Under the Apple Tree Page 7

“It says the safest place in an Air Raid is at home,” Artie said, scanning the pamphlet. “You should go to the center of the house and lie down under ‘a good stout table.’ That’s what we were doing.”

  “Well, you gave me a scare.”

  “You should know this stuff too, Mom,” Artie said, and proceeded to read from the pamphlet. “‘You most likely won’t be hit or trapped, but if you are, you can depend on rescue squads to go after you.’ You’re supposed to remember to ‘answer tapping from rescue crews.’”

  “Just don’t go around tapping when I’m not expecting it, please,” Mom said.

  “Also, you’re supposed to stay away from windows, Mom. You should know this stuff.”

  “I know enough to duck if the bombs start dropping. I don’t have to read a pamphlet.”

  “Listen to this,” Artie said, and read from the pamphlet again: “‘You can lick the Japs with your bare hands if you will just do these simple things …’”

  “‘With your bare hands’!” Mom shouted. “Let me see that thing.”

  She took the pamphlet from Artie and looked at it, shaking her head, then starting to nod, like she’d found a part she agreed with.

  “I hope you remember this part, boys,” she said, holding up a finger while she read: “‘Do not be a wise guy and get hurt.’”

  “Aw, Mom,” Artie moaned.

  “It says so right here in the pamphlet,” she said, and took the groceries to the kitchen.

  4

  The change in Roy when he came back from Moline after enlisting was small potatoes compared to the way he had changed when he got back from Boot Camp for his furlough before being shipped overseas.

  Now he wore the uniform of the United States Marines. Artie used to think that nothing in the world was more big-time and glorious than the uniform of the Birney Bearcats, which only went to show how wet behind the ears he had been before the War. The gold and black uniform of the Birney football and basketball teams was only kid stuff compared to the forest green of the United States Marines.

  It was not just the uniform that made Roy look different, but the body inside it. It seemed like he’d been issued a whole new physique to go with the new outfit. His spine had been replaced by an iron crowbar, his chin filed and sharpened, his shoulders yanked back and broadened like some huge metal chains were pulling on them. Even his smile was different. Instead of curling up at the corners, it went across his face in a straight, military line.

  His mother cried when she saw him.

  His father puffed up, throwing his own shoulders back and standing straighter.

  Artie saluted.

  Shirley Colby fainted.

  It was right at the train station, and several people screamed when Shirley swayed and started to fall but quick as a whip Roy caught her, lifted her in his arms as easily as picking up a rag doll, and carried her inside. Roy gently laid her down on a bench and waved away the gathering crowd.

  “I’ll handle this,” he said, in his new, deeper voice of command and assurance.

  Everyone backed away, respectfully.

  “Will she be all right?” Artie’s mother asked in a whisper.

  Artie cupped one hand over his mouth, and imitating the resonant voice of the great radio newscaster H.V. Kaltenborn, he spoke in his mother’s ear the thrilling new slogan that covered so many Wartime situations, including this one:

  “‘The Marines have landed, and have the situation well in hand.’”

  Back home in the afternoon Roy took off his uniform and got on his old, brown corduroys and black and red flannel shirt and white wool socks and saddle shoes, but still, he was changed. It was like a new person had put on the old clothes; it was not a scruffy high school kid who was wearing them, but a fighting man in disguise.

  In front of his mirror with the bedroom door closed, Artie practiced looking like Roy. He had always wanted to look like Roy, ever since he could remember, and it got his goat when friends of his folks told him he looked like his Mom or Dad. “You’re the spittin’ image of your father,” his Dad’s pals would rumble heartily, while his Mom’s buddies would coo that “You’re your mother all over again.” He liked the way his Mom and Dad looked, but he didn’t want to look like either one of them. He wanted to look like his brother, and it made him mad that his own hair was so darn light, almost the color of straw, instead of nearly black like Roy’s. He figured having dark hair was manly, and blond was for kids and girls. He used Brylcreem on his hair like Roy did, but it only made it gummy and slick instead of darker. He wished he was thin like Roy, too, instead of a little bit chubby, and in front of the mirror he tried sucking in his cheeks to look gaunt but he couldn’t hold them that way for long. The one thing he really could imitate was the way Roy moved and walked, and he used to practice slouching and hanging loose, but now he threw his shoulders back and stood ramrod straight before the mirror, hoping to perfect a state of permanent “Attention!”

