A Bright Tomorrow (7 page)

She left, and later when Amos was putting the horses into their stalls, McClendon stopped by. “Well, he's something, Secretary Roosevelt, isn't he?”

“Sure is,” Amos agreed, but his thoughts were on the problem of what to wear when he met Virginia Powers at the World Theater.

Amos arrived at the theater at seven, an hour earlier than Virginia had mentioned. He had spent most of the afternoon buying a new suit and the shirt, tie, and shoes to go with it. He had also gotten his hair cut, and as he entered the lobby, was feeling a little disgusted with himself.
What a fool I am! Spending all my money on this outfit
…
when I'll never come to a fancy place like this again!

He had convinced himself that Virginia Powers would not even show up. “Just putting me on,” he muttered sourly. He stood with his back against the wall, watching the people stream into the theater. He was a little shocked at the dresses some of the women were wearing. Many of them were in the now-familiar bustles, the trains of their dresses dragging the floor. But others wore the new “sheath” gown, a simple tube made of fabric that reached from the hips to the shoetops. The garment had all the charming contour of a gun barrel, and was so tight that the wearer could not take a long step. Still others wore a type of blouse with holes punched in the fabric. These were made of thin semi-transparent material, and were called “peek-a-boo” blouses, so Amos learned.

He stared at the hairstyles, not knowing that the one he disliked most was called a Psyche knot, created by folding back the woman's long hair upon itself and giving it various twists until it stood in a short club-like protuberance behind or above the head. Amos thought he'd never seen anything uglier, and hoped that none of his sisters ever appeared in public in such a getup.

By eight o'clock he was ready to leave, convinced he'd been tricked, but at that moment Virginia came through the door. She looked around the room, her eyes falling on him, but she showed no sign of recognition.
Doesn't even know me!
Amos thought bitterly. He moved toward her, and when he was five feet away, he saw her eyes open wide and her hand go to her breast in a gesture of shock.

“Why, Amos!” she whispered. “I didn't
know
you!” She looked at him, taking in the lean figure, enhanced by the trim gray wool suit, the shiny black shoes, the well-shaped cut of his hair. “Clothes
do
make the man!” she murmured, shaking her head. She had been prepared for a rather embarrassing time, expecting Stuart to come in a cheap suit, his hair ragged and unkempt.

Amos could see that she was pleasantly surprised. “You look very nice indeed.”

“So do you, Miss Powers.”

“Oh, you can't call me that!” she protested. “I'm Virginia.” She took his arm. “I'm sorry to be late. But we're just in time for the play.” At her nod, an usher stepped forward and led them down the aisle of the theater.

The World was neither the largest nor the finest of New York's many theaters. It had been once but was now surpassed by newer structures. But it was more than adequate, with its enormous crystal chandeliers, its padded seats, and rich-looking purple curtain. Amos sat down next to Virginia, staring at the crowd—then the curtain went up and the play started.

The play was “The Bride Elect,” starring Christie MacDonald and Frank Pollack. It was a drama, set in Europe, and the colorful costumes dazzled Amos. Not only that, but it was a musical. This too was a source of amazement to him, for he had never heard an orchestra.

As the play unfolded, Amos found himself caught up in the action, unaware of Virginia's secret amusement.
He's so innocent,
the girl was thinking.
It might be fun to make something of him. He looks well enough and he seems bright.

At the intermission, when they went outside, she smiled at his enthusiasm. “I'm glad you like it, Amos. When it's over, we can go out and write the review. You can say the good things, and I'll say the bad things.”

But they never wrote that review, for the next act was barely underway when a troop of six young women in beautiful dresses came on and began to sing a number. At her side, Virginia felt Amos stiffen, and when she turned to look at him, she saw that he was not smiling. In fact, he looked ill.

“What is it, Amos?” she whispered urgently.

Amos tore his gaze from the stage. She could tell that he was in a state of shock. “That's–that's my sister up there!”

Virginia turned to stare at the stage. “Which one?”

“The one in the yellow dress.”

Virginia examined the young woman carefully. “The one you came to New York to find?” she asked, remembering what he had told her earlier. “She's so beautiful!”

Amos had not told Virginia the whole story. He had simply said that his sister had run away from home, not mentioning the fact that she had left with a man. Now he said hoarsely, “I've got to talk to her!”

He actually rose, and Virginia was aware that he was going up on the stage! “Wait! You can't talk to her
now
! We'll go backstage after the play. I've got an appointment with Christie MacDonald.”

The play moved along, but Amos heard nothing more. Lylah! He stared at her, unable to believe his eyes. She looked so–so different. Older, somehow, and more alive. He tried to think what he could say to her when they met, but his mind was still reeling. He was so confused that, when the curtain came down, and the actors took their bows, he was unprepared for Virginia's suggestion. “Come on, Amos. We'll go backstage.”

Still in a daze, Amos let her pull him along and found himself at the side of the big stage, just behind the edge of the curtain. The houselights were up, and he looked down the row of actors and actresses who had gone out to span the stage, bowing at the applause.

Then the curtain came down, and he saw Lylah. She didn't notice him at first, since she was laughing and talking with a young woman as she left the stage. As she approached the place where Amos was standing, however, she lifted her eyes and saw him. She stopped dead still; the smile suddenly disappeared from her face, and her lower lip began to tremble.

