Dan Wakefield - Under the Apple Tree - A Novel

Roy put his arm around Artie.

“It’s not all glory, kid,” Roy said. “The truth is, War is Hell.”

Artie was thrilled, his brother telling him how life really was, his arm around him, just like a scene of two brothers in a movie except for the powerful whiskey smell of Roy’s breath when he spoke his words of wisdom.

“Is that what Old Man Goodleaf wanted?” Artie asked. “To talk to you about the War?”

Roy took an extra gulp of the booze.

“In a way.”

“Do they want you to do something? For the War Effort?”

“Nobody’s telling me what to do. I made me my own decision, by God.”

“What?”

“I’m going to enlist.”

“When the season’s over, or what?”

“Tomorrow. Going to Moline and sign up.”

“Before the Henshaw game?”

“It’s just a game, kid.”

“But it’s the Big Game!”

“No game’s bigger than Freedom.”

Artie felt ashamed for putting sports before Freedom.

“Is that what Old Man Goodleaf said?”

“Dammit, you little twerp, you think I don’t know which end is up without some jerk like Goodleaf telling me?”

Roy took his arm from around Artie, swigged down the last of the half-pint, and threw it at the frozen surface of Skinner Creek where it broke, like the warm and wonderful mood of brotherly camaraderie. Roy stalked off and Artie trotted after him, head down, like a shamed spaniel.

Later Artie learned—along with everyone else in school, and then in Town—that Roy got so mad because Old Man Goodleaf had called him in to tell him he was flunking Chemistry and English, and he’d have to do the whole semester over again, like last year, which meant he’d be ineligible for all sports, starting with the big Henshaw game next week.

Roy blew up at the supper table when the folks said they thought that was why he wanted to enlist right away instead of waiting till June. Of course now they knew he’d go to War, along with the other boys in Town; not even Mom would have dreamed of trying to get him to shirk his duty. If your country was at War, you fought for it, unless you were some kind of jerk or crazy person. The only question now was when.

Artie stood up for Roy’s decision to go right away.

“High school doesn’t even count compared to Freedom,” he said.

“Eat your brussels sprouts,” Dad said.

“Okay, but if I was old enough, I’d enlist right away too, just like Roy.”

“Thank Heaven you’re only ten,” Mom said:

“Going on eleven!”

“By the time you’re of age,” Dad said, “this whole mess will be over.”

Roy gnawed a piece of his drumstick and waved it at Dad.

“Not unless guys like me hurry up and get the job done.”

Dad pointed his fork at Roy.

“The job you’re supposed to get done first is earning that diploma.”

“Diplomas aren’t going to stop the Japs.”

“Neither are you, single-handed.”

“The War will wait till June,” Mom said, “and then you could go off a high school graduate.”

Roy suddenly pushed back his chair, jumped up from the table, and pointed at the ceiling.

“There it comes! It’s got the old Rising Sun painted right on the wings, and its guns are blazing. It’s a Jap Zero, coming in for strafing, coming right at me in my foxhole. I haven’t even got a bullet left, but wait—hey—what’s this?”

Roy pretended to pull something from his hip pocket, look at it, then wave it toward the ceiling or the “oncoming plane.”

“I’ve got my high school diploma to save me! Take that, you dirty Jap, I got the hex on you! The powerful diploma-rays are zapping up at you like out of Flash Gordon’s gun and you’re bursting into flame!”

Artie giggled, and Roy looked around, pleased.

“All right, boys, you’ve had your fun, now finish your supper,” Mom said.

Roy saluted and sat back down.

“Make all the fun you want,” Dad said, “but the Japs won’t be giving out the jobs when this thing is over, son. And the people who do won’t hire you because you were a hero. They forget fast. I remember from the first one. A few weeks after the boys came home, the parades were over, and everything back to normal, nobody cared about the war or what anyone did in it, except for the politicians puffing up their records to try to get elected. It’ll be the same way again, and you can take that and put it in the bank.”

Roy took a slug of his milk and began to sing, loud and off-key:

Over there—Over there—

Send the word, send the word

To beware—

“Everyone who finishes their brussels sprouts,” Mom said, cutting off the song, “gets mince pie for dessert.”

Roy made a little belch and rubbed his stomach.

“Good! I need all the mince I can get.”

Roy winked at Artie, who giggled wildly, not sure what Roy meant but sure it must be a dilly.

“Oh, carry me home to die,” Dad said.

Roy hitched into Moline the next morning before anyone was up. When he came home, he was different.

It wasn’t just the G.I. haircut he got right after he enlisted, making his face seem bony and stark. It wasn’t a uniform because he didn’t have one yet, and he wouldn’t even report for induction for another couple of weeks. The really different thing was his attitude. There was something real calm about him now, a feeling of high purpose, like the guy who was going to enter a tough kind of monastery where they only had bread and water and couldn’t talk to anyone but God. Roy was preparing himself, like getting in shape for football except in the mind and soul instead of the body.

Instead of going off on a toot when he came back from joining up, Roy hung around Joe’s Premium pumping gas and helping out Dad and shooting the breeze with the guys who dropped by to talk about the War. Wings and Bo came around after basketball practice, having Cokes and peanuts and saying how they envied Roy getting a head start on them, but they figured they’d better wait till June. They seemed to treat the new Roy with a new kind of respect, as if he were set apart from them now, beyond them, off in a more important world than the one they had shared of sports and girls and messing around. Artie was proud, and he stuck by Roy every minute he could, wanting to help keep up his morale before he went off.

The only one who didn’t respect the new Roy was his old girl friend. Roy never really went steady with Beverly Lattimore, he never gave her his gold basketball on a chain to wear around her neck, and sometimes he went off with other adoring girls after ball games, but mostly he took out Beverly, and everyone knew they did the dirty deed when they parked out at Skinner Creek after dances and parties.

Beverly was known for her red hair and temper that matched, but Artie was really shocked when she marched right up to Joe’s Premium after school and started in on Roy while he was lying under Old Man Bittleman’s Buick with only his legs sticking out, checking the exhaust pipe.

“You can’t fool me, Roy Garber,” she said. “You’re running away.”

“Hi, Bev,” Roy said from under the Buick.

“You’re not any hero, you’re a coward!”

“Hey!” said Artie, who was leaning against the Premium pump, sort of standing guard over Roy, but Beverly didn’t even look at him.

Roy scooted out from under the car, looking up at Beverly real calm, and not even saying anything. That seemed to get her even more riled up.

“You’re running away from Chemistry and English!” she shouted. “And me!”

Roy stood up slowly, wiping his hands with an oily rag, and instead of getting ticked, like he would have done before he changed, he spoke very quietly.

“I’m sorry you don’t understand, Beverly.”