Don't Die Under the Apple Tree

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Rosie mulled it over; the idea was not without merit. “Come on, Katie, don’t push me. I can’t have you with me. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “What do you think is going to happen? It’s Red Hook in broad daylight and you’ll be there with me.”

  The older sister pulled a face.

  “Please?” Katie begged. “I’ll meet you after work and we can go together.”

  “And what about Charlie?”

  “I’ll have Ma watch him while I go ‘shopping.’”

  “Katie ... you shouldn’t.” Rosie felt her resolve weakening.

  “I don’t care if I shouldn’t. I want to help you as much as I can. Please,” Katie urged.

  Rosie thought of the short time left until her arrest. She didn’t want Katie and Charlie to see her taken away in handcuffs. “Okay,” she agreed. “You can come with me, but on one condition.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “You move out by tomorrow night.”

  “Move out? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Katie-girl, that we have only a few short weeks until the end of the month and I need that time to get my things in order. Besides, Ma’s eager to have you and Charlie back in Greenpoint.”

  “Yeah, I know she is—she’s eager to have all of us back—but what about you?”

  “I’ll be along at the end of the month. Until then, if I need help packing, I know who to call.”

  “All right,” Katie reluctantly agreed. “But I still don’t understand the rush to get me out of here.”

  “The rush, dear sister, is that it’s finally spring. And it would better for you and Charlie to be breathing the smells of freshly cut grass and lilac bushes instead of the asphalt and tar used by the road crews to patch the winter potholes.”

  “It was nice today, wasn’t it?”

  “It sure was,” Rosie concurred.

  “I’ll call Ma and tell her I’ll be there with my things. Then I’ll leave Charlie there and meet you at the shipyard. What time?”

  “Twelve thirty.”

  “Twelve thirty,” Katie repeated. “Sounds like a plan.”

  As Katie went off to the bedroom to call their mother, Rosie stretched out on the overstuffed couch.

  It’s a plan, all right, she thought. And so far, the only one she had.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday morning loomed as bright and unseasonably warm as the day prior to it. Having switched her heavy canvas coveralls for a pair of Sanforized cotton work pants and short-sleeved shirt, Rosie entered the employee holding area and informed a stunned Del Vecchio that Jackson would be returning to work Monday morning.

  “What?!” was his only reaction. “What makes you think I want her back?”

  “Because, once again, it would look very bad if you didn’t take back a single mother who’s been too sick with the grippe the past few days to call in.”

  Del Vecchio reached into the breast pocket of his work shirt and extracted a pack of cigarettes and a stainless steel lighter. “The grippe? And she couldn’t call?”

  “No phone. Besides, her fever was so high and she was so weak, she couldn’t even make it to the door. That’s why she didn’t answer when Dewitt stopped by. I only got inside after having someone kick the door in.” At least that part is partially true, she rationalized. Still, she’d go home and say a few Hail Marys—just in case.

  Del Vecchio gave a heavy sigh. “Okay, Keefe. But that’s the last favor I do for you, capisce?”

  Rosie had no idea what the word “capisce” meant, but she could infer that Jackson was getting her job back. Satisfied that at least one item on the day’s agenda could be crossed off, she waited quietly beside Nelson through the day’s work announcements and then set off through the yard.

  Taking great care not to smile, she greeted a silent Kolacky as he heated the forge and then she scaled the scaffold of Pier Number One.

  Kilbride was waiting for her. “Mornin’, Rosaleen. Looks like we’re in for a scorcher today.”

  “Good morning. Yeah, it’s already seventy degrees and it’s only eight o’clock. Thank goodness it’s a half day.”

  “True. Still, e’en a ’alf day of sun can turn a person’s scalp as red as those tresses of yours.” He pulled a plaid handkerchief from the front pocket of his work shirt and handed it to Rosie. “’Ere, use that as a bonnet, will ya? Though it might be fun tryin’ to revive ya, I don’t need you gettin’ faint due to the heatstroke.”

