A Bright Tomorrow (5 page)

She listened carefully, then nodded. “Yes…I pray for you, Amos. God…he's-a
bigga
God!”

Amos stared at her. “My ma always says so, Mama Anna.”

An hour later he was walking the icy streets, ignoring the cold wind and trying to decide which way to go. He knew he could find work at the jute mill or one of the other factories, but they were as bad as the glass factory. His pace slowed, and he walked aimlessly for almost an hour.

As Amos walked, he studied his surroundings, thinking he might see something that would suggest a job. But nothing came. By noon, he was cold, hungry, and discouraged.
Guess it was just a fool idea after all—me praying,
he thought wearily.
Well, there's still the jute mill. It's either that or go home with my tail between my legs like a whipped hound.

First, he decided to enjoy at least this one day of freedom and spent twenty cents at a small café for a big bowl of hot soup and all the homemade bread he could eat—plus two big mugs of steaming hot black coffee. He made the meal last as long as possible, then walked outside, pulling his coat around him. It had occurred to him while eating that he would go back and ask Mr. Rossi if he'd heard from Miss Adams, so he made his way toward the theater district.

Rossi, however, was not in, and Amos knew it was useless to ask the man who told him so. He left the theater and walked slowly down the street, his head down. He'd turned to walk back toward the jute mill after all, when he heard someone call his name. Looking up, he saw Mack Sullivan perched on the seat of his cab, waving at him.

Amos crossed the street and climbed up at the Irishman's invitation. “Been wanting to see you, Mack. Wanted to thank you for steering me to Anna's house.”

Sullivan's face was blue with cold…all except his nose, which was bright red in the cold air. He grinned, pulled out a bottle and offered it to Amos. “Sure, me boy, no trouble a'tall. Have a drink. No? Then I'll be havin' two for meself.” He swallowed the whiskey, did a strange little contorted jig, and made a grotesque face as the strong drink hit his stomach. “Begorra…that's horrible stuff!” he gasped.

“Why do you drink it if it's that bad?”

“I'm a weak man,” Mack acknowledged solemnly. “Well, now, Anna tells me you're a foine young man.”

“I'm a fine young man without a job, Mack.”

“Do ye tell me that?” Sullivan was so surprised he took another swig of the potent liquor, and after performing his anguished jig, said, “I thought ye was working at the glass factory with Nick.” He listened carefully as Amos explained—leaving out some of the details—how he and Nick had parted company with their former employer.

The stubby Irishman studied the young man with his bright blue eyes. “Now, wait—” he began, pulling his brows together and beating his head with his fist. “Come out, devil of a thought!” He pulled out the bottle, scowled at it ferociously, and after a gulp and a dance on the seat, cried out, “I've got it!”

“Got what, Mack?” Amos asked, amused at the little man's antics.

“Why, it's something I heard only yesterday…no, it was two days ago! Never mind, when I heard it, I thought of ye.” He grinned at Amos. “Would ye be for knowin' anything about horses, me boy?”

“Why…that's the
one
thing I do know something about, Mack!”

“And is it that ye can ride the beasts?”

Amos smiled at Sullivan. “If it's got hair and four legs, I can ride it, Mack.” It was not boastfully said, but it was true enough. Amos had never had a horse of his own, but they'd been a passion of his always. He'd learned to ride the neighbors' horses, and by the time he was fifteen, he was racing with grown men, making a little money on occasion. But mostly he rode for the joy of it.

“Well,” said Sullivan, “Will Pegeen heard that the fellow who worked for the big stable out on the east side got his leg busted. Pegeen told me they was lookin' to hire a man to take care of the ridin' horses.”

“Where is it, Mack?” Amos asked.

Sullivan, after taking a small libation to celebrate, lifted his whip. “Hang on, me boy…it's this Irishman who'll have ye there in no time a'tall.”

“I canna hire you if you canna handle the animals, Stuart,” Jamie McClendon said, the burr of the Scots thick on his tongue. He was a small, spare man with steady gray eyes and a firm jaw. “Some of me horses are high-spirited, ye see, and some are jumpers. Besides, I do some horse-breaking. That's how that fool Murphy got his leg broke. He couldna stay on a horse with spirit.”

