good years,” Dad said. “Hard years. We’re grateful to you, son. And thankful you’re home.”

Roy nodded, took a slurp of coffee, spilling some in the saucer, and then jumped up.

“ Snafu! I left your presents in the car!”

Roy had gone shopping in Atlanta and bought a lavender sachet for Mom, a hand-painted tie for Dad, and a fountain pen for Artie.

Everyone was real excited with their presents, and thanked Roy a lot.

He laughed in this sharp, mocking kind of way that didn’t sound happy or funny.

“The ‘Spoils of War,’” he said.

Then he poured some more of the Sour Mash into his coffee cup.