  “Thanks, Kilbride.” Smiling, Rosie folded the square of fabric into a triangle and tied it beneath the back of her hair. As she looked up, she saw Kilbride’s rivet gun lying on the platform. “I thought you said you checked that back into the toolshed last night.”

  “I thought I did, too. I swear it must be those filthy leprechauns. They have it in for me, don’t ya know.”

  Rosie shook her head. “The only one who’ll have it in for you is Del Vecchio. If the second-shift riveter sees your gun here and reports you, he’ll dock your paycheck.”

  “Eh, let the little wop do his worst. I can take ’im!”

  Again Rosie shook her head. Not only did Kilbride probably know more racial epithets than anyone at the yard, he used them constantly.

  As if to bear out this theory, Dewitt suddenly appeared at the top of the scaffold.

  “Mornin’, Wilson. Gonna be a hot one. Hope you brought your suntan lotion.” Kilbride laughed loudly.

  “Mornin.’” The tall Negro man nodded to Kilbride and slid his eyes sheepishly toward Rosie.

  “Oh, what’s this? You and Rosaleen havin’ a lover’s spat?” Kilbride joked.

  Rosie glared at the Irishman.

  “Sorry, love. I suppose I ought to let you sort things out for yourselves. But in the meantime, let’s get to work, eh?”

  With that, Kilbride hopped onto the rope scaffold and began to sing as Rosie and Dewitt lowered him over the edge of the hull:

  Of priests we can offer a charmin variety,

  Far renownd for learnin and piety;

  Still, Id advance ye widout impropriety,

  Father OFlynn as the flowr of them all.

  Heres a health to you, Father OFlynn,

  Slainte and slainte and slainte agin;

  Powrfulest preacher, and tenderest teacher,

  And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

  As they each worked a rope, Dewitt looked at Rosie. “Sorry for runnin’ off the way I did last night. I didn’t want Shelby thinkin’ that I ...”

  “That’s all right, Wilson. I understand.”

  “I checked in on her after you folks left, though.”

  “You did? I’m sure she liked that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, she did. She told me you talked her into comin’ back to the yard, too. Thank you for that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You have no idea how happy I am to have her back.” He cleared his throat. “I mean—she has those bills to pay for her boy, and this is the best-paying job in town.”

  “I knew what you meant.” She smiled. “I already spoke to Del Vecchio. He knows she’ll be back on Monday. Just make sure you tell Shelby that, if anyone asks, she was at home with the grippe and too weak to get out of bed.”

  Dewitt nodded. “I will. She hates lyin’, but I’ll make sure she does this time.”

  “Good.” As the volume of Kilbride’s voice increased, Rosie rolled her eyes and laughed. “It’s going to be a long four-and-a-half hours if you persist in singing through all of them, Clinton. Shouldn’t you be saving your saliva, what with the hot weather?”

  Even the taciturn Dewitt couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Ah, aren’t you full of piss and vinegar this mornin’, Rosaleen,” Kilbride replied and continued to sing even louder:

  Dont talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,

  Famous forever at Greek and Latinity,

  Dad and the divils and all at Divinity,

  Father
OFlynn d make hares of them all!

  As Kilbride sang the last word, a ruckus could be heard from the yard below.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with these?” Rudy Hansen, the blond Swedish heater, picked up a handful of unheated rivets from the bucket beside him and threw them to the ground angrily. “I can’t get these hot enough without losing half the shank!”

  Rosie watched as Del Vecchio, his face a bright crimson, hurried across the yard to Hansen’s forge. Although she could not hear the new foreman’s words, it was apparent that he was desperate to silence the man.

  Hansen, however, remained agitated. “What do you mean it’s not the rivets?” he shouted, this time louder than before. “I’m the best heater in this yard, Del Vecchio. If I can’t get those to temperature, no one can!”

  Del Vecchio placed a hand on Hansen’s back, leaned toward the man, and issued a quiet directive. Hansen resisted, albeit quietly, but his body language exhibited his hostility. After a few moments had elapsed, however, the tall, blond Hansen finally threw his hands up in the air and followed his short, swarthy boss into the holding area.