Amos had found the manager of Greenlee Stables saddling up a large roan stallion and had asked for work at once. “Give me a chance, Mr. McClendon.” He saw the man framing a negative and spoke up before McClendon could turn him down. “Give me your worst horse. If I can't ride him, I'll be on my way.”

The manager liked the idea. “Weel, now, I'll just see what kind of a rider ye are. “Simpson,” he called out to one of the hands who was forking hay, “put a saddle on Prince.” Then he turned back to Stuart with a warning. “This is no job for a lazy man. There's more to it than riding a horse, ye see.”

Amos held out his hands, palms upward. “Anybody around here got hands any harder than these?” he demanded. “I didn't get these callouses at a play party, Mr. McClendon!”

The Scotsman peered at Amos's hands from beneath beetling eyebrows. “Gud enough. But first ye ride Prince.”

“And I get the job if I stay on?”

“I'll recommend ye to the owner…which is all it'll take.”

Amos nodded, answered a few questions about his past, and five minutes later the stable hand came around the corner, leading a big black gelding. Amos studied the horse, admiring the powerful hindquarters and the round barrel but didn't miss the wild-looking eyes and the roman nose.

He approached the horse quietly, gathered the reins, and mounted in one swift motion that brought a look of approval to McClendon's eyes. Then Amos spoke to the big horse, nudged him with his heels, and was not entirely unprepared when the animal lunged forward. Within five strides he was running full tilt around the track.

“Hey, Mr. McClendon,” the stable hand said, “that fellow can get hurt!”

But McClendon saw that the rider was sticking like a burr on the back of the gelding, and he noted with approval that Stuart was moving his body with the horse, in perfect timing with the long strides.
Weel now
…
the lad has been on a horse before, it seems,
he thought. He studied the action of the horse, and when Prince came around in a thunder of his powerful hooves, the manager saw that Stuart was in perfect control. He had never allowed the horse to get the bit in his teeth—a favorite tactic of the gelding. And on the next circle of the track, McClendon saw what he'd been looking for—the trick Prince had used to eliminate Murphy. He came crashing toward the rail, intent on raking his rider off his back. But it didn't work with this man.

“Good lad!” McClendon whispered as Stuart yanked the horse's head around, forcing him away from the fence.

McClendon waved at Stuart, who brought the big horse to a halt ten feet away. Even then the black gelding tried to buck, but all he got for it was a hard yank on the reins that brought him to an abrupt halt. Amos slid to the ground, handed the reins to McClendon, and grinned. “You didn't mention he'd try to rake me off on the rail.”

“No, I did not,” the dour Scot snapped back. “I can't use a man who's not as smart as the horse under him.” Then he unbent a bit, and a slight smile touched his thin lips. “But ye done well, Stuart. The job's yours if ye want it.”

“I'll take it!”

McClendon shook his head. “With a name like Stuart, I thought ye'd be a Scot. But ye haven't even asked about the pay.”

“Well, whatever it is, Mr. McClendon,” Amos said, “it's more than I'm making now. And there's no job for me better than working with horses.”

“Aye, that's true,” McClendon nodded, pleased with the answer. “Weel, now, come tomorrow morning, and we'll put ye to work.”

When Amos returned to where Mack Sullivan was waiting, he was hard put not to yell and do a dance himself. “I got the job, Mack!” he cried, and his eyes were filled with joy. “I got it…thanks to you!”

“Did ye now? Well, that's foine, me boy!”

They drove back toward town, and when Amos finally descended from his state of euphoria, he suddenly had a thought that brought a frown to his face. “Mack…do you believe in God?”

“Do ye take me for a fool? Of course I believe in God!”

“Well, he talked to me last night,” Amos announced. He told of the incident, concluding thoughtfully, “It all seems like sort of an accident. I mean, I just happened to meet you, and you just happened to have heard of a job I'd be good at.” But Amos was very serious when he said, “I guess there's more to religion than I thought, Mack.”

