Thursday, June 16, 1927: New York City
“Unwanted”
It’s 1:45 a.m. when I wake up because our front door bell is ringing like it’s a fire alarm. Steven’s away, so it’s just me. I throw on a pair of pants and a shirt without bothering to tuck it in — because the ringing just won’t stop — and head downstairs.
I open the front door but nobody’s there. Until I look down and see a young boy no more than 12 years old. He’s holding out a yellow envelope.
“Telegram from Western Union, Mister,” the waif says.
Back in ’24 Congress tried to pass a constitutional amendment banning child labor. Right in front of me is proof that it was never ratified.
“Hold on,” I tell the kid. I close the door and look in the kitchen for a quarter to give him for his trip.
“Thanks,” I say to him.
“I hope it ain’t bad news,” he says, as he bounds down the front stairs of the townhouse and across the sidewalk, before racing down the middle of the street to go back to wherever he came from.
I open up the envelope, not even thinking that it could contain bad news from home. The health and wellbeing of my parents and any other relatives is secondary to me, right now.
I just don’t want to see the word Boston anywhere in this epistle.
It’s never felt so good to be unwanted.