  Riveting gangs often encountered faulty rivets on the job. The process for such occurrences was to pull the bad rivet, set it aside, note the batch it came from on a nearby clipboard, and then move along.

  With his years of shipbuilding experience, Hansen should have been accustomed to stumbling upon the odd faulty rivet. So why was he so upset? And why was Del Vecchio so eager to quiet him down?

  The only reason she could think of was that the entire bag might be defective. How that could possibly have occurred, she had no idea, but there was only one way to test it.

  Spying the unattended bag of rivets standing by Hansen’s forge, Rosie gave a quick nod to Dewitt. “I’ll be right back,” she announced before climbing down the scaffold.

  Quick as a wink, she ran to the adjacent pier where Rudy Hansen’s white-hot forge sent plumes of black smoke billowing into the air above Gowanus Bay. Reaching into the bag of rivets, she extracted the metal objects by the handful and stuffed them into the pockets of her cotton work pants before hastening back to Pier Number One.

  Once there, she stopped by Kolacky’s forge and offered him a handful of rivets. “Kolacky? Can you try using these first?”

  Kolacky’s dark eyebrows furrowed, causing his thick eyeglasses to travel up the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s an experiment. If you could try using them, I’d appreciate it. Please.”

  Without a word, Kolacky took the rivets from Rosie’s hand and threw them onto the forge.

  Pulling the second handful of rivets from her other pocket, she ran to the next forge, which was operated by Terrence Foster. At sixty-one years of age, Foster, gray, grizzled, his hide tanned from over four decades of outdoor labor, served as the elder statesman of the yard. Although not necessarily in favor of Pushey’s new policy of hiring women, Foster had witnessed enough transformations within the industry to understand that it was useless to resist change. Instead, he rolled with the punches, did his best to remain neutral, and treated everyone with respect.

  Rosie, out of breath from her spate of recent activity, rushed to him with an outstretched arm. Without a word, Foster grabbed the contents of Rosie’s hand. “You making trouble again?”

  Rosie smiled and nodded. “I don’t make it. It just finds me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d best get back up that scaffold before Kilbride finds out you’re gone. Then you will have trouble.”

  “But what about—?” She pointed to the rivets.

  “I’ll let you know,” he assured with a nod of his head.

  “Thanks.” She turned on one heel and hastened back to Pier Number One, where a gloomy Kolacky stood frowning into the forge.

  “What?” she asked. “They’re no good?”

  Kolacky turned up his nose and shook his head.

  “Hmm ... Thank you, Kolacky,” she said graciously before scampering back up to the platform.

  There, Kilbride, still on his rope platform, glared over the hull of the ship. “They warned me you might be a hothead and a busybody, Rosaleen, but no one told me you were a sprinter.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just—”

  “I know what you were doing, Rosaleen. The question is, do you?” With a stern look, Kilbride lowered himself down into the hull.

  Rosie watched as Dewitt pulled the ropes that sped Kilbride’s descent. He was right. She had no idea what she was getting herself into, but she also knew that she had no room for second thoughts.

  A sudden shout drew her attention. Leaning over the edge of the scaffold, she saw Foster jumping up and down and waving. “Hey! Hey! It didn’t heat. It melted.”

  Rosie waved a signal in return and then prepared for the day’s work, all the while her mind awhirl. Kolacky, with an underhanded toss, sent the first batch of rivets sailing toward the scaffold. With a graceful bend of the arm, Rosie caught them in her cone and then proceeded to place them into the ship’s predrilled holes. As she did so, she eyed each piece of white metal and wondered what made these rivets good and the other ones defective.

  The occasional faulty rivet was one thing, but an entire bag of them was a different matter entirely. What had changed to make them so difficult to heat to temperature? Were they simply the wrong rivets or were they, indeed, faulty? And if they were bad, how could they have slipped through quality inspectors?