  “Okay, troops, muster up!” Roy called before supper, holding a bag he’d brought back from Quantico, Virginia, that held presents for everyone. He gave his mother a gold and scarlet pillow with tassels that said on it “Quantico, Virginia, U.S.M.C.” and had the emblem of the Marine Corps; his Dad got a real regulation Marine fatigue cap for wearing at work; and Artie got an official shoulder patch of Roy’s own battalion! He wanted his mother to sew it right away over the heart of his best white sweat shirt, but she said it would have to wait till after supper.

  “So what did you get Shirley Colby,” Artie asked, and for a split second Roy looked embarrassed and blushy, but then he suddenly let out his old Hermit Caveman’s laugh—“yee-hee-heeheh-heh-heh-whooooo!,” poked his finger in Artie’s gut and said, “That’s for me to know and you to find out!” just like he used to say, and right then he was like the old horsing-around high school guy he used to be, as if that guy was still inside him, hidden now by the U.S. Marine, and could pop out for a little while if he wanted to, like Superman changing back into Clark Kent the mild-mannered reporter when the occasion demanded.

  Roy was asked to speak to the whole school at Auditorium the next day, and then he was all Marine again, somber and straight, his eyes dark and solemn and his mouth that thin military line. The Band played the Marine Hymn and everyone sang it like crazy, and then Mr. Good-leaf, resplendent in his bandleader outfit, came to the microphone to introduce Roy.

  Ben Vickman reached across Caroline Spingarn to pinch Artie on the leg and whisper loudly, “Wonder if Old Man Goodleaf is gonna say your brother flunked Chemistry and English before he ran off to join up?”

  Artie didn’t even lower himself to answer that; he just made a face like he’d smelled a skunk, and shook his head sadly at the jealous little twerp like he really was sorry for anyone so stupid. Even better, Caroline Spingarn, who had rosy cheeks and reddish blond hair that turned under like June Allyson’s, scooted away from where she was sitting on the floor so she was farther away from Ben Vickman and closer to Artie. She smelled wonderfully of Camay—“the Mild Beauty Soap.”

  Actually, Artie was really nervous that Mr. Goodleaf might say something embarrassing about the old Roy who was wild and got into all kinds of trouble back in his other, old life in high school that seemed about a million years ago now.

  “We are here today,” Mr. Goodleaf said into the microphone, “to hear from a young man we all know …”

  Uh-oh, Artie thought, and crossed his fingers on both hands.

  “… a young man,” Mr. Goodleaf went on, “who has just come through with flying colors the most rigorous physical and mental training of the world’s finest crack fighting outfit, the United States Marines.”

  There were cheers and whistles and Artie yelled with relief, shaking his fists in the air.

  Roy sat in his red and blue dress uniform on the auditorium stage beside Mr. Goodleaf like a statue in the park, immobile, stern, as if he didn’t hear the words or the cheers, that those things didn’t matter anyway. Artie bet
that a Jap could have gone right up and put a samurai sword to his throat and Roy wouldn’t even have flinched. Or Beverly Lattimore could have done a striptease on the stage, flinging her bra right onto Roy’s lap, and not even his Adam’s apple would have bobbed in his throat.

  “As we all know,” Mr. Goodleaf said, “our fine boys who will graduate this June are’ anxious to go into the Armed Forces as soon as they have their diplomas. One of our boys, in the sacred privacy of his own conscience that none has a right to question, decided he could not wait until passing that milestone, and chose to enlist immediately after the infamous sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Now, he is about to be the first of the many brave boys of Birney who will risk life and limb to defend us all from the forces of tyranny. Let’s give a hand to our own Roy Garber.”

  The noise was bigger than if Roy had just scored the winning basket with one second on the clock in the final game of the State Tournament.

  Mr. Goodleaf waved for silence, and the crowd managed to control itself.

