A Bright Tomorrow (3 page)

Hackett squinted as if in thought. “Why, certainly, Miss Stuart! And if you come to New York, Miss Adams and I will be glad to help you find your place in the theater!”

Maude Adams knew her man, however, and warned, “It takes more than good looks to become an actress, Miss Stuart.” A peculiar light came to her eyes, and she added softly, “More hearts are broken by this profession than any I know of. Better for you simply to come and enjoy the plays, than to risk letting your dreams get broken.”

After Hackett led her out of the dressing room, he said, “Let's have a bite to eat.”

“All right.” Lylah was like a woman in a trance. She lifted her face to Hackett. “Will you help me get on the stage if I come to New York with you?”

Hackett blinked. He was a womanizer, and this girl was a rare prize to add to his collection. But he was shrewd enough to know that while a one-night affair in a hick town was one thing, to take a young woman to New York was something entirely different.

“Well…your parents would have to—”

“I have no family,” Lylah said. “I have nobody to care.”

“Nobody at all? Well, come along then and we'll talk about it—”

“Donald Satterfield?”

Satterfield, his mouth drawn tight, leapt to open the door of his hotel room. The others had gone on the 8:00
A.M.
train to Fort Smith, but he had stayed behind. All day long he had walked the streets of the city, finally returning to his hotel room in despair, not knowing what else to do.

Opening the door, he found a young man standing there holding an envelope. “You Don Satterfield?”

“Yes! Yes, I'm Satterfield.”

“Fellow asked me to bring this to you.”

Satterfield took the envelope and ripped it open, ignoring the messenger's outstretched palm. With disgust, the young man whirled and stalked away down the hall. The note was not long, and Satterfield's hands trembled as he read it.

Satterfield read the note twice before its meaning sank in. Then he looked up, and seeing the messenger was gone, tore down the steps and caught the young man as he was leaving the hotel.

“Who gave you this note?”

“Can't remember…but two bits might improve my memory.” The messenger grinned, took the money Satterfield gave him, then shrugged. “I don't know his name, but he's one of them actor fellows playing at the opera house.” He stared at Satterfield, who wheeled around and ran out into the cold air. “Hey!” he called out. “Ain't no use goin' down there! The whole crowd left last night on the train for the East!” Then he shrugged, snapped the money smartly, and went out whistling “Buffalo Gals.”

It was Owen who first heard the voice calling. He got down from the chair where he was tying a rope of stringed popcorn on the top of the fir tree he had placed in the corner. The other children were milling around, helping him decorate the Christmas tree, and he had to shove his way through them to get to the door. “I'll bet that's Lylah coming!” he said, excitement in his voice.

The others crowded around him, but when Owen saw the horse and rider pounding over the hard-packed snow, he said, “It's not Lylah.”

Amos came to stand beside him, followed by Will and Marian. “That's Don Satterfield,” he said with disappointment.

“I hope Lylah didn't get sick and have to stay at school for Christmas holidays,” Marian said.

Will Stuart shook his head. “Something's wrong…that's sure.” He stepped forward to greet the visitor, calling out, “Get down, Don.”

They all watched as the lanky young man dismounted awkwardly. His nose was red with the cold and his lips were blue. “Hello…” he said, and the very diffidence of his voice was as strong as an alarm bell to the adults.

“Where's Lylah, Don?” Marian demanded at once. “Is she sick?”

“No…well, I don't think so.” Satterfield glanced at the children, and felt worse than he ever had in his life. “Can't you send the little ones in, Mr. Stuart?”

“You young 'uns go inside,” Will ordered, and the severity of his tone was enough to send the smaller children inside. Owen stayed where he was, defying his father's stern gaze. Finally, when the door was shut, Stuart asked in a hard voice, “All right, Don. Let's have it.”

All of them expected Satterfield to say that Lylah was dead. Such sudden deaths were not uncommon in their world. They all willed him to say something less tragic. So it was, that when Satterfield had finally stammered out his story, all of them felt a little weak.

“She's alive,” Amos said, relieved. He stood there while Satterfield almost wept as he told how he'd tried to find Lylah. Amos watched the reaction of the others, but something was growing inside him—a vague notion at first, but a notion that had grown solid as granite by the time Satterfield turned to go. “Don, what's the names of those actors?”

“Well, the star was a woman named Maude Adams. But it was one of the men who sent the note. I asked around, but nobody knew them. Nobody noticed Lylah when they left to go to the train.”

