Don't Die Under the Apple Tree

by Amy Patricia Meade

  It was, therefore, a genuine surprise to find that today, the first, second, and then a third round of rivets landed softly in the bucket.

  Still on guard, yet hoping for the best, she caught every rivet Hansen cast her way that morning. Feeling herself falling into the rhythm the other, more experienced passers had described, she finally understood their love for the trade. There was, amongst the creaks and crackles of the narrow walkways, despite the swinging of the ragged old ropes, a beautiful choreography to the process.

  Rosie grabbed a hot rivet from her bucket, placed it in a predrilled hole, and smiled to herself. Perhaps this job will work out, she thought. Perhaps I’ve been too hasty—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden and sharp burning sensation in the back of her trousers. Rosie turned her head to see a round hole, just about the size of a rivet, singed into the seat of her coveralls. Fifty feet below her, Hansen and another man laughed.

  Furious, Rosie shouted from the scaffold, “The next rivet that hits me, Hansen, is getting thrown right back in your face.”

  Rosie’s warning elicited whistles and catcalls from the male workers in the vicinity.

  Hansen’s smart-aleck response—“If you can’t stand the heat, go back to the kitchen”—brought down the house, prompting Bob Finch to emerge from the shipyard office.

  “That’s enough, fellas. Get back to work,” he commanded. “And Keefe? You open that piehole of yours again, you’re outta here.”

  Finch marched back into his office, leaving a quiet crew to return to their various tasks.

  Rosie drew a deep breath and picked up her rivet bucket, hopeful that Hansen would play fair. But, in her heart of hearts, she knew that things wouldn’t be that simple—a feeling borne out when Hansen tossed the next bunch of rivets overhanded instead of underhanded, sending the white-hot pieces of metal hurtling past Rosie’s bucket and directly toward her head and torso.

  Rosie shielded her face with her forearms and yelped as the rivets, reminiscent of glowing grapeshot, burned tiny holes into her kerchief and coat sleeves and sent her scuttling backward along the narrow wooden planks. Fearful she might lose her balance, Delaney rushed from the other end of the scaffold, reached around her coat, and grabbed hold of the elastic waistband of her coveralls.

  “You okay, Rosie?” Delaney asked.

  She gave no reply. Her anger at the morning’s events—Del Vecchio’s taunting, Billy’s lies, and Finch’s reprimands—rushed forth in a torrent. Hastily, she picked three of the hot rivets up from the floorboards with her tongs and made her way down the scaffold.

  “Hey, Hansen,” Rosie called when she was a few feet away from the forge.

  Hansen, his back turned to the scaffold as he laughed and joked with two other men, had been oblivious to Rosie’s descent. At the sound of her voice, he turned to confront his redheaded nemesis, his face registering both surprise and confusion.

  With a quick motion of her arm, Rosie released the rivets from her tongs and launched them at Hansen’s chest. Two of them bounced off of his asbestos apron and landed on the sleeves of his heavy flannel shirt. The third, however, slipped down the top of Hansen’s apron, causing the man to scream obscenities and dance around until the metal object, finally extricated, plopped onto the ground.

  A highly agitated Bob Finch exploded from his office door. “What the hell is wrong with you, Keefe? Hansen, you hurt bad?”

  Hansen shook his head.

  “Thank God for that,” Finch uttered in relief. “Everyone back to work. Keefe: my office.”

  Rosie obediently followed Finch into the shipyard office and stood before his desk. The foreman didn’t even bother to close the door before launching into his tirade.

  “What the hell were you thinking? Hansen is our best heater. You could have burned him—badly.”

  “Hansen could have burned me badly, too,” Rosie argued as she displayed the holes in her coat sleeves and the blistered red flesh on the arms beneath them. “Besides, you shouldn’t yell at me. He’s the one who started it.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a whole bunch of crazy broads lining up to take your place. There ain’t any men left who can fill in for Hansen. You’re fired, Keefe.”

  Rosie’s anger and indignation dissipated, immediately replaced by regret and remorse. “But Mr. Finch—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Keefe. Get outta here and let someone with a family to feed have your job.”

