to another,” she told Willis, “like bumper cars.”
The men liked the vision. They laughed.
“I speculate she was a little bitch, the fox terrier type,” Fritz told Rennie. “Willis tells her to get lost. He tells her she’s coed history and she got up on her hind legs—”
Rennie said, “A rule of thumb: treat a tramp like a lady and tease a lady like a tramp.”
Fritz said, “Maybe Willis couldn’t pinpoint what she was. This girl attacked him. We got the arm reset tonight at the hospital.”
Rennie said, “
We
did? We went to Newport Hospital? We have to pay for the emergency room if we go to that private hospital.”
“When you break something
you
can go over to the Navy hospital,” Willis said.
She wasn’t listening to him. “When did this happen?”
“Who keeps track of time,” Willis said. He reclined on his bed and crossed his arms over his breastbone, pinching his eyes tight and blinking them open again.
“That’s twice it’s been reset. What did that last doctor tell you? If you break your arm a third time you’ll have a permanent deformity,” she told him.
“What do they know?”
“I should think that they know quite a lot. War being their forte, they know about patching people up.”
“Why don’t you shut up.”
“Don’t say ‘shut up’ like that,” she said.
“Christ, he’s terrible, isn’t he?” Fritz told Rennie. Fritz was shaking his head, almost grinning.
Rennie shrugged; she knew it was the pain talking. Rennie was experienced in all levels of late-night misery. Her first two husbands, both fishermen, had been killed at sea.
Her first husband, Bill Hopkins, fished on the crew of the
Teresa Eve
, a sixty-foot eastern-rigged dragger. In 1964the
Teresa Eve
was lost coming back overloaded from the scallop grounds. The catch was left on deck unshucked instead of being bagged and stowed in the hold. They were loaded up, with an estimated seven hundred bushels, but the captain went back for another tow. Bill Hopkins had survived many storms—he once rode out a seventy-knot whole gale—but that night the weather shifted and they hit what they call “a queer sea.” Captain Alberelli was following one mile behind the
Teresa Eve
in the
Karen and Marcy.
He said it was a black night—“real stone black.” There wasn’t much wind, hardly any wind at all to bring a sea that high. He saw enough freakers that night, he put his crew below. He testified at the Coast Guard hearing that the
Teresa Eve
must have caught one at the quarter. The loose catch would’ve shifted, and if she had her scupper plates fastened and the scallops clogged up all the cut-outs, the water she took on wasn’t freed. From what they could figure out, she went down stern first, she didn’t roll. Divers found her sitting upright, gear stowed, pretty as you please, boots lined up, slickers on hooks, paperwork still in its envelope in the wheelhouse. There was a heavy concentration of loose scallops in the immediate area around the wreck, a thick carpet suggesting the weight of the catch was more than substantial.
Whatever happened, happened fast. Captain Alberelli on the
Karen and Marcy
watched her lights go out as if someone had “flipped a switch.” Alberelli looked back at his radarscope and the target was missing. When the
Karen and Marcy
steamed over to search, her crew heard voices from the water. They shined lights, but the dark swallowed all but eight foot of their beams. They searched for the location of those cries, but after several passes in the dark, the voices stopped. All six crew were lost.
Some of the bodies were recovered the following winter, pulled in unexpectedly with tows, but Bill Hopkins remained missing.
Five years after that, Rennie’s second husband, Sonny Costa, a lobsterman, died in a boiler mishap just four hundred yards off of Point Judith.
Rennie was one of only a few New England women to be awarded the title “Kiss of Death.” The title was handed
The men liked the vision. They laughed.
“I speculate she was a little bitch, the fox terrier type,” Fritz told Rennie. “Willis tells her to get lost. He tells her she’s coed history and she got up on her hind legs—”
Rennie said, “A rule of thumb: treat a tramp like a lady and tease a lady like a tramp.”
Fritz said, “Maybe Willis couldn’t pinpoint what she was. This girl attacked him. We got the arm reset tonight at the hospital.”
Rennie said, “
We
did? We went to Newport Hospital? We have to pay for the emergency room if we go to that private hospital.”
“When you break something
you
can go over to the Navy hospital,” Willis said.
She wasn’t listening to him. “When did this happen?”
“Who keeps track of time,” Willis said. He reclined on his bed and crossed his arms over his breastbone, pinching his eyes tight and blinking them open again.
“That’s twice it’s been reset. What did that last doctor tell you? If you break your arm a third time you’ll have a permanent deformity,” she told him.
“What do they know?”
“I should think that they know quite a lot. War being their forte, they know about patching people up.”
“Why don’t you shut up.”
“Don’t say ‘shut up’ like that,” she said.
“Christ, he’s terrible, isn’t he?” Fritz told Rennie. Fritz was shaking his head, almost grinning.
Rennie shrugged; she knew it was the pain talking. Rennie was experienced in all levels of late-night misery. Her first two husbands, both fishermen, had been killed at sea.
Her first husband, Bill Hopkins, fished on the crew of the
Teresa Eve
, a sixty-foot eastern-rigged dragger. In 1964the
Teresa Eve
was lost coming back overloaded from the scallop grounds. The catch was left on deck unshucked instead of being bagged and stowed in the hold. They were loaded up, with an estimated seven hundred bushels, but the captain went back for another tow. Bill Hopkins had survived many storms—he once rode out a seventy-knot whole gale—but that night the weather shifted and they hit what they call “a queer sea.” Captain Alberelli was following one mile behind the
Teresa Eve
in the
Karen and Marcy.
He said it was a black night—“real stone black.” There wasn’t much wind, hardly any wind at all to bring a sea that high. He saw enough freakers that night, he put his crew below. He testified at the Coast Guard hearing that the
Teresa Eve
must have caught one at the quarter. The loose catch would’ve shifted, and if she had her scupper plates fastened and the scallops clogged up all the cut-outs, the water she took on wasn’t freed. From what they could figure out, she went down stern first, she didn’t roll. Divers found her sitting upright, gear stowed, pretty as you please, boots lined up, slickers on hooks, paperwork still in its envelope in the wheelhouse. There was a heavy concentration of loose scallops in the immediate area around the wreck, a thick carpet suggesting the weight of the catch was more than substantial.
Whatever happened, happened fast. Captain Alberelli on the
Karen and Marcy
watched her lights go out as if someone had “flipped a switch.” Alberelli looked back at his radarscope and the target was missing. When the
Karen and Marcy
steamed over to search, her crew heard voices from the water. They shined lights, but the dark swallowed all but eight foot of their beams. They searched for the location of those cries, but after several passes in the dark, the voices stopped. All six crew were lost.
Some of the bodies were recovered the following winter, pulled in unexpectedly with tows, but Bill Hopkins remained missing.
Five years after that, Rennie’s second husband, Sonny Costa, a lobsterman, died in a boiler mishap just four hundred yards off of Point Judith.
Rennie was one of only a few New England women to be awarded the title “Kiss of Death.” The title was handed
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