“You say they was all headed back to New York?”

Satterfield nodded. “I found out that much from the man who manages the theater. He said Little Rock was the last stop for the play, and that they'd all be goin' back to New York.” He waited for Amos to speak. When he did not, Satterfield rode away, anxious to leave the family.

Owen had been watching his brother's face. “You're going after her, ain't you, Amos?”

Amos nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Amos, you can't go!” Will Stuart spoke up.

“Work's all done, Pa. I'll be back for spring plowing.”

“But you don't have the money to go to New York, son!” Marian said. “Besides, if you did get there, it's a mighty big place, and you don't know a soul. How would you ever find one girl in a place like that?”

Amos Stuart lifted his head and a bright purpose burned in his dark blue eyes. “I got enough for train fare saved back, for most of the way. I'll catch rides for the rest of it. And as for finding Lylah, why, you've always said nothing is too hard for God, ain't that right?”

“That's right, Amos!”

“Well, Ma, I'll do the looking…and you do the praying!”

W
hen Amos Stuart stepped off the murky, smoke-blackened train in New York City and into the bright sunshine, he looked like a coal-heaver who had neglected to wash up after his day's work. His hands and face were streaked with smoke and dust, his white linen shirt was wrinkled and smutty, and his brown suit was disheveled.

Amos had been on the train for four days and nights but had not gone to bed at all, for he had no funds to use the sleeping car attached to the train. He
had
left home with a little more than he had expected, for his father had given him fifty dollars—a princely sum indeed for a poor hill farmer.

“I'd just waste it, Amos,” his father had said, as he had thrust the small roll of bills into the boy's shirt pocket. “Find our girl, that's what's important.”

In addition, Don Satterfield had pressed thirty dollars on him. Amos had tried to refuse, knowing that it was the young man's tuition money, but Satterfield had insisted. “I feel responsible, Amos. Just wish it was more…besides, God told me to give it to you.”

The extra money had been enough to pay Amos's fare all the way to New York, but as he stepped off the train, he had only thirty-two dollars to his name—not nearly enough for his return fare. He kept the money concealed in a leather tobacco bag, suspended by a string around his neck. There had been no privacy in the day coach of course, and he wondered how many people had lost their watches and pocketbooks while traveling.

He kept a six-chambered revolver in his pocket, also a gift from his father, who had warned, “Them city folks are slick, Amos. They'll steal the gold out of your teeth!”

While Amos had no gold in his teeth, he had taken the revolver, for it could be sold for cash in the city. It wasn't uncommon for the people of the hills to carry firearms; there was no law against it, and as he stepped to the ground and found himself caught up in a milling crowd of people, the weight of the weapon gave him a little more confidence.

He reasoned that the passengers would be headed for town, so he allowed himself to be carried along with the stream. As he moved off the brick-paved surface, he listened to the fascinating sounds of voices. The people spoke much more rapidly here, he noticed, and there was a hard edge to their dialect that contrasted sharply with the soft drawls of his own people.

When he passed through the station—bigger than any building he'd ever even seen—and moved outside, a hack driver, an old man with an Irish brogue, spoke up. “Cab, sir? Take ye right uptown!”

Amos hesitated, then asked, “How much does it cost?”

“A dollar.”

Amos thought of his dwindling supply of cash and shook his head. “I guess not.”

The cabdriver took in the rumpled suit, the shabby carpetbag, and grinned. “Come to get rich in the big city, have ye?”

Amos returned the smile. “No, I'm just looking for someone.” He looked around with perplexity, then back to the cab driver. “Can you tell me where the opera house is?”

The cabbie's grin broadened. “
The
opera house, is it? Why, me boy, there's at least
twenty
of 'em…maybe more!”

“Oh.” Amos was so weary from his journey that he could not think straight. “Well,” he said slowly, “where's the biggest one?”

“Down on Broadway,” the Irishman replied. He was a shrewd-looking old man, but there was a kindly gleam in his sharp eyes. “Look, me boy, you'll walk your shoe leather off gettin' there. Get up on the seat of the cab. Any fare I pick up will have to go in that direction.”

“I don't have the money.”

“And did I ask ye for any?” the cabbie asked indignantly. “Me name is Mack Sullivan and I've got a couple of boys of me own, out in the world someplace. I'd like to think that if I give a young fellow a helping hand, why, the good Lord will cause somebody to do the same for them. Besides, I wudna do it if I hadna liked your face. Up with ye now,” he ordered, seeing a couple heading his way.