  “But I have a family to feed, too, Mr. Finch. Most of us women do. That’s ... that’s why we’re here.” Her voice cracked as she fought the urge to cry. “Please. Please, Mr. Finch. My sister and her baby moved in with me just a few weeks ago, right after my brother-in-law was killed. I need to take care of them.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yes.” She drew a deep breath. “Please, Mr. Finch, don’t fire me. I’m sorry about Hansen. I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right, it won’t happen again. You think I’d let you anywhere near Hansen after what you did to him?”

  “No,” she conceded. “But I’ll work anywhere else. I’ll paint. I’ll sweep up. I’ll work in the cafeteria. Anything.”

  “Anything, huh?” A gleam flickered in Finch’s eye.

  “Yes. Anything. I just need a job.”

  Finch grinned and shut the office door. “Maybe there is a spot for you. You’re a tiny thing... . I never noticed it until now. What do you weigh, 105? Or 110?”

  “Around there, I guess. Why?” Rosie stepped backward as she felt a wave of anxiety wash over her.

  “We could send you to weld the bottom of the hull.” Finch moved closer, his eyes appraising her with every step.

  Rosie took another step away from Finch only to back into his desk. “That sounds good,” she responded nervously.

  “It should. It pays more than you’ve been making.” Finch continued his approach.

  “That’s very kind of you. Who should I see about being trained?” she asked in an attempt to extricate herself.

  Finch grabbed her by the wrist. “Not so fast.”

  Rosie’s heart began racing and she wondered if she should scream. “What are you doing?”

  “You and I need to discuss the terms of our agreement.”

  “Agreement?” she asked as she tried to yank her wrist free of Finch’s grasp.

  Finch grabbed her other wrist and pulled her closer. “You owe me, Rosie. That’s what Delaney calls you, isn’t it? ‘Rosie.’”

  “Let go of me!”

  Finch only tightened his grip, all the while smiling menacingly. “Come on now, that’s no way to treat the man who just saved your job, is it?”

  “I don’t want the job. I don’t want this. Let me go!” Rosie struggled to break free, but Finch was incredibly strong.

  “Let you go? But we’re just getting started. You said you’d do anything to keep your job, didn’t you?”

  “I meant cleaning up or—or ... but not this,” Rosie explained, all the while trying to free her hands.

  Finch pushed her backward against the desk. “So you’re gonna let that sister and nephew of yours starve just because you changed your mind about playing? That’s silly, don’t ya think? Especially when we both know you want to.” As Finch moved his mouth closer to hers, Rosie leaned forward and gave his lip a hard bite.

  Finch reared back and instinctively brought his right hand to his mouth, leaving Rosie’s left hand free to grab the heavy green stapler from the desk behind her. Without a second thought, she lifted it above her head and brought it crashing down just above Finch’s right temple.

  Finch cried out in agony as Rosie swung open the office door and ran into the yard at breakneck speed, bumping into Michael Delaney on the way.

  “Rosie, what happened? Your face—it’s white. What happened? What did Finch do to you?”

  Rosie stared blankly at Delaney, uncertain of what he was saying or asking, certain only of her desire to run.

  Se
veral yards away, Bob Finch leaned out of his office door, a trickle of blood wending its way down the side of his face. “Keefe! You slut! I’ll make sure you never get a decent job in this town again!”

  The area surrounding the office fell silent as all eyes fell, in turn, from Bob Finch to Rose Doyle Keefe.

  “Delaney!” Finch shouted. “I’ll do the same to you if you don’t get back to work!”

  Delaney took Rosie’s hands and placed in them a handkerchief, a hipflask, and a one-dollar bill. “The money is for a cab so you get home safe,” he instructed before sprinting back to his rivet gun. “The rest is for you—in case you need it. I’ll check up on you later.”

  Rosie pocketed Delaney’s gifts, shot a vague smile in his direction, and took off through the Pushey Shipyard gates.