“I hope ye learned a lesson.” Mack nodded, and added in a pontifical voice, “Go to church and never forget that the good Lord is up there, watchin' ye all the time.” The saintly expression was replaced by a look of impish glee as he pulled out his bottle and asked hopefully, “Have a drink?”

Amos laughed and shook his head. He knew the whole thing would be explained away by many, but he could not forget how strange it was—that God would make him pray, and then give him the very thing he made Amos pray for!

I'll have to write Ma a letter,
he thought happily.
She'll probably say, “Well, what's so wonderful about that? Isn't it what I've been telling you for years!

Later, after celebrating with Anna and the family, Amos found paper and a pencil and wrote it all down in a letter to his mother. That night when he went to bed, he prayed awkwardly, “God, you know how dumb I am, but I'll never forget what you did for me today…never!”

J
ames McClendon, the dour little manager of Greenlee Stables, was a staunch Calvinist as were his forefathers. Thus it was that only two weeks after Amos Stuart came to work with his horses, he was heard to mutter under his breath: “It was all in God's will—that clumsy oaf Murphy breaking his leg—all so the bonnie lad could come and take proper care of the stock!”

Amos, if he had heard McClendon's reasoning, would have probably agreed. After the dull laboring in the glass factory, it was nothing less than joy for him to ride the spirited thoroughbreds each day. He soon proved he was not too good to muck out the stables, as well. Indeed, he was such a hard worker that he drew dark looks from the other hands. He stayed over often, sleeping in McClendon's office on a cot, and within three weeks it was to Stuart that his employer turned to find out whatever he wanted to know about the horses. Amos knew them all, and cared for them as if they were children.

One Friday he exercised Prince, unsaddled him, and gave him a good rubdown. Afterward, he went to the office and used some of the manager's paper to write a letter home.

He signed the letter, “Your loving son, Amos,” and sealed it. At that moment the manager came in. “Can you sell me a stamp?” Amos asked him.

McClendon opened the desk drawer, produced some loose stamps, and handed one to Amos. “I'll hold the cost out of your pay. Now, go home.” The man hesitated, then a glint of humor flickered in his sharp eyes. “Never did I think I'd have to tell a hand to quit work, but I don't want ye to burn out.”

Amos smiled. “No danger of that.” He put on his coat and left the office, whistling as he went.

The sky was lowering, and before he got halfway home, a cold drizzle began to fall. Soon his clothes were soaked, and water dripped down his neck and through his cap.

He had reached Fifty-first Street when he saw a woman struggling along, headed in his direction. The rain was falling harder now, and her clothing was as bedraggled as his own. Coming up even with her, he saw that the weight of the suitcase she carried was pulling her to a starboard list.

He hesitated for one moment, then stepped up beside her. “That's a pretty heavy suitcase, ma'am. Can I help you with it, wherever you're going?”

The woman had not heard him approach and turned sharply to face him. She was, Amos saw, very young, and there was a hint of fear in her voice as she said quickly, “No! I–I can carry it.”

“Well—” Amos shrugged and turned to leave.

He had only gone a few steps when she hailed him. “Please…can you tell me if there's a rooming house around here?”

“A rooming house?” Amos wheeled around and stepped back to the girl. “You're looking for a place to stay?”

The cold wind whistled around the corner, keening a thin, high note, and the young woman suddenly set her suitcase down and rubbed her aching arm. She wore a cloth coat, faded and shapeless with the weight of the water that had soaked it, and the cloth hat on her head had collapsed, making her look rather ridiculous. But there was nothing ridiculous about the expression on her face, for it was obvious to Amos that she was not only exhausted, but frightened as well. Strands of dark hair had escaped the pins that anchored them, and now fell limply around her oval face. Her eyes were very large and appeared, in the murky darkness, to be as black as a woman's eyes could be. But at the moment they were filled with apprehension. She had a wide mouth, and her full underlip was trembling so badly, either from fear or fatigue, that she suddenly bit it nervously.

Seeing her condition, Amos thought quickly, then came to a decision. “Look, you'd better come with me to my boarding house. I don't know if there's a room for you, but Mrs. Castellano knows the neighborhood. She can help you. Here…let me carry that. We've got to get out of this rain before both of us drown!”