  Foster, although obliging, had more years of experience than the other heaters in the yard, but unfortunately his knowledge was more anecdotal than scientific. To understand the forging process, Rosie needed to speak to someone who knew the ins and outs of steel casting and riveting.

  Indeed, there was only one man in the yard who understood the technical elements behind the perfect rivet fit. And that man was Rudy Hansen.

  While the average eight-hour workday was punctuated by a thirty-minute lunch break at noon, the shorter Saturday shift offered employees a fifteen-minute break at ten thirty. As the temperature soared to an uncomfortably humid eighty-two degrees, Rosie danced across the scaffold boards, catching and then placing rivets, and periodically wiping the perspiration from her brow.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, the whistle sounded to signify the beginning of break. As Dewitt pulled Kilbride up from over the side of the hull, Rosie hurried down the scaffold and ran as fast as she could toward Pier Number Three.

  There, she approached Rudy Hansen, who stood by his forge, guzzling water from an insulated metal jug. “Hansen,” she called.

  “Get away from me,” he warned.

  “Hansen. I need to speak with you.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Keefe.”

  “Please, Hansen. This isn’t about you, me, Finch, or what happened the other day. This is about the rivets you complained about this morning.”

  Hansen raised an eyebrow. “What about them?”

  “They’re defective. The whole batch of them. I had other heaters test them out.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “While you were inside talking to Del Vecchio. Before the cleanup crew took the bag away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t say they couldn’t be heated if they could.”

  He bit his lip, deep in thought.

  “What is it?” she prompted. “What would make them do that?”

  “Now’s not a good time to talk,” he said softly as he glanced at Del Vecchio and Delaney, standing outside the holding area door, laughing and talking.

  “Okay, then when?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” he scoffed.

  “Come on, Hansen, please. If something’s going on—”

  “Something’s going on, all right. You’re nuts. Now get outta here.” He pushed her, hard. Rosie felt herself falling backward, but before she could hit the ground, a pair of strong arms caught her and propped her up.

  “Now, Rudy, that’s no way to be treat
in’ a lady, is it?” Kilbride challenged as he helped Rosie to her feet.

  “This has nothing to do with you, Kilbride.”

  “Ah, but it does. Rosaleen here is a part of me riveting gang.That means she took time out of our workday to test your rivets. Those tests prove that it were the rivets at fault, and not your heating skills. I think that’s worthy of a reward, don’t ya think?”

  “You want to know what I think? I think you’re crazy, too.”

  “True, dat. I don’t know many folks who’d argue with ya. But Rosaleen isn’t crazy. Indeed, the lady had a simple request and asked it nicely, so why don’t ya have a listen while she repeats it?”

  Rosie took her cue. “It’s important that I talk to you about the rivets, Hansen. Not here. Not now, but after work.”

  Hansen pulled a face. “Where?”

  She searched her memory for a place that would afford them a chance to speak in private, would set Hansen’s nerves at ease, and yet would ensure her safety should Hansen decide to throw his weight around again. “There’s a bar in Greenpoint called Logan’s. It’s on the corner of Greenpoint and McGuinness.”

  Rosie didn’t frequent bars; however, Logan’s, a bar near the neighborhood where she had grown up, was a favorite of Billy’s. Not only did she know the proprietor, Frank Logan, from the many occasions upon which he had brought Billy home after a night of drinking, but she had gone to school with his two daughters, Moira and Colleen.

  “Oh, that’s a nice pub, that is,” Kilbride opined. “Good folk. Nice atmosphere. You’ll enjoy havin’ a pint there, Hansen.”

  With a prolonged sigh, the tall Swede finally caved in. “What time?”

  Rosie considered the time required to check Finch’s apartment, send Katie off, shower, and change clothes. “How about six o’clock?”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “Good,” Rosie said with a quick nod and headed back to the scaffold, Kilbride following close at her heels. “Thank you, Clinton, but I could have gotten him on my own.”

  “I know. I saw ya were workin’ wonders when I arrived,” he quipped. “Fallin’ all over yerself to get ’im to talk to ya.”