  Chapter Two

  It was well past dark by the time Rosie returned to her one-bedroom Manhattan apartment. After sitting near the Brooklyn docks for hours, she’d hopped the Brighton Beach subway line and rode it to Coney Island and back before transferring to the Interborough Rapid Transit train that would take her back across the East River into Manhattan. From the Eighth Avenue/ Twenty-third-Street stop, it was a two-block walk to the brownstone she and Billy Keefe called home.

  Thirteen years had passed since Billy first carried her over the threshold on their wedding night. During that time, Rosie watched her friends and neighbors marry, have children, and move to more spacious apartments and houses, while she and Billy barely scraped by. Realizing that her husband’s nonexistent work ethic and her part-time job at the local bakery would never afford them the opportunity to move, Rosie decided to make their apartment the best it could be. Although the space measured just three hundred square feet, Rosie worked hard to ensure that every precious inch wasn’t simply clean, but cozy. Using hardware store paint, she breathed new life into her secondhand bedroom set and coffee table, and, with discounted fabric from Montgomery Ward, she hand-stitched curtains, slipcovers, and throw pillows to conceal the threadbare sofa, dime-store bedspread, and dreary view.

  Rosie scaled the bare wooden staircase, consoled by the prospect of collapsing onto the slipcovered couch and sinking into the oblivion that only sleep could offer. However, upon arriving to find her sister, Katie, waiting by the apartment door, she knew that sleep would have to wait.

  “Oh, Rosie, thank goodness you’re home,” Katie cried as she threw her arms around her sister. “I’ve been so worried about you!”

  Rosie fell into Katie’s arms and buried her face in her younger sister’s long, blond hair. Comforted by her sister’s familiar scent of baby powder and Chantilly perfume, Rosie felt the tension in her shoulders ease and a trickle of silent tears stream down her face. It was the first time she had cried all day.

  “Shh,” Katie soothed. “Let it out. You’re home now. Mr. Finch is far, far away.”

  Rosie lifted her head from Katie’s shoulder. “How did you—?”

  “Michael Delaney came by to check on you. He told me you’d been fired. He also said that ... well, he said your boss was bleeding when you left. What happened, Rosie? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  Rosie entered the apartment and flopped onto the large, upholstered sofa, which, since Katie’s arrival, had been serving as her bed. “No, he didn’t hurt me. He ...” Her voice trailed off.

  Katie shut the apartment door and sat beside her sister. “You don’t have to talk now if you don’t want to,” she offered as she helped Rosie off with her coat and shoes. “I know it’s been a rough day. That’s why I laid your pajamas out on the bed. Go get cleaned up and when you come back, if you feel up to it, we can talk over some tea and some soup. It’s your favorite: navy bean, just like Pop used to make.”

  Rosie’s eyes again welled with tears. “Oh, Katie-girl,” she exclaimed as she embraced her sister. “I know it’s not under the best of circumstances, but I’m so glad you and Charlie are here right now.”

  “I am, too, Rosie.”

  Rosie’s eyes narrowed. “Say, where is that nephew of mine anyway?”

  “Oh, I put him down for the night.”

  “Of course. Stupid of me. I guess I didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “No matter. I’m sure he’d still like a kiss from his Aunt Rosie,” Katie replied as she sent her sister off to the apartment’s only bedroom.

  Rosie tiptoed through the narrow passage between Charlie’s crib and the double bed. Peering over the wooden rails, she watched as the towheaded six-month-old, thumb in mouth, slumbered peacefully. With a proud grin, she smoothed his hair and pulled the blanket over his pajama-clad body before retreating to the bathroom for a much-needed shower and change of clothes.

  She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, still on edge, but better equipped to face the world. After changing into a set of short-sleeved cotton pajamas and a chenille bathrobe, and after conducting another brief check on Charlie, Rosie returned to the living room to find the whitewashed coffee table set with two cups of tea, sugar, milk, and spoons. From the corner of the room, Glenn Miller’s “Serenade in Blue” echoed softly from the 1940 Philco console radio.

  “What’s all this? You don’t have to wait on me.”

