“No.” She shook her head, rather surprised he had asked, and as he began to wilt, she followed quickly with, “I worked in Five Points today.” She wilted a bit. “I was merely avoiding going home to a quiet apartment. I took care of my gram, but she died last month and now it’s just quiet.”
“I understand. I’m a bachelor and aside from my father’s failing health and a job I don’t want, my mother’s racket isn’t much company,” he said, a bit more honestly than she’d expected.
“I left mother in Boston with my uncle’s stipend to keep her company. I wanted to go to college, but can’t afford it, so I work in a library and educate myself.”
He felt a smile break across his face. “It was an imposing volume.”
She grinned from ear to ear. “It is Watson’s Guide to Botanical Life.” She retrieved it from her bag and offered it to him. Politely, he took it and flipped a few pages to a drawing of some sort of shrub.
“Vincentia,” she said. “Most of them are poisonous.
“This will never work,” he said, dejected. “I’m Vincent.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you’re not poison.”
“Are you sure? Where are you going? I have to deliver this, on West 42nd.”
“Infectious maybe. I am going home. I live just south of 42nd at Eighth,” she said.
“I’m in the Garment District. I’ll walk you if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” she said with a wry grin. “The leash always disjoints my neck, as I am prone to gawking at birds.”
“Oh. I’m sorry I meant… What should I call you?”
“So long as you promise not to bring a leash you may call anytime. My name is Heather, which is a rapidly spreading flowering grass.”
They shared a laugh and embarked on the first of many walks. She made a fast and easy friend. A good listener, and for the final year of his father’s life, someone Vince could look forward to not pressing him to marry the hideous and yet available, Charlotte Morris.
The next year on an equally unique day, Vince walked from the factory to Grand Central and found Heather seated in his usual place beneath the “44” placard on a bench that was now showing signs of wear and needing a fresh coat of varnish.
“Good afternoon?” he asked.
“Not bad. The Five Points are always interesting. Mr. Ridley Ward, the director, paid me a visit today, and asked if I should be interested in either of two openings for head librarian at Times or The Points. He then inquired my matrimonial prospect and should my husband or lead suitor be objectionable to my working daily from nine to four.”
Vince swallowed hard, as something large and airtight rolled in his gut. “Oh. Well. Umm. I hadn’t considered that you might have another interested.”
She seized his arm as he started to shift himself to a less familiar position, “Vincent Morgan, I am not telling you this to solicit a proposal. I know that your highly refined mother and your father, rest his soul, would have you married off to that Bass Fiddle Morris and have half a dozen little viols by now, but I hadn’t felt insecure enough to need to voice my interest.”
“It’s that I just…” His voice broke not as a matter of temper, but genuine tears burned in the corners of his eyes and his voice was thick and his throat husky and hot. “I didn’t want to tender my interest and then not see you any longer if your interest was no longer the same as my interest.”
“Sir, do you know that men remain bachelors for fear of the interests of a woman.”
He smiled when she said it.
“So you would?” he ventured.
She straightened herself a bit. “I don’t know you haven’t asked me. We spend an awful lot of time together in public places, but I’ve not been welcomed to your mother’s home. Then we simply must discuss matters of importance.”
“Children?” he asked quietly, chastened.
“I love them. But I had scarlet fever. I am likely barren.” Her eyes searched his for the impact of truth.
“I’ve been through a lot and I find such intimacy difficult, though I’ve often considered the joys of having my days filled with the same joy of your company that I get even during the worst of our stolen time together.”
“Okay, so being without a guardian, I grant you my personal permission to pursue me as you see fit,” she said, quite a bit more seriously than he had expected.
He was fully flustered. “Oh, Well, I am sorry I won’t be of further trouble… Your permission? Really?”
She nodded. They were still embracing in mutual glow when the conductor cleared his throat loudly to gain Vincent’s attention, to pass over the parcel. Their walk was especially short and their mood light on the way to deliver the parcel to Letter A 247.
After Vince slid the Kraft paper wrapped parcel through the slot and they were on their way toward Eighth Avenue, Heather said, “I’ve meant to ask you for some time. Exactly what is in these packages?”
“Oh well. To be honest, I am not truly certain.”
After listening quietly, she remarked, “That is quite hard to believe. You are not in lack where loyalty is concerned.”
Vince started to wilt and then reversed himself. He had reached that turning point in the life of a man where his reactive threshold stops and his proactive self emerges. “Heather, it is time you met my mother. We will alter our destination to your doorstep. I want you to meet mother, but I also want you to read the letters I’ve received yearly on account of this monthly chore of mine, the letters that brought us together.”
She was quietly pleased that he’d taken some charge of things in the wake of their conversation, “Yes. I’d like to meet your mother. You don’t need to show me these letters. I believe you.” She said it knowing that it would cement his desire to share.
“I want you to know what’s there, so that there is no question in your mind beyond those in my own.” He remarked as they turned onto Eighth Avenue.
December 5, 1933, the city was alive with in a sudden celebration with spirits. Just after noon, the repeal of Prohibition hit in a Times Extra. By 4:30, when the Pinkerton Agent knocked on the door of Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Morgan, and at length the very pregnant Heather Morgan answered.
“Is your husband about ma’am?” the gent inquired.
“No sir, he is at the fac -” Out of breath, she leaned against the door and then slid down it onto her knees.
“Oh dear, Missus. I’ll get you to the hospital,” the agent growled from behind his moustache.
Later that evening, Vince entered a sickeningly antiseptic hospital room. He found Heather resting quietly with an equally tired infant taking a nursing break.
“Hello there,” he said as he kissed her forehead.
She smiled sleepily. “Vincent, meet your son. I haven’t named him yet, but I was thinking Vincent Michael Morgan, naming him after his father and mine.”
The baby clamped a fist around Vince’s finger. “That’s good. He’s perfect, you did good.”
For the next three years, they tried to get pregnant again, but despite their efforts and many consultations with the doctor, it was simply not to be. Despite his success at work, now leading his father’s company, growing it, and supporting other businesses, and despite their success as parents, still the hunger for another child gnawed at them.
Heather confided in him that for all her love of her son and her husband the thing that might bring her greater joy would be a daughter. It wasn’t her way to want for much, and it hurt Vince deeply that he could not provide for this singular want. They quarreled from time to time regarding his continuing loyalty to pick up and deliver the monthly parcel to A 247 West 42nd Street. His focus on making good on this duty was a source of frustration for her when on occasion he scheduled around the drop instead of trying to accommodate his family.