The two stared at each other, cut off from the rest of the crowd as if they had been on the moon. Neither of them could speak, and Virginia watched, breathless, sensing the drama of the meeting.
They're very close
, she thought with great insight,
and she's hurt him terribly.

Then Lylah squared her shoulders, held up her head, and came to stand before her brother. “Hello, Amos,” she said quietly. She didn't reach out to him, and saw at once that he was incapable of action. “Wait for me. I'll change and we'll go talk.”

She left, and Amos stood looking after her, his face strained and pale.

“Amos, I've got to go interview Miss MacDonald,” Virginia began. “You'll want to visit with your sister alone, anyway—” She hesitated, then added, “I want to see you again. If I come to the stable tomorrow, can we talk?”

Amos blinked, wrenched his thoughts back to the young woman at his side, and nodded slightly. “Of course—” He broke off, then passed his hand over his forehead. “I'm sorry to spoil your evening.”

Virginia put her hand on his arm, feeling a sudden, unaccustomed rush of pity for him. “It'll be all right,” she whispered. “Be gentle with her, Amos.”

“Why, sure I will,” he said, and then she was gone. He moved back, getting out of the way of the stage hands who were hauling on ropes and moving the scenery around. He was grateful that he had a few minutes to compose himself, for seeing Lylah had shocked him terribly.

He was over the worst of it when she came out, wearing a dark gray dress and a black coat. “Amos, there's a café down the street,” she said. “We can talk there.”

He walked out of the theater with her, not saying a word until they were outside. “I'm glad to see you, sister,” he finally said, not looking at her.

“How did you know I was in the play?”

“Oh, I didn't. Just happened to come.”

They spoke no more until they were seated at a table in the café. They ordered coffee and sandwiches, and when the waiter was gone, Lylah spoke. “How long have you been looking for me? I know that's why you're here in New York.”

“I left home almost two months ago.” Amos could not help himself, but leaned forward and put out his hand. She put her hand in his, and he groaned. “Oh, Lylah, why did you do it?”

Lylah held her brother's hand, her face ashen. She had been almost as shaken as Amos at the moment of their meeting. “I can't explain it. It–it was something I had to do.” Then she whispered, “Do–do you hate me, Amos? Do you all hate me?”

“No! Never that, sister!”

Tears filled Lylah's eyes, and she let them overflow. “Never hate me, Amos. Love me…even if I can't be what you want me to be.”

They sat there talking for a long time. The food came, but they ignored it. They drank cup after cup of coffee, Lylah telling of her experience, her great adventure. As she spoke of life in the theater, her eyes glowed, and Amos knew she would never come home.

Then Lylah began to question Amos, and he spoke diffidently of what he had done since leaving home. She drew out of him more than he wanted her to know, more than he knew himself.

“Amos,” she said with dawning conviction, “you'll never go back to the farm!” She saw his head snap up, saw the impact of her words in his widening gaze. “I know you, Amos. You've hated that farm…more than me, I think. And when you talk about writing, your whole soul spills over!”

“Why, Lylah,” he said in a shocked tone, “I've
got
to go home. They can't make it without me.”

“Yes, they can.”

A sudden resolve formed in Lylah's mind. It was something she'd thought about for a long time. Now she was fully determined. “Owen can help more, Amos. You've got a good job…and that girl can help you get on at the paper. And I'll help, too. I'm not making much, but I can send a little, and Pa can hire a man if he has to.”

Amos could not speak. He had put his dreams away years before. Buried them and kept them firmly in the grave. But now…he began to breathe a little harder, and he asked hoarsely, “Lylah—do you think it can happen?”

Lylah loved her brother deeply. It hurt her to see the longing on his face. A great joy swept over her as she thought,
I've hurt them all
…
but if I can help Amos, that will make up for some of it.

She took his hand in both of hers, leaned forward, and whispered, “We're a pair of rebels, big brother. But we're going to make it, you and me!”

T
he feeble February sun was a pale and pallid disk that seemed to be made of ice rather than fire. It dropped behind the low-lying hills just as Owen emerged from the woods and crossed the yard. He tossed the sack of rabbits down on the table beside the house, then went to the front.

As soon as he opened the door, he was met by his mother who was smiling. “A letter came from Amos today. We were waiting for you to come home before we opened it.”

“Let's read it now, Ma!” Logan yelped.

“No, let's eat first,” Owen countered. “I need to thaw out and get something hot in my belly.”

“It's all ready.” Marian got them all seated, and they ate the venison steaks doused in white gravy. There were the usual loud arguments between the younger children, and Owen listened as his father told about a bear that he'd seen a mile away from the house.

When they finished, Marian sat down and opened the envelope. She took out the two sheets of paper and held them up so that the yellow light from the coal-oil lamp fell on the clear, firm writing. She began to read, slowly and carefully:

“I don't like the sound of that.” Owen frowned. “It sounds to me like he won't be coming home.” He was slouched down in his chair, his brow furrowed. Owen had missed Amos more than any of them—except for Marian, of course. “He keeps talking about that woman, Virginia Powers. I'll bet she's sweet on him. