Under the Apple Tree

by Wakefield, Dan;

  As he walked to the Colbys’, Artie went over the reasons why he was just as good as anybody else and shouldn’t let Mrs. Colby make him feel like a worm. He was good in school and sports, he had earned the rank of First Class Scout and got his first three merit badges, and on top of everything else he had done about everything a kid on the Home Front could do to help the War Effort. Anyway, the whole point of fighting a War to save the world for democracy was so everyone could be free and equal, like Washington, Lincoln, and God Himself had intended, which was all the more reason to stand up proudly and fearlessly to Mrs. Colby.

  Still, when Artie knocked on the door, he prayed that Shirley herself would answer it.

  No such luck.

  Mrs. Colby stood there looking down at him with an expression on her mug like she’d just eaten a lemon.

  “Yes, what is it?” she asked.

  Artie whipped off the old felt cap he was wearing with funny buttons on it, wadded it into a ball and stuck it in his pocket.

  “Is Shirley home, please?”

  “Shirley is indisposed.”

  “You mean she’s sick?”

  Mrs. Colby looked like she’d taken another bite of the lemon.

  “She is not ill. She is indisposed.”

  Artie wasn’t quite sure what this meant unless it was a fancy way of saying Shirley was in the bathroom, or maybe it was just some kind of upper-crust language for giving you the bum’s rush. He started to turn and take off when he heard this amazing shriek from inside the house.

  “Mother! How dare you!”

  The voice didn’t even sound human, but more like some deranged monster on the scariest radio program of all, “The Inner Sanctum.”

  Mrs. Colby’s body jerked in a funny way, like someone had poked a broomstick in her behind.

  Artie wanted to disappear, and at the same time he wanted to know what in blazes was happening.

  Shirley exploded into the doorway.

  She was wearing an old Bearcat sweat shirt, faded dungarees, and men’s black socks. She didn’t have on any makeup and her hair wasn’t combed, but Artie thought she was weirdly beautiful, like some kind of Illinois Joan of Arc who had just burst out of her chains.

  “How nice of you to come by and see me!” she shouted at Artie. “Please come right in, and forgive some people’s poor hospitality!”

  Mrs. Colby looked like she might spit, but instead she just spoke at Shirley through gritted teeth.

  “You keep a civil tongue in your head, young lady.”

  “I was just stopping by to say hello,” Artie said. “Hello. I guess I better be going now.”

  He turned and started off but Shirley yelled after him, “You come right in and make yourself at home!”

  Artie doubted he could “make himself at home” but he knew if he didn’t go in he was no friend of Shirley’s. For all he knew she had been locked away in her bedroom or something and maybe Artie was her only chance to get a message out to the forces of freedom.

  In the living room, Shirley sat down on the davenport and patted the cushion next to her, so Artie sat down there.

  Mrs. Colby didn’t sit down but she didn’t leave either. She stood in the middle of the room with her arms folded, tapping her left foot noiselessly on the rug.

  “Nice of you to come by, Artie,” Shirley said. “How have you been?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain,” he said.

  He felt like he was in a play, where you and the other person were pretending to be other people in some other place than you really were. Mrs. Colby was like the audience that you had to pretend wasn’t there. But then she spoke up.

  “You really ought to go and lie down, Shirley. You’re not yourself today.”

  As if on cue, Shirley became like the Illinois Joan of Arc again, with the avenging shriek.

  “You don’t know who I am!”

  “I know I didn’t raise you to be a tramp!”

  Shirley jumped up and squeezed her arms across her chest like her mother was doing. It looked like they were about to start some kind of Japanese jujitsu match where you had to begin in the arms-folded position before you struck out with a deadly blow.

  “How dare you insult patriotic American women!” Shirley yelled.

  “Tramps in uniform, using the War as an excuse to mingle with men!”

  “They don’t mingle with them, they serve with them!”

  “Brazen hussies!”

  “Patriots!”

  Artie cleared his throat.

  “You talking about the WACs,” he asked, “or the WAVEs?”

  Mrs. Colby looked at him blankly.

  “Waves?”

  “That’s the WACs, only for the Navy,” Artie explained.

  Mrs. Colby rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Spare me,” she said.

  “You see!” Shirley yelled. “Artie understands!”

  “Don’t drag that child into this!”

  Artie felt his ears get hot. He stood up and folded his arms on his chest like the other combatants.

  “I’ll be twelve and a half the eighteenth of this month,” he said.

  “He’s old enough to love his country,” Shirley said, “which is more than I can say for some people.”

  “My ancestors settled in Massachusetts two years after the Mayflower.”

  “They’re my ancestors, too!” Shirley shouted.

  “They must be turning over in their graves,” Mrs. Colby said, “to think a young lady of their own lineage wants to join the Army.”

  “WACs!”

  Artie was dumbfounded.

  “You want to join?” he asked Shirley.

  “You see?” Mrs. Colby said smugly. “Even the child is shocked.”

  “I am not,” Artie lied. “I was just surprised.”

  Shirley burst out crying.

  “Everyone thinks I’m a useless little fluff,” she wailed.

  “I think you’re great!” Artie said.