It may have been the mention of another woman…or perhaps it was the firm way in which Amos snatched up her suitcase and took her arm…but the young woman responded faintly, and with a note of hope, “Thank you.”

They were still three blocks away from the house, and the downpour grew steadily worse. So by the time Amos had escorted the girl up onto the stoop and was opening the door, they were as wet as if they'd been thrown into the river.

“I'm Amos Stuart. What's your name, miss?”

“Rose Beaumont.”

The warmth from the house was a relief. As soon as they stepped inside and closed the door, Anna appeared from the direction of the kitchen. “Amos,” she exclaimed, “you're wet to the skin!”

“Yeah, I am. Mama Anna, this is Miss Rose Beaumont. She needs a room.”

Anna leveled one look at the girl's soggy form, and took charge, fussing over her. “Look at you!” she scolded. Taking Rose by the arm, she hauled her off toward her own bedroom, which was on the first floor. Over her shoulder she threw Amos a withering glance. “Well don't just stand-a there! Bring-a the poor girl's suitcase!”

He grinned and followed obediently, depositing the suitcase in Anna's bedroom.

The heavy woman snatched it from him, then shoved him toward the door. “Get yourself outta those wet clothes! You wanna get sick?”

Amos shrugged, calling back as Anna pushed him outside and slammed the door, “Nice to meet you, Miss Beaumont!”

Anna turned to the girl who was standing motionless in the center of the room. “You get-a yourself dried off and into something warm,” she commanded brusquely, digging out a thick towel from the drawer of an ancient oak chest. “Dry your hair good, yes? I come back and get-a you when it's time-a to eat.”

“I–I don't have much money—”

Anna gave an expressive shrug and said with disdain, “You gotta eat, no?”

As the door closed behind her, Rose Beaumont stared blankly at it, then without warning, her shoulders began to shake and her eyes burned with hot tears she could keep back no longer. Blindly she moved to the bed, slipped to the floor, and pressed her face against the coverlet, muffling the sounds of her weeping.

Taking a deep breath, Rose came to her feet and wiped her tears away with the towel Anna had left. Then she opened the sodden suitcase, took out dry clothes, and put them on the bed. After glancing toward the door, she stripped to the skin, dried quickly, and donned fresh underwear and a plain brown dress. She had not slept in two nights, and the warmth and comfort of dry clothes soon combined to produce a delicious drowsiness. But she shook off the temptation to sleep and began to dry her hair.

Standing in front of the mirror, she pulled out the pins, and her hair fell to her waist in thick waves, raven black. When it was as dry as she could get it, she got her comb and brush from her suitcase. As she brushed the long tresses, she tried desperately to think, but her mind seemed drugged, she was so tired.

Rose's arms grew weary, and as she coiled her hair into braids, then pinned it into a halo, she began hoping that the woman called Anna would have a place for her. She dreaded the thought of going out into the cold and wet again. But did she have enough money? The thought of the slender packet of bills—less than ten dollars—floated before her, and a choking fear rose in her throat.

Rose closed the suitcase and set it on the floor. It was in her mind to go outside and talk to Mrs. Castellano, but her legs were too weak to support her.
I'll sit down and think about what to say
, she decided.
Maybe I can help with the housework and cooking to pay for my room and board—

Sinking down on the faded and rather lumpy upholstered chair by the window, she stared out at the rain, which fell in slanting lines. The darkness was complete now, and the yellow gaslight just outside was an orange globe of light, a luminous cloud. There was something hypnotic about the warmth of the room, and she closed her eyes, leaning back with her head against the chair. The rain made a silvery tattoo on the glass, like the brush of angel wings, she thought.

Without willing them, memories came trooping into her mind, like specters. She thought of her home, the dingy little border town in Texas. It had been a prison to her since early childhood, and she had always disliked the sterile desert and the tawdry streets. But now there was a certain nostalgia in the memory.
At least I had a place there!

