Work Text:
1934
Summer in New York, and tar bubbles up like lava in the streets as little Stevie Rogers makes his way in worn-out shoes through the throngs of the street fair. In a box of plywood and mirrors, a sign advertises a beautiful woman with a snake tail for a body. Stevie walks past—too old, at thirteen, to believe in such marvels.
From all corners, vendors selling peanuts and sausages and fresh lemonade bark their wares. The smells are rich, intoxicating; they hover in the humid air. Stevie breathes through his nose, feeling the emptiness of his stomach and his pockets, and moves more rapidly toward his tenement.
Stevie is scrawny, but quick; within seconds he’s scaled the rungs of the fire escape and pushed himself up to the roof of his building. From his spot behind the low brick ledge, Stevie can watch the crowds below. Ladies in hats fan themselves with scraps of folded paper, their hair lifted by the deft hands of paramours who drape newly-bought novelty jewelry around their necks. Children run zig-zag across the thoroughfare, playing hide-and-seek behind their mothers’ skirts. Elderly women hunch over display tables, scrutinizing fabric. Men stand in clusters, talking about things that Stevie can’t hear, but can imagine: money, and work, and the future.
A breeze blows, tousling his blond hair, and Stevie leans into it, closing his eyes to the sting.
“One of these days you’re gonna fall over, leaning like that.”
Stevie opens his eyes to Arnie Roth swinging his legs up and over the ledge. He hops down and crouches next to Stevie, his left hand hidden behind his back.
“Hiya, Arnie. Where’d you go?” Arnie had disappeared from their walk through the crowd nearly fifteen minutes earlier, vanishing with an ease that would have impressed the street magicians on the corner of Delancey and Orchard.
“I went to get us a couple a’ these.” Arnie pulls his hand out from behind his back and brandishes two apples on sticks. One is covered with caramel, the other with hard red candy.
Stevie narrows his eyes, suspicious. Arnie’s never had any more pocket money than Stevie himself. “How’d you pay for them?”
“I have my ways.” Arnie licks his caramel-covered apple with a Cheshire grin and hands the candy apple to Stevie.
Stevie understands the implication of the smile, but it doesn’t stop him from taking the apple anyway. The sun has made the candy shell slick and sticky; it coats Stevie’s tongue and the corners of his lips as he bites through the hard outer layer. “Gambling is a terrible habit,” he admonishes, through a mouthful of fruit and sugar.
“Did your mama teach you that?” Arnie raises a playful eyebrow.
“Yes,” Stevie says, defensive.
“Well, Stevie, your mother is a real doll, but she doesn’t know everything.”
Stevie isn’t so sure of that. Sarah Rogers is brave and smart, with small, strong hands cracked red from the laundry work that feeds her son. To Stevie’s knowledge, she has never been wrong. But Arnie is smart, too, albeit in a more unconventional way, and he stands up to the neighborhood toughs with a bravery Stevie could never envision in himself. Arnie has hands that are wide and rough and have been raised in Stevie’s defense more times than either of them can count, and Stevie doesn’t want to argue with him.
Arnie leans over the ledge, disregarding his own earlier warning. Stevie finds himself watching the curve of his broad back beneath his thin shirt, the developing muscles at his shoulders. A sharp wind could pick up Stevie’s bony frame and propel it over the ledge, but Arnie is too solid for that. Solid, and sturdy, and stronger than his thirteen years should allow.
Stevie feels a blush creeping into his cheeks and takes a sharp bite of apple, averting his eyes. There’s no reason to be staring. He joins Arnie at the ledge, directing his gaze to the pavement.
The scene below is painting-perfect, sharply-defined figures in a watercolor palette. Shadows fall at shallow angles in the three o’clock sun, highlighting the curves of cheeks and collarbones. “I wish I’d thought to grab some paper and a pencil,” Stevie sighs, wistful. His fingers itch to draw.
“You’re thinking about art at a time like this?” Arnie shakes his head. “Come on, Stevie. There are plenty of other reasons to enjoy the view. Like, for instance,” he says, licking at his apple in a way that makes Stevie vaguely uncomfortable and gesturing to the crowd with his free hand, “that dame.”
Stevie looks down at the girl in question. The neckline of her buttoned blouse gaps outward, and from their rooftop angle the boys have a clear view of her bosom.