  Mrs. Colby went over and tried to stroke Shirley’s head but she jerked away.

  “You should go to your room and lie down,” Mrs. Colby said.

  “I want to go to Fort Des Moines!” Shirley sobbed.

  That was where you went to become a WAC.

  “The only place you’re going if you leave this house is Sweetlawn Manor,” Mrs. Colby said.

  Shirley got an old hanky out of her pocket and blew her nose.

  “When the War is over I’m going to a real college,” she said.

  Mrs. Colby shook her head, like Shirley had given a wrong answer.

  “That comes after finishing school.”

  “I don’t want to get ‘finished’—I want to get educated!”

  “If that’s what you want you know very well you could have talked your father into Urbana this fall.”

  “I told you I’m waiting till Roy comes home.”

  “You have no obligation to that boy; you’re not even engaged to him.”

  “I’m in love with him.”

  “You’re in love with his uniform.”

  “You act like I’m stupid.”

  “You are if you’re so in love with uniforms you want to wear one yourself.”

  “Why shouldn’t I, if the man I love is wearing one? Why shouldn’t I do a job that will free a boy to go fight?”

  “Because you’re a girl, and you will someday, hopefully, be a lady.”

  Shirley stood up.

  “Come on, Artie,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “For a walk. To get some fresh air so I can breathe.”

  “If you’re going out, you’d better get dressed.”

  Shirley looked down at her sweat shirt and dungarees.

  “I am dressed.”

  “You look a sight.”

  “I’m not going to a tea party. We’ll probably go for a walk in the woods.”

  “You’ll have to cross Route One. Passing mot
orists will think you’re some kind of a tramp.”

  Shirley took a deep breath.

  “I’ll just be a second, Artie. I have to go put on my hoopskirt, I guess.”

  Artie stood up and Mrs. Colby sat down as Shirley minced out of the room, imitating a prissy society lady.

  “What am I going to do with her?” Mrs. Colby sighed.

  “Maybe you should let her join the WACs,” Artie said, trying to be helpful.

  Mrs. Colby looked daggers at him.

  “I didn’t ask your advice, young man.”

  “You asked what you should do with Shirley.”

  “The question was rhetorical.”

  “Pardon me.”

  Artie sat down again and Mrs. Colby stood up and started pacing around the room.

  “Who do you like best,” Artie asked, trying to make conversation, “General Eisenhower or General MacArthur?”

  Mrs. Colby closed her eyes. There were tears running down her cheeks. Suddenly Artie felt sorry for the old bat.

  “Don’t feel bad,” he said.

  “I allowed her to work at that horrible movie house. Taking tickets. Isn’t that bad enough? What more does she want?”

  “I guess she wants to join the WACs.”

  “My only child. My own daughter.”

  Shirley came down the stairs then, wearing a dark blue skirt and a yellow cashmere.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “’Bye, Mother.”

  “Nice talking to you, Mrs. Colby,” Artie said.

  Mrs. Colby turned her back, and Artie took off with Shirley.

  They didn’t say a word all the way out to Skinner Creek. When they got there, Shirley sat down on the rock and pulled her legs up to her chin, smoothing her skirt down over her legs. Artie decided to build a fire. It wasn’t real cold yet, but there was an early October zip in the air, and anyway, Artie thought fires were good for helping people talk.

  When Artie got the fire going, Shirley reached in her purse and took out a pack of Luckies.

  Shirley was sure full of surprises today, but Artie knew enough to keep his trap shut. He watched as she lit the cigarette with a trembling hand, and blew a long stream of smoke. She started talking then without even looking at Artie, just staring off into the trees, the distance.

  “I’m taking you into my trust. I hope you won’t tell your folks about this.”

  “That you want to join the WACs?”

  “That I smoke.”

  “Scout’s Honor I won’t.”

  “Artie? You don’t mean to say you think your folks would have a conniption because I want to join the WACs?”

  “Huh? Well, no. Shoot, no. I mean, they’d just be sad you were leaving Town is all, probably.”

  “Don’t you think Roy would be proud of me?”

  “Roy? Well, sure. But I mean, he already is. Proud of you.”

  “For what? Sitting around and twiddling my thumbs while the world is on fire?”

  “But you’re keeping the home fires burning for him.”

  “If I joined the WACs, I’d be freeing a man to go help him fight and get the job done sooner.”

  “Yeah, but maybe he fights better because he knows you’re at home, so he has someone to come home to.”

  Shirley blew some smoke through her nose and looked Artie right in the eyes for the first time since they’d left her house.

  “That’s how you’d feel too, isn’t it? You’d want your girl to stay home when you went off to War. You’d think she was weird if she joined the WACs.”

  “Heck, no! I’d think it was neat!”

  Artie could feel his cheeks getting red, not because he had lied, but because he would never have thought it was neat for a nice girl to join the WACs until he found out Shirley wanted to do it. He figured the girls who joined the WACs must be kind of mannish and homely or they wouldn’t want to dress up like men and march around in uniforms. But then when he found out that Shirley wanted to do it, he saw how a pretty girl might want to sacrifice her looks and even her reputation (lots of people thought girls joined the WACs just to find a man) in order to serve her country and get the War over faster so her man could come marching home.