  “Oh yes, I do. You’ve watched over me my entire life. It’s high time I take care of you for a change,” Katie explained from the kitchen. “How’s Charlie?”

  “Sound asleep and beautiful.” Rosie sighed.

  “You’ll have one of your own someday.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Why not?” Katie challenged as she brought two steaming bowls of soup from the kitchen.

  Rosie settled onto the sofa with her bowl and spoon. “Thanks. This smells wonderful,” she said, purposely avoiding the question.

  “I hope it tastes as good as it smells,” Katie replied as she settled beside her sister. “So what do you mean you’re ‘not so sure’? Do you mean because of Billy?”

  “Mmmm ...” Rosie slurped her soup noisily. “Gee, Katie. I think this might be better than Pop’s.”

  “Thanks,” Katie answered absently. “Ummm ... I heard about Billy and what that man said about seeing him. I can’t believe it! You don’t really think he’s still in town, do you?”

  Rosie let her spoon drop into her soup bowl. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Part of me refuses to believe that Billy would stoop so low. His disappearing for a day or two is nothing new, but four months? Where could he have gone for so long? But then again, if he did enlist, I would have heard something by now, wouldn’t I? At least I would have gotten his paychecks.”

  “Not if he didn’t arrange to send them to you.”

  “True. It’s not like I got his paychecks when he was at home. Why should this be any different? But I ... well, I’d like to think he’d write me to tell me where he was.”

  “When Jimmy got shipped out, he wrote to me from the train that same day,” Katie recalled with a wistful smile. “I didn’t receive it until two weeks later, but still ...”

  Rosie placed a comforting arm on her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Katie-girl. Here I am going on about Billy when ...” Her voice grew faint.

  “That’s all right,” Katie assured as she patted Rosie on the knee. “They’re good memories. Besides, I was the one who brought up Billy in the first place.”

  “Yeah, but—” Rosie narrowed her eyes and let her arm slip from Katie’s shoulder. “Say, how did you know about Billy anyway?”

  “Delaney, of course.”

  “Of course.” Rosie shook her head. “Wow, you two had a regular gabfest, didn’t you? I always knew Delaney was sweet on you.”

  “Sweet on me? Dream on, Macbeth! Delaney’s been following you around since grade school.” Katie laughed. “Makes you wonder, though, doesn’t it? What would your life be like if you had married someone like him instead of Billy Keefe?”

  “Given the Delaneys’ ability to reproduce, I’d probably have six kids by now.”
>
  “All of them with your red hair and Michael’s glorious nose!”

  “Now, wouldn’t that be pretty? But then again, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here, feeling like such a fool.”

  “You’re not a fool. You trusted the man you married, the man you love.”

  “But I shouldn’t have trusted him. I’ve always suspected there were other women. I just didn’t want to think about it, that’s all.” Rosie picked up her spoon and poked at the beans in her soup. “The other thing is ... well, I’m not sure I do love Billy. Not anymore. I think I fell out of love with him quite some time ago.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I have other things to worry about. Like, for instance, the fact that I no longer have a job.”

  “You’re one of the hardest-working people I know. Why were you fired? And why was your boss bleeding when you left?”

  Rosie told Katie about the incident with Hansen and then the scene in Finch’s office.

  Katie gasped. “Oh, Rosie, honey, I’m so sorry! You wouldn’t have taken that job if it weren’t for me and Charlie moving in with you.”

  Rosie shook her head. “It’s not your fault. Whether you were here or not, I’d still have to find something to take the place of Billy’s paycheck.”

  “Yeah, but without our mouths to feed you could have taken a shop-clerk job or something that paid less. I never liked the idea of you working at the docks with all those men. It’s dangerous.”

  “No, Katie! I love having you and Charlie here. With Billy gone, I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t. As for a shop-clerk job, I would have taken one if there were any. Right now, every job out there has something to do with the war. No, the only person to blame here is me. If I had only kept my cool and not lost my temper, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have been fired and Finch wouldn’t have tried what he did.”