“Arnie! That’s indecent!” Stevie pulls away from the ledge, turning around and sitting with his back against the wall. His shoulder blades bite into the brick.
Arnie twists back, away from the girl and her breasts, and plops down next to Stevie. “Ah, Stevie, lighten up. We’re red-blooded American teenagers! This is what we’re supposed to be doing.”
“Are you sure?” Stevie asks, screwing up his face into a frown.
Arnie shrugs. “That’s what the other boys say.”
Stevie thinks that Arnie is probably right. Arnie is right, and there just must be something wrong with Stevie’s brain, something that made looking at that lady’s chest leave him with no desire, no excitement, no emotion but embarrassment for this woman who had never anticipated the prying eyes of teenagers on rooftops. Maybe his mind is as underdeveloped as his rail-thin body.
“Well, I still think it’s rude.” Stevie says, weakly.
Arnie cocks his head to the side and gives Stevie a strange look, like maybe Stevie has all the world’s answers, or maybe just like Arnie doesn’t. “Yeah,” he concedes. “Maybe it is.”
“Anyway,” Arnie continues, brightening again. He flips over onto his stomach and peers down at the street once more, propped up by his elbows on the shallow wall. “We can keep watching other stuff.” He gestures to a man balancing a high stack of hatboxes as Stevie returns to his position on the parapet. “Ten cents says that fella drops those boxes.”
“I don’t wager, Arnie,” Stevie says, frowning again. “I thought we already talked about that.”
Arnie takes a bite of his apple and shakes his head, laughing. Apple bits spray on the brick. “Aw, Stevie, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you.” But he says it with a grin, elbowing Stevie in the side and reaching up to ruffle his hair. His fingers feel strangely gentle, almost feathery, against Stevie’s scalp, and Stevie can’t help but smile. On the street, the man with the boxes passes out of view without dropping a single item.
The boys sit in silence for a few minutes, eating their apples and gazing downwards. Arnie makes low whistles now and again, passing comments and jibes, but Stevie doesn’t pay much attention; his mind is lost in thoughts, dreamy and disconnected. He’s thinking about his mother, at home, his mother who won’t stop coughing even though it’s summertime. He’s thinking about the fair, and about how, as much fun it was just to walk around, looking at the people and the attractions and the items for sale, it would have been that much better if he’d had just a little bit of money to spend—if he could have more to his name than this ill-gotten apple. But mostly he’s thinking about how he feels so comfortable, here, with his best friend beside him, the sweet flavor of red candy on his lips, and the sounds of a barbershop quartet floating upward from the street below.
After a few minutes of quiet people-watching, Arnie twists again, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at Stevie. He holds up his apple, which has been bitten down to its core, and smiles like a sprite.
“Ok, no bets this time,” he says, gesturing with the stick. “But watch me get this in the tarp over there.”
Stevie looks to where Arnie is pointing: a canvas tarp, red stripes on a green background, stretched across four poles over a popcorn vendor’s table on the other side of the street.
“You’ll never make it,” Stevie says.
“Just watch.” And, before Stevie can stop him, Arnie stretches one muscled arm and flings the apple core out from the rooftop. It flies in a wide arc over the street, but falls well short of the tarp, landing instead atop the pink hat of a curly-haired lady making her lone way down the street.
The woman looks up, startled, and takes the core off of her head. She stares at it for a moment. Arnie breaks out into giggles.
“Wretched children!” the woman shouts, looking up toward the roof, head turning from side to side in search of the apple-throwing culprits. Dozens of curious onlookers turn to gape; the barbershop quartet stops singing. From their spot on the roof, Stevie and Arnie wait, breathless, to see what she’ll do next. Suddenly, the woman stops turning her head, stares directly at the place where the boys are sitting, and winds up her arm to throw the apple core back at the rooftop.
“Stevie, duck!” Arnie cries, popping his head below the roof’s edge and pushing Stevie down with him. The apple sails easily over their heads, landing ten feet away in a pile of dust. Both boys collapse into giggles, falling over each other on the wooden boards of the roof.
Stevie is the first to recover. “You shouldn’t’ve done that, Arnie,” he says, lifting his head from his friend’s shoulder. “You knew you wouldn’t make it.”
“What’s life without a little risk?” A loose lock of dark brown hair falls over Arnie’s eyes, and his smile makes them glitter from the shadow the hair casts. Stevie focuses his attention on his apple, shy for the second time, and licks what little is left of the red candy.