As Amos listened to Sullivan chattering away on the trip downtown, he studied the outlying sections of New York and was disappointed. Some of the areas they passed through were no more than a hodgepodge of wooden and brick buildings, huddled together without harmony or design. Most of the wooden houses were unpainted, and they had the sodden appearance that comes from long exposure to the weather. Some of them leaned crazily to one side or hung over the street, looking as if a little push would knock them down.

As they rattled toward the heart of the city, however, the slums gave way to more attractive neighborhoods, most of the houses made of brownstone. Bells began to ring, and the cabbie nodded. “Time for church.” He gestured toward a large, handsome building, built of wood and painted gray. Many people were making their way along the street on their way to the services. Nearly all the men wore tall silk hats and the long, double-breasted frock coats known as Prince Alberts. The ladies' skirts were so long they touched the ground, and some of the women themselves looked deformed.

“Why do those women have such big rear ends?” Amos inquired.

Mack Sullivan stared at him in amazement, then began to laugh. “Why, that's the style, me boy! Bustles, they call them things. Womenfolk don't wear such things where ye come from?”

“No. A woman would get laughed out of town if she put on a thing like that!” He stared at them, shaking his head in disbelief. Some of the bustles were so exaggerated they stuck out twelve, fifteen, or even twenty inches behind their wearers. “Why are they in such a hurry, all of them?”

“Hurry?” The Irishman looked at the crowds surging like a human tide down the street, then shrugged, “They ain't in no hurry, me boy. I guess folks just move faster in the city than they do on the farm.” He stopped two blocks later, hopped out, and handed the lady down. Then, after taking his fare, he climbed back onto the seat. “Well, now, me guess is ye don't know a soul in this town.”

“That's right.”

“Not much money and no place to stay?” Without pausing for an answer, Sullivan went on, “Well, I think ye'll not be stayin' at the Ritz. Maybe ye'd like to find a cheap place?”

Amos quickly let it be known that this was his desire, and the old man drove along the streets, dropping comments rapidly, stopping at last on a street lined with rows of smoke-stained houses that almost rimmed the curb. With practically no yards to play in, the children were playing in the streets, in the dirty slush of snow that was banked up on the sidewalks.

“Italian people.” Sullivan nodded. “Good folks, most of 'em, but a little too high-tempered. Most of 'em are poor, and sometimes they take in a boarder or two. Nothin' fancy, ye understand. Just a cot, maybe, and whatever they have to eat at their table.”

“Do you know any of them, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Well, now, not to put too fine a point on it, me boy, I
do
have a slight acquaintance with one of 'em.” He pointed with his buggy whip toward one of the narrow houses, the steps crowded with an assortment of youngsters. “Anna Castellano is her name. Her poor husband—bless his soul!—was took off by the grippe two years ago. The poor woman does the best she can, but it's a hard life fer a woman alone in the world.” Sullivan shrugged his thin shoulders, adding, “It'll be about the cheapest thing ye can find, me boy.”

“Just what I need,” Amos said. He picked up his bag, got down, then reached up to shake hands with the Irishman. “I didn't think city people were so friendly, Mr. Sullivan,” he said. “I'm beholden to you.”

“Ah, now, there's them that'll take advantage, me boy,” Sullivan warned. “Ye get your business done and skedaddle back to the farm! Now, be sure to tell Mrs. Castellano that Mack Sullivan sent ye.”

“All right…and thanks.” Sullivan whipped his horse up, and Amos moved to the stoop where half a dozen black-eyed children, all with ragged black hair, stood staring at him. “Your Ma at home?”

“Yeah, she's awashin' in the back yard,” replied the largest of the children, a girl of about fifteen. “You hafta' come this a-way.”

The houses were built without walk spaces, so Amos followed the girl through the house. The rest of the troop followed, speaking loudly, half in English and half in Italian.

When Amos stepped out the back door, he saw a heavyset woman wearing a black coat with a yellow scarf around her head, pummeling clothes in a black pot. The smoke from the fire under the pot curled around, and as she turned her face to avoid it, the sight of a strange man made her eyes grow narrow.

“Whatta you want?” she demanded in a throaty voice, thickened by an accent.

“I'm looking for a place to stay,” Amos said quickly. “Mack Sullivan said you might have a room.”

