Under the Apple Tree

by Wakefield, Dan;

  Shirley pitched forward, curling into a ball on the sidewalk.

  Artie knelt down beside her and Foltz came and knelt on the other side and laid his hand gently on her head.

  “It’s all right,” said Foltz. “I’m going. I’ll go. Tonight. Now. Forever.”

  Shirley was trembling so hard her teeth were knocking together and Foltz quickly leaned down and kissed her, quickly, and then he stood up and looked at Artie.

  “Forget I was ever here,” he said. “I never will be again. I swear.”

  Artie nodded.

  “Is that a deal?” Foltz asked.

  “Yes,” Artie said.

  Foltz made a crooked smile, but it wasn’t sarcastic, it was even kind of brave, and he straightened his shoulders.

  “Semper Fidelis,” he said, and then he turned and was gone.

  Artie pulled Shirley up and hooked one of her arms over his shoulder and walked her home like someone wounded.

  6

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, thank you for bringing Roy home today from the War, and let him not be too banged up in the leg or shell-shocked in the head. I pray that him and Shirley will have a swell time and be madly in love, and Roy will never find out about Foltz. Also, I pray that Foltz, wherever he is, will find a nice girl to love him so he can settle down and stop running all over the place. Thank Thee for all this stuff, Amen.”

  Artie opened his eyes and got up from his knees. He went to his bedroom window and made the Sign of the Cross, like the old Christian heroes did, just for good measure, vowing he would never slack off from worshiping God. There were bright streaks of orange in the sky, like banners, and Artie took it as a sign that this was going to be a great day and everything would go right. He had butterflies in his stomach, like you got from being nervous before a big ball game. Even though it was his brother and not himself coming home from the War, Artie felt this was the biggest day yet in his own life.

  Artie had been at school when Roy called from the Naval Hospital in San Diego to say the skin grafts had been successful and he’d be coming home in one piece, with just a cane to help him walk. He said he had been the luckiest guy in the world because the shell fragments that hit him had missed “the femoral artery” so even though he bled a lot and had to have transfusions, he’s come up smelling like roses. If everything healed right he’d eventually be almost as good as new, with just a big scar for “a souvenir.” The best thing of all was he wouldn’t be sent back to fight in the South Pacific; he’d be stationed at the Marine Base at Parris Island, South Carolina, to help train new recruits for combat.

  The Garbers and Shirley got to stand in the place of honor on the train station platform to welcome Roy home, along with the High School Band, the VFW Fife & Drum Corps, and Alben Smalley, a dapper guy with a mustache who owned the Birney Lumber & Supply and was also the Mayor. School was let out and most of the stores on Main Street were closed so everyone could turn out.

  The Band and Fife and Drum Corp were warming things up with “The Army Air Corps Song,” and saving “The Marine Hymn” for Roy’s arrival. Everyone was getting in the spirit of things, singing about the wild blue yonder. Shirley was all dolled up in a pink dress and a pair of white heels and matching hat like women wear to church, which showed she was really grown-up now and not like the high school cheerleaders who were hopping and prancing in front of the crowd in time to the music, their beautiful bare legs twinkling in the soft April sun.

  Artie was singing with a helluva roar as he spouted his flames in the “Army Air Corp” song. He peeked back over his shoulder while he sang, wondering if Carolyn Spingarn was watching him be the brother of a hero. He couldn’t see her right off but he knew she was there; everyone was there, even Mr. and Mrs. Colby were somewhere, probably way at the back, being above it all. Mom had invited them to stand right up on the platform along with Shirley, but Mrs. Colby said she didn’t think it was “fitting” and went on some more about how Shirley and Roy weren’t officially engaged like in Emily Post. She didn’t even think it was right for Shirley to stand with the Garbers but Shirley put her foot down on that one.

  There were shouts and cheers when everyone sang about living in fame or going down in flame, and when the “Army Air Corps Song” was over Mr. Goodleaf raised his baton again to strike up another patriotic anthem. Just then the old familiar whistle of the 10:52 hooted out of the distance and everyone pushed closer to the track, looking down the long line of rails to see the tiny dot of the engine as it first came into view. Shirley grabbed Artie’s hand so hard he thought she might crush through the bone.

  “He’s coming,” she said.

  “Darn tootin’,” Artie gasped.

  Steaming and hissing and clanging, the train pulled alongside the station, its iron wheels screeching and grinding to a stop. Mr. Goodleaf had his baton raised, waiting for the moment Roy appeared. An old lady got off with a basket, taking each step like it was the biggest deal of her life, while the crowd strained anxiously to catch the first glimpse of the hero. The old lady was followed by a gum-chewing man with a briefcase who looked like some kind of salesman. He grinned and waved at the crowd, like it was all for him, and there were some nervous boos and hisses, and calls of “Hey, Roy!” “Where’s Roy?” “We want Roy!”

  Shirley tightened her crunch on Artie’s hand.

  “What if he’s not on it?” she whispered.

  “He is—he’s gotta be,” Artie said.

  “Maybe they have to carry him?”