There was no place for her in that town now. Her only tie had been her mother—and the thought of her mother brought a stab of grief, sharp and keen. Maria, half Spanish and half Irish, had not been a good woman. Rose had known that much for a long time. A hard drinker, she could not say no to men—a trait which had brought her many beatings from her husband Earl, a slab-sided, pale-eyed man with a cruel mouth.

The vision of her stepfather brought an involuntary shiver to the girl. He had been prevented from actually molesting her, Rose knew, only by her mother's dire threats. The very first time Maria caught Earl at it, she had waited until he was asleep and poured scalding water over his chest. He had been so badly burned that it had been two weeks before he recovered enough to take his revenge. Then he had grabbed Maria and hit her.

“Go ahead,” she said, glaring up at him. “Beat me half to death. But sooner or later I'll get well and I'll catch you asleep, and then I'll pour the scalding water on your
face
!”

Earl had not beaten her, for he understood that his wife would do exactly as she promised. Maria had added, “Touch Rose one more time, and you'll have to feel your way around…because your eyes will be burned out!”

Rose thought of the years after that, when she had felt her stepfather's pale eyes following her. Mercifully, he had been restrained by his knowledge that Maria would scald him if he bothered her.

Just then a bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the room for an instant, then the thunder cracked, seeming to shake the very foundation of the house. Rose shrank back in the chair and remembered her mother's funeral, for two weeks ago, it had been interrupted by a thunderstorm just like this one.
Her funeral—only two weeks ago!

Rose seemed to see her mother's fresh grave, turning slowly to mud as the rain-soaked men shoveled in the dirt. And at once her unwilling mind formed another image of the episode three days later, when her stepfather had come to her room late at night. She seemed to hear the sound of his footsteps again, to hear the door creaking open. And then his voice whispering to her before his groping hands had found her.

She had screamed and rolled out of the bed, then run wildly toward the door. He had been so drunk he had missed the grab he made at her. Then, when he tried to take the stairs two at a time in pursuit of the terrified girl, he had fallen headlong. Rose had seen him bang his head on the tread, then laboriously crawl to his feet. She could never forget how he had stared at her with his loose mouth and wild eyes. “Go on—run! But I'll get you! I'll get you—!”

He had lumbered off and fallen into a drunken coma, and Rose had crept back to her room, dressed, and packed a suitcase.

She had saved a little money, enough for a one-way fare to New York. It had been a desperate venture, for all she had was a name and an old letter from her mother's half-sister who lived in New York. Rose had never met the woman, but she was the only relative she could run to. So she had come to the city with a few dollars and a tattered envelope with her aunt's name and address.

Bitterness scored the girl's lips as she closed her eyes, for the thought of her “aunt” was still rank. She had found the woman, but it had been worse than Texas. Her mother's sister was living with a man, keeping him by her earnings from hustling drunks at a local saloon. After one look, Rose had turned and fled, not even telling the woman who she was.

She had stayed for one night in a cheap hotel, another in the train station. It had been dangerous, for men approached her constantly, forcing her to flee. A kindly policeman had answered her inquiry for a section of the city where she might find a cheap room, and it had taken all her strength to get as far as she did before the rain caught her.

The rain pattered on, and she thought of the young man who had come to her aid…what was his name? Amos something. She was surprised that she had trusted him. But he hadn't been like the others…not like them at all—

She dropped off to sleep sitting bolt upright, but jerked spasmodically when a hand touched her shoulder. “Well, now, you fall asleep, eh?”

“Oh!” Rose leapt out of her chair, looked around wildly, then smiled sheepishly. “I–I guess I did.”

“You come-a with me.” Anna led Rose out of the bedroom. When they entered the dining room, Rose flushed as every eye turned toward her. “This is Miss Rose,” Anna announced. “Don't be bothering her, you hear me? Let-a her eat!”

Rose was extremely grateful for Anna's warning, for she had no desire to talk to anyone. Slipping into the chair between a boy of about six and another somewhat younger, she kept her eyes down, looking up only when necessary. She noted the good-looking young man sitting next to Amos and the two young women who were devouring their food. She herself ate the spaghetti, beets, and cabbage slowly not because she had no appetite, but because she didn't want to appear greedy.