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loved that she was independent. That it was almost as though she didn’t need him at all.
    He kissed the top of her head. “I heard about Greshecky’s wife—Isabella.” She stiffened and he let her go. Suddenly he wanted to tell her what had happened at work. She would understand. He reached for her again.
    Rose turned, tears welling. She shrugged. “Said a rosary for Isabella. She’ll be in heaven with her baby…or maybe not, you know, no baptism…” Rose waved her hand in front of her face and pushed past Henry. She straightened the blue and white serving dish in the center of the table and sighed, as though her contentment had dissolved in an instant.
    Henry knew, with Rose, she’d feel better soon. By evening she would have wrangled the good out of the bad and she’d be back to her normal self.
    * * *
    Buzzy rushed into the kitchen, heading for a glass of water. “How’s my favorite sister-in-law?” He glanced at Henry then kissed Rose’s cheek. She brushed it off with the back of her hand and looked to Henry for an explanation.
    Henry’s breath caught a moment and he coughed into his hand, forcing his body to relax. He knew Buzzy’s routine. He was desperate, but he was only in phase-one desperation. He would try to charm Rose; he wouldn’t attempt to bully her, not yet. If only Buzzy had listened to Henry and Rose.
    Buzzy spread his hands, looking over the table, set with the dishes they bought every time they deposited money into Mellon Bank. “Where’s the grub? I’m showered, I’m ready for food.”
    Henry limped to the table, brushing past Buzz.
    Rose took a deep breath and released it as she went to the stove. “Food’ll be a minute, Hen. Unk had a bit of, well, you know how things go with Unk.” She pushed melting butter around one of three skillets.
    “No matter,” Henry said. He slumped into his chair and wrenched his WH Auden Chapbook—The Age of Anxiety—from his pocket and paged to where he’d left off during his lunch break.
    Rose’s eyes narrowed, straining to see Henry’s foot as she carried blistering hot coffee to the table. “Are you limping from the old injury or did you get hurt today?”
    Henry didn’t care about discussing his injury. It was what would follow—the conversation regarding why he showered at the mill and who treated the burn that he didn’t want to have.
    Rose poured Henry’s coffee and set it in front of him. He wrapped his fingers around the thick mug, brushing Rose’s as he did. Henry knew the line of questioning that would follow. He couldn’t help but get caught in Buzzy’s heavy gaze.
    “What?” Rose said. “I saw that look the two of you just passed like a bad dollar bill. What’s in the vault? This isn’t Mellon Bank, you know. Nothing goes in the vault without my say.”
    Henry pushed the conversation in a safer direction. “Little slag on my Achilles is all,” he said. “Nothing new is in the vault.” He grimaced looking down at his foot.
    “That goddamn pol-ak,” Buzzy said, “Vinski’s going to get us all killed. Goddamn jackass is never where he should be.” Henry was glad Buzzy’s con-artist ways worked to his benefit from time to time.
    “Let me have a look, Hen.” Rose got down on her hands and knees and cocked her head, spreading open Henry’s seared workpants. She drew in a breath as though it were she with burned skin. Henry looked at her rounded back, her muscles moving beneath her robe. His gaze slid back toward her behind. He patted it.
    She sat back on her heels, face flushed. “It appears as though Nurse Dottie fixed a decent bandage,” Rose shrugged. “For now it’s decent. Her work doesn’t always stand up over time.”
    Henry knew Rose’s deep dislike for Dottie Shaginaw and treaded carefully when it came to praising Rose’s rival.
    Rose went back to the eggs, Henry, to his poetry.
    Buzzy snapped the newspaper open and began reciting the headlines. He shoved Henry’s foot with his.
    Henry