Don't Die Under the Apple Tree by Amy Patricia Meade

sweater and, with a pair of cotton workcloth coveralls stuffed into her oversized handbag, caught the 12:25 train to Brooklyn. After checking in at Pushey’s front gate, she stepped from the unseasonably warm April air and through the heavy metal doors of the main building. The dreary, windowless holding area, typically resonating with laughter and chatter as employees awaited the start of their shift, was now vacant and eerily quiet.
    Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since she’d last stood in this room, and yet it felt like it had been months. In that brief period of time, her marriage, her job, and her freedom had all been compromised. At the moment, Rosie could do nothing to save nor improve her marriage, but she could work on preserving the other two.
    She sighed heavily and exited through the heavy steel door to the shipyard, which was abuzz with coverall-clad employees working furiously to make up for the previous day’s cancelled night shift. It was not long, however, before attention switched away from production and to the redheaded visitor standing outside the holding area doors.
    The shipyard gradually fell silent as all eyes fell on Rosie.
    Amid the sea of disapproving stares, Rosie felt her pulse begin to race. What am I doing here? she wondered to herself. Everyone thinks I killed Finch! They’re never going to give me my job back. I might as well —
    She was about to retreat back into the employee holding area when she noticed a petite woman in her mid-twenties walking toward her. Her blue coveralls were stained with splotches of black grease in every conceivable size and shape and her cheeks bore traces of dirt and grime, yet her brunette hair, tied in a pink kerchief, and her ruby tinted lips demonstrated that this young woman had no intention of trading in her femininity for a steady paycheck.
    â€œKeefe?” she asked as she offered a gloved right hand.
    Rosie, in wonderment, took the hand and nodded.
    â€œNelson,” the younger woman introduced herself. “I just wanted to thank you for sticking up for us.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œHansen and a few of the other guys have been giving us girls a tough time ever since we got here. Lots of us thought about doing what you did, but we were too scared to go through with it. Thanks for being brave. Thanks for showing them that we don’t have to take their guff.”
    â€œThat really wasn’t something I planned,” Rosie explained. “I just got mad, that’s all.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter why. You still stuck up for yourself. And, for the record, I don’t think you did it.”
    Rosie’s face was a question.
    â€œKilled Finch, I mean,” Nelson clarified.“But even if you did, we’ll stand behind you. Finch had it coming to him.”
    â€œWhat the hell’s goin’ on out here?” a man’s voice suddenly bellowed. “I didn’t call for a break.”
    Rosie spun around and watched as the figure of Tony Del Vecchio emerged from the shadows of the red brick building behind her.
    â€œWhat’s everyone staring at? Did FDR decide to pay us a—?” At the sight of Rosie, Del Vecchio fell silent.
    â€œSo you’re the new foreman,” Rosie deduced. “I should have guessed.”
    Del Vecchio cleared his throat before launching back into command mode. “All right, people, back to work. There’s nothing to see here. You, too, Nelson. I’ve had enough of your yappin’ for one day.”
    As Nelson trudged back to the dock and the loud whir of hydraulic guns resumed, Del Vecchio waved Rosie back into the main building and shut the door. “If you’re here for your last check, Keefe, I ain’t got it. All the hours for the week are still in Finch’s office. The cops have had it locked up since they got here last night.”
    â€œI’m not here for that. I’m here for a