  He wasn’t sure Roy would see it that way, but you never could tell. Maybe now he’d been fighting so long he’d be glad about anything that freed another man to help him get the job done.

  Shirley was still staring at him, and he worried that he hadn’t been enthusiastic enough.

  “If you join the WACs,” he said, “I’ll come over to Fort Des Moines and visit you.”

  Shirley smiled for the first time all day.

  “You would, wouldn’t you.”

  “Darn tootin’ I would!”

  “Well, it’s a nice pipe dream, anyway. But I guess that’s all it is.”

  “How come?”

  “I couldn’t hurt Mother that way. She’d think the world had come to an end if I really joined the WACs.”

  “What do you care what the old battle-ax thinks?”

  “Artie Garber!”

  “Huh?”

  “How dare you call my mother a terrible name!”

  “But that’s how she was acting like to you!”

  “She’s only doing what she thinks is best for me.”

  “But you don’t think it’s best for you.”

  “I don’t agree with her, but I still love her. She’s my mother.”

  Artie’s head was spinning, but then he realized the old saying was right: Blood is thicker than water.

  It was okay for someone to criticize their own folks and even yell at them, but catch an outsider doing it and they would come to their own folks’, rescue every time. Shoot, that was how Artie felt when people said anything bad about Roy, or Mom and Dad either.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Shirley stubbed out her cigarette on the rock, and stood up. For a second Artie was scared she was going to go off mad and never speak to him again, but all she did was put her hands behind her back and walk around the fire, kicking little rocks and twigs toward it.

  “Mother and Dad were hurt real bad once,” she said. “They still hurt. Maybe they always will.”

  “You mean ’cause they lost all their money in the Crash?”

  Shirley’s cheeks colored; and Artie was afraid she’d get mad again but all she did was pick up a rock and throw it in the creek.

  “It wasn’t just losing the money,” she said. “It was losing their friends. Or people they thought were their friends.”

  “That sure is crummy all right.”

  “Now they don’t trust anyone. They say when it comes right down to it you can only depend on your own family.”

  “Is that how you think, too?”

  Shirley picked up another rock, tossed it up and caught it, and then instead of throwing it into the creek she just dropped if.

  “I hate to think that way. But maybe I do, in my heart.”

  Artie felt real sad.

  “You don’t trust me, even?”

  Shirley smiled, and came back and sat on the rock.

  “Sure I do. But you’re almost my own family, or will be anyway, when Roy and I get married.”

  “I sure am glad.”

  “I must trust you a lot, the way I go on babbling to you.”

  “You don’t ‘babble.’ You talk swell.”

  “I never could talk to girl friends. I never even had any.”

  “But you’re popular! You’re a cheerleader!”

  “Was. Anyway, I think the whole thing was a fluke. I think they were just scared of me because I was different, so when I tried out they chose me. I was different, so they thought I was special.”

  “You are special.”

  “‘Special’ isn’t always good. I wish I was more like other people, really. Had girl friends and all that.”

  Suddenly she laughed, like she’d thought of some terrific joke.

  “Maybe that’s why I want to join the WACs,” she said.


  “What is?”

  “To be like other people. Regular people. Nobody could think I was snooty if I was a WAC. And I’d have lots of girl friends, without even trying. I’d have to. I’d be one of them.”

  “I thought you wanted to join so you’d help the War get over.”

  “I do. I honestly do. But a person can have more than one reason for doing something. Reasons they didn’t even know about. Or just suspected. I’ve probably got a whole barrel of reasons for wanting to be a WAC.”

  “What else?”

  Shirley got the pack of Luckies out of her purse again and lit up another one.

  “Not the ones people think. I mean, it’s not because of sex or anything. Not the way they think, anyway.”

  “What way is it, then?”

  “Well, the truth is, a person thinks about sex when they don’t have anything to do but twiddle their thumbs. If I was in the WACs I’d be too busy and tired to think about it all the time.”

  “Do you? Think about it all the time?”

  “I think about Roy—and—well, about it. With him, of course.”

  “Well, that’s normal, I guess.”

  “Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I wonder if something’s wrong with me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s terrible.”

  Shirley looked small and frightened and beautiful, and Artie wished he could go and put his arm around her. He wished he was her actual boyfriend coming home from the War, and he could do it with her. Then he felt guilty as hell for even having such a thought, which was not only sinful but unpatriotic, thinking that way about the girl of a Marine who was also your own brother!

  “Sometimes,” Shirley said in a painful whisper, “I think I’m oversexed.”

  Artie knew lots of girls worried about being oversexed, especially when their guys were off in the War. It was like a disease that could strike anyone, just like polio, and ruin your life.

  Artie took a deep breath, and got up the courage to speak.

  “I think I am too,” he said.

  Shirley didn’t say anything, but just stared into the fire. Maybe she didn’t even hear what Artie said, absorbed as she was with her own burden.

  Artie didn’t bring it up again. He just sat staring into the fire, like Shirley.

  The two of them sat transfixed, like witches hexed, watching the licking flames and the hot red glow of the popping embers.