“Hey, give me a taste of that,” Arnie says, pointing to the apple. “Mine’s all gone.”
Stevie takes the apple away from his mouth and cocks his head. Ordinarily, he would say yes. Arnie bought the apples. Arnie is his friend. Stevie has never had a problem with sharing. But today he feels playful, and bold, and something else he can’t describe; he pulls the half-eaten apple out of Arnie’s reach. “No take-backs, Arnie. I got this from you fair and square, and yours was finished before you threw it, anyway.”
“Aww, come on, Stevie. Just one bite?” Arnie pouts his lips. Something flutters inside of Stevie. He stands up and takes off across the roof, in the wild hope that he can outrun the inexplicable butterflies in his stomach.
“Fine,” he says, as he runs, “But you’ll have to catch me first!”
Arnie gives chase, and catches up easily; he tackles Stevie like a linebacker and sends him sprawling on the roof’s surface. Caught off guard by Arnie’s momentum, Stevie’s fingers loosen on the wooden stick in his fist; the apple, little more than a meaty core with sticky red edges, rolls away across the dusty boards.
Stevie breathes heavily; more heavily than he should after such a short run. Arnie is straddling his chest. The sounds of the street fair seem very far away. “Guess it’s a moot point now, huh?” he gasps.
“No,” Arnie says, his smile a bit deranged. “I’ll just have to get it from you the hard way.” And before Stevie can do anything to fight back, Arnie leans down, still playful, and licks at the corner of Stevie’s mouth, where the sugary cherry candy still clings in red smears. His tongue feels like the tiny soft gasps of air from the necklace ladies’ makeshift paper fans.
Arnie pulls back, just an inch. He wets his lips, and his smiling, mischievous eyes cloud over with confusion and something on the edge of terror.
Stevie knows he should react. He knows he should howl in protest, push Arnie off of him, continue the chase, continue the game.
But he’s not sure if it’s a game anymore.
Arnie continues to hover, the pressure of his body sticky and oppressive beneath air that’s still heavy with humidity and the smell of funnel cake, and Stevie says the only thing his fevered mind can conjure up. “I want to try your apple.”
“But my apple fell, too,” Arnie says, quietly. His voice is slightly strangled, and he suddenly sounds very young.
“I know,” Stevie says. He can feel his limbs trembling. His neck cranes up. Inside Arnie’s mouth, Stevie’s tongue tastes caramel.
1940
Steve knows the question will come. He’s known since before he ever thought about enlisting; has known since the day he sat in a crowded, smoky art school common room and first heard a word with too many syllables and too much significance. When he marches into that draft office, the question will come, and Steve will have to answer it, for better or worse.
But they don’t ask. One look at Steve’s body, at his ribcage poking through the paper-thin skin stretched over his heart, and he’s stamped 4F without another word, before a single box can be checked with a yes or a no. Moments later, the super-soldier recruiters have descended, and the question is temporarily pushed aside.
Steve is glad. He’s glad because he still remembers hot summers and candy apples and a boy with eyes that sparkled even in shadow. He’s glad because he still remembers a lost mother who taught him that gambling is a sin, but that dishonesty is worse. He’s glad because he’s not sure how he would have answered. He’s not sure he could have lied.
By the time the question does come, Steve has been in the super-soldier program for weeks. They’ve done tests of every type and variety, drawn blood and marrow and tissue samples, pushed Steve past his physical limit more times than he can count. And Steve has had time to think—about his country, and his duty, and the lives he’s going to save when this promised serum is running through his veins. He’s had time to think about all the good he can accomplish, if he locks away just one tiny part of himself in a box of plywood and mirrors. If he just leaves little Stevie Rogers behind, once and for all.
Becoming a soldier seemed important before, but now it’s the most important thing he can imagine, and Steve isn’t going to let anything stop him. Not even memories of summertime and sugar.
The character interview is filled with questions. “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?” they ask. “Have you ever sworn allegiance to another nation?” “Have you ever spoken against the President?” “Have you ever entertained thoughts of treason?” And finally, spoken from the taut lips of a stone-faced army sergeant, that long-awaited query: “Do you have homosexual tendencies?”
“No,” Steve answers, to each and every question. “No, no, no. No.”
Dead memories fall away like unwanted apple cores, and his inflection doesn’t change.