The suspicion disappeared from the woman's round face at once. “Mary Elizabeth, come watch-a the fire.” As the largest girl separated herself from the others and went down the steps to take the stick, the woman met her at the foot of the stairs and climbed up, holding to the rail. “A room? No gotta room.”

“Oh. Well, I guess—”

“No gotta room, just for
you
…but you can maybe sleep with-a Nick and Mario, my boys.”

“Oh, that'll be all right, Mrs. Castellano,” Amos said quickly.

“You pay one dollar every day…and you eat at our table.” She was not a handsome woman, but there was a pleasant air about her. Her face was marked with care, but she had large attractive eyes, the darkest Amos had ever seen. “Come on, I show you the room.”

Amos followed her up two flights on the narrow staircase, then onto a narrow, dark hall with two doors on each side. Opening one of the doors, she gestured. “You take-a that bed,” she said. She studied his soot-stained clothing, and said abruptly, “Take off-a your clothes.”

Amos froze, the blood rushing to his face. He had heard that there were bad women in the big city, but Anna Castellano had not seemed a likely version. He began to edge toward the door, and the woman, seeing the shocked look on his face, broke into a peal of rich laughter. Her large body quivered, and she finally wiped her eyes and gave Amos a merry look. “I'm-a glad to see you're a nice-a boy. But you're safe with Mama Anna. I just think you're pretty dirty. I wash-a your clothes, and
you
can wash on the back porch.”

“Oh—” Amos felt like a fool and said so. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Castellano.”

“Just call-a me Mama Anna.” She smiled. “Take your clothes to Mary Elizabeth…then wash-a your face.”

Mama Anna's brusque orders somehow relieved Amos. He grinned as he changed into his other clothes.
Always good for a fellow to have a ma around to look after him.

He went downstairs and handed his clothes to the girl—all except his underwear, which he had decided to wash himself. He washed up in the kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread baking in the oven brought an ache to his throat, he was that hungry. Anna must have sensed this, for she set him down. “You no eat breakfast? I fix-a you something.”

As Amos forced himself to slowly eat the bread and stew she put before him, he listened as the woman chattered. The children came and went, scurrying around so fast Amos couldn't get a head count. He finally figured out that there were five little ones, with two older children. When he finished his meal, the warmth of the kitchen and the fullness of his stomach, combined with his long journey, began to bring an overwhelming desire for sleep.

Mama Anna, seeing his eyelids droop, said, “Now, you go to bed.”

Amos mumbled his thanks and stumbled up the stairs, so overcome with fatigue that he could barely remove his shoes. He rolled onto the cot, pulled a worn blanket up to his chin, and promptly lost consciousness, slipping away into a black hole that closed upon him instantly.

Well
…
I got here, Ma. Now get those prayers to going!

Amos was awakened by the sound of voices. At first he thought he was back in the loft with Owen and his other brothers. But as he slowly pulled himself back to consciousness, he became confused, for the voices were strange to him. He sat up, bolt upright, to find a young man about his own age sitting cross-legged on a cot across from his. On the third cot a boy with the same curly black hair and smooth olive features regarded him steadily.

“Hello.” The older one nodded. “You finally wake up?”

Amos was exhausted and, when he looked out the window, he saw that it was still dark. He arched his back and felt for his money pouch. “I guess so. I was on the train for four days…didn't sleep much.”

“Four days? Where'd you come from?”

“Arkansas.”

“Yeah? That's way out in the sticks, ain't it?” The young man shrugged, adding, “My name's Nick.”

“I'm Amos Stuart.” Amos was hungry again, and the smell of some rich food wafted into the room, increasing his hunger. “Is it time to eat?”

Nick laughed, exposing a perfect set of white teeth. “Sure. Come on and let's get started before it's all gobbled up.”

He led the way down the stairs and into the largest room in the house. The dining room was dominated by a large rectangular table flanked by an assortment of chairs, all occupied by either resident Castellanos or boarders. This last group included Amos and two young women, who shared a room down the hall from him. They were both plain and poorly dressed, but each of them gave Amos a calculating look as they ate.

The meal was spaghetti, served in two large bowls, kept filled by Mama Anna or Mary Elizabeth. There was plenty of fresh bread with butter, and water to drink.

Nick watched with amusement in his dark eyes as Amos poked at his portion of spaghetti cautiously, not knowing how to handle it. “You never ate spaghetti before?”