  The bell clanged and the whistle hooted; steam puffed out from the belly of the train as it made ready to start again. Artie’s Dad charged up to the steps of the car that the lady and man had got off of, like he was going on board to see what had happened to Roy, but just then a figure appeared at the top step, a tall, gaunt man with a cane, wearing not the fancy dress blues with the red stripe down the leg, but the plain forest green uniform of the United States Marines. He was a Corporal. The Band struck up “From the Halls of Montezuma,” and the Marine came down another step, and you could see his face. It looked something like Roy, except it was so dark tan and weather-beaten, and the eyes so deep and sunken and glazed that it looked like the face of some hardened old veteran, a guy who’d been fighting on far-flung beaches and storming up enemy hillsides since he was born, an old guy at least thirty if he was a day. For a second Artie thought the veteran must have been the guy who was bringing Roy home, helping him down the steps with his crutches or something, but then he came down another step and the corners of his mouth moved; it wasn’t really a smile but more like something hurt, and he looked around at the crowd and blinked, like he had made a mistake and was getting off at the wrong stop, but Mom yelled “Roy!” and Dad reached his hand up and the Marine took it and moved on down to the platform as the train huffed and rumbled, moving away, and it was Roy all right, or anyway, the guy who used to be Roy.

  Mom and Dad hugged him and Roy held his arms out, still carrying the cane in one hand, bending slightly, like a puppet whose limbs were too stiff and straight to actually wrap in a hug but did their best. Artie ran up and grabbed Roy around the waist, just squeezing, and he felt the old familiar hand on his head, pushing back the wide-brimmed Scout hat, but instead of tousling his hair and rubbing the old knuckles in his scalp, the big hand lay flat and tentative, not even mussing the hair, just barely touching, the way you would hold your hand above a hot stove.

  … first to fight our country’s ba-a-ttles,

  And to keep our honor clean …

  Artie’s hat fell backward and the hand pulled away from his head. He stepped down to get his hat, and saw Shirley standing there staring, not moving, her eyes wide and frightened, her hands holding the hat on the back of her head as if to keep it from falling off. Roy took a step toward Shirley. Then she ran to him, throwing her arms around him like she was going to tackle him, her body moving into his so hard he dropped his cane, and he pressed his stiff arms into the sides of her pink dress, manag
ing to get his hands against her back, the two of them holding and rocking slightly so it looked like they both might tip over and fall in a heap but they held, standing, clutched.

  We are proud to bear the ti-i-tle,

  Of United States Ma-rine!

  The crowd broke into a roar at the end of the song, and the Birney cheerleaders bobbed out onto the railroad tracks in front of the crowd, raising their arms and pulling the words of the old basketball cheer down from the hard gray sky:

  He’s a man, who’s a man,

  He’s a mighty Bearcat man—

  Garbed Garber! Garber!

  Roy’s face stared over the shoulder of Shirley’s pink dress, expressionless, his mouth a thin, straight line, his eyes burnt-out, like they had stared straight into some fiery explosion and never really focused again. He hadn’t even kissed Shirley on the mouth; he just kept holding on to her, his hands hooked into her back, the knuckles hard and white.

  Alben Smalley cleared his throat and took a step toward Roy and Shirley.

  “The town of Birney is proud to welcome home its own brave son, Roy Garber.”

  There were whistles and cheers, and Shirley pulled away from Roy, not wanting to hog the moment. Artie rushed over and picked up the fallen cane and placed the crook of the handle in Roy’s hand. His fingers squeezed around it slowly, hard.

  “We don’t have a ‘key to the city,’” Smalley said, “I guess because we aren’t even a city.”

  Smalley turned and smiled at the crowd, and there were scattered laughs and some cries of “Go, Birney!” “Attaboy, Roy!”

  “But we do give you our hearts,” Smalley continued, turning back toward Roy, “and our doors and homes are open to you, in gratitude, for your courage and sacrifice, to keep us all safe for democracy.”

  Cheers again.

  “I know that all of us would appreciate any words you could bring us from the fighting front, to rekindle our own efforts here on the Home Front. Would you honor us with a few words, Corporal?”

  Roy stared at Smalley a moment, puzzled, as if the guy had spoken in a foreign language. “Words?” he said. Then he looked around the crowd, which was hushed now, waiting.

  “Greetings,” Roy said.

  It was almost a whisper.

  Then Roy poked his cane ahead on the platform and started to walk, limping, moving right ahead through the crowd, Shirley and Mom and Dad and Artie following, and Mr. Goodleaf, realizing that was all Roy had to say, pointed his baton at the Band and the Fife & Drummers and they all struck up “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” and the crowd parted, letting Roy through, stepping back and aside from his path.

  Artie sat in the back seat of the car with Roy and Shirley, racking his brain to think of stuff to say that would make his hero brother feel at home.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Mom said. “I made a roast.”

  “Yes,”

  “Plenty of Blue Ribbon on ice,” Dad said.

  Roy nodded. He sat with the cane propped between his legs, his hands folded over the top. He just stared straight ahead.

  “Hey, Roy,” Artie said, “Knock knock.”

  Roy didn’t seem to hear, or maybe he’d forgotten how to carry on the joke, so Shirley said, “Who’s there?”

  Artie leaned forward so he was looking at Shirley over the top of Roy’s cane.

  “Alby,” he said.

  “Alby who?” Shirley answered.

  Artie took a deep breath and then sang with all his might, in his best “colored” accent:

  Alby down to getcha in a taxi honey,

  Better be ready ’bout a half past eight—

  Roy, still staring straight ahead, said, “Good one.”

  Suddenly Dad took up the song where Artie’d left off, singing extra heartily:

  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.

  7

  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.