  “Before I ask Roy—that is—Private Garber—to say a few words to us, one of our own students has been inspired to write a verse that I think expresses a bit of what all of us feel. Would Warren Tutlow come up here, please?”

  All eyes shifted and scanned the room, a murmur swept up from the crowd, and little Warren Tutlow stood up, pushing his thick glasses firmly back against his nose, and strode manfully to the stage. Artie was proud that old Tutlow had come through with one of his knockout poems just for Roy; he was a real friend and patriot.

  Ben Vickman leaned across Caroline Spingarn and whispered:

  Roses are red, violets are blue,

  Roy Garber flunked English and chemistry,

  Boo hoo hoo.

  There were hisses and “Shhhhs” all around, and Artie pretended he didn’t even hear.

  Warren Tutlow went up to the microphone that Mr. Goodleaf lowered to suit his size, and cleared his throat. He recited without even looking on the paper he had written it down on:

  From the Halls of Birney High School

  To the Shores of Tripoli

  He will fight our Bearcat battles now

  On land and on the sea.

  He will lick the Japs and Germans

  And come home to Victory,

  He’ll get out of close shaves better than any barber,

  We know we can all depend on Roy Garber.

  There were cheers and whistles and stomping on the floor, and a little girl in pigtails from the first grade, Nancy Ann Ibbetsen, ran from the wings and handed Roy a bunch of paper daisies, curtsied, then ran off to laughter and applause.

  Now, Roy moved.

  He took the white Marine dress cap from his lap and placed it, along with the paper daisies, on his chair, as he stood and strode to the microphone, which Mr. Goodleaf adjusted upward.

  Assuming the position of Attention, heels clicked together, Roy looked straight ahead, his jaw firm, his eyes focused on some faraway battlefield.

  “Thank you,” Roy said.

  Artie felt goose bumps. It was just the thing to say.

  “I want to thank all of you, teachers and students alike, for giving me the inspiration and morale to fight for all of you. The world is in flames, and it is the job of me and the other men of the Service to see that those flames never touch these shores. I have a family here. My own little brother is in the auditorium.”

  Artie bowed his head as he felt the eyes of others looking on him in awe.

  “I have pride in my home and my country, and I will fight to the death to keep them—to keep you—safe for democracy. Whatever happens, you can be sure that I will uphold and honor the motto of the uniform I now wear—Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful.”

  Roy did an about-face and went back to his seat, as everyone rose and cheered and Mr. Goodleaf struck up the Band to play “God Bless America” and the sound shook the hall.

  When the song was over, Roy marched down from the stage, through the crowd, and went right to where Shirley Colby was sitting. He held out his arm and she rose, putting her own arm in his, and as they walked off together the crowd parted, as it would have for Cinderella and the Prince. Although he couldn’t see it with his eyes, Artie had the feeling that Roy and Shirley were surrounded by a kind of halo of light, the invisible magnetism of love.

  “Isn’t it heavenly?”

  “Huh?” Artie said, embarrassed at being caught in the middle of his Own daydream.

  Caroline Spingarn was leaning close to him, the sweet smell of the Mild Beauty Soap oozing from her every pore.

  5

  It turned out that the secret present Roy had brought back to Shirley Colby after Boot Camp was nothing at all like the tasseled pillow he had got his mother, or any kind of souvenir of Quantico, Virginia, or Marine Corps stuff. He had brought her a shoulder patch of his outfit, just like the one he gave to Artie, but that wasn’t the main thing by a long shot.

  The main thing was an actual engagement ring.

  It didn’t have a diamond in it—Roy couldn’t afford one of those—but it wasn’t just a high school ring or Marine Corps ring; it was a regular kind that you bought in a jewelry store and it had a little gold heart on it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Garber were kind of flabbergasted, but they pretty much said if that’s what the kids wanted to do, it was their lives. Besides, it was Wartime, and everything happened faster now. Artie’s Dad lit up a cigar for the occasion, and staring philosophically through a doughnut-sized smoke ring said, “One generation cometh, and another generation passeth away.” Mrs. Garber broke out the fermented cider from its hiding place in the basement and poured everyone a glass of it, including Artie (his first!), and recited to Roy, “May you live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.”

  Shirley’s parents didn’t take the news so philosophically.

  In fact, they raised the roof. They demanded to “have the whole thing out” with Roy and his family, and for that grim purpose invited the Garbers for supper. Except they called it “dinner.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Colby had been the big dogs of the whole town until the Crash came and wiped out the First National Bank of Birney. Mr. Colby had been the president of the bank and he lost his position as well as his personal fortune that he got from his rich parents who owned a whole lot of land that the railroad bought and they gave up farming for Travel Abroad.

  Kenneman Colby went to the University of Urbana and belonged to what Artie’s Dad called “Eta Piece-a Pi,” but that was just the name he gave to all the snooty fraternities. Mr. Colby belonged to one of the snootiest, and married this glamorous gal from the Quad Cities area, Marcelline Huckaby, who was also in one of the snooty sororities and came back to Birney to help her new husband be head of the bank and lord it all over the ordinary people. After the Crash when they had to sell the big family house on the hill and move to Pine Street, they scrunched all their fancy furniture and stuff into it. Mr. Colby took a small office on Main Street and had a sign painted in gold on the window that said, “Kenneman Colby, Investment Counselor.” Actually, what he did was, he helped some farmers and businessmen balance their books and make out their tax forms.

  For the big night of dinner at the Colbys, the Garbers got all decked out in their finest. Roy put on his Marine dress uniform with the red stripe down the blue pants, Mom donned the black dress with the dime store pearls and the run-down red high heels, Dad put on the blue serge suit with the white shirt and the tie with a hand-painted waterfall that he wore to funerals and Moose Lodge banquets, and Artie wore the brown wool Sunday School suit that made him itch like a madman, complete with the starched shirt and red knit tie that his Mom said was dashing, but gave him the feeling he was being slowly strangled. Artie had wanted to wear his Cub Scout uniform, but his folks said that wouldn’t do for the Colbys.

  Even Artie’s torturous outfit that made him feel like the Mummy didn’t impress the Colbys. Shirley’s folks looked surprised and ticked off to see him there. �
��You brought the boy?” Mr. Colby asked; in a tone that would chill your gizzard.

  “You said ‘the family.’ Artie’s part of the family,” Dad answered back.

  “He’s only a child,” Mrs. Colby said, looking down her nose at Artie.

  “I’m eleven years old on April eighteenth,” Artie told her.

  Shirley, who looked very pale in her black dress and hardly any makeup, came to Artie’s side and took his hand.

  “Artie’s my very dear friend,” she said, which made a lump in Artie’s throat that almost choked him in the collar and tie.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Colby said, “won’t you all have a seat, please?”

  She reminded Artie of a mean governess in one of those English movies where everyone sat around making nasty cracks at each other. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and the collar of her plain blue dress was sealed with an old-timey brooch, like it was locking her clothes on for extra safety. Mr. Colby as per usual had a suit with a vest and a gold watch chain with his old fraternity emblem dangling from it. Artie bet the Colbys never washed the dishes together and nuzzled each other like his own parents did.

  Dinner was chicken a la king, but Mrs. Colby called it “fricassee.” Artie could hardly swallow, not only because of the strangling collar and tie, but also because the whole feeling in the room was what Fishy would have called “colder than a brass monkey’s balls in the Yukon.” For a minute, Artie felt kind of good about Fishy and sorry he didn’t hang around with him anymore; he’d have given about anything for Old Fish to get a load of the Colbys. Then Artie figured he ought to keep his mind on what was going on, in case there was anything he could do. Mrs. Colby had told everyone where they had to sit at the table, and Roy and Shirley didn’t get to sit next to each other. Once, Dad tried to bring up the Subject they were all supposed to hash out, but Mrs. Colby coughed and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and said she thought it would surely be more appropriate to discuss such a delicate matter after dinner. That made Artie wonder why in Sam Hill they had to eat the dinner at all, unless it was some kind of strategy, like making the enemy weak from nerves before you attacked him. Roy and Shirley kept shooting these eyeballing glances back and forth, like prisoners of war trying to signal each other in the presence of the enemy. It made Artie think of the psalm where it said, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” He had always wondered what that meant, and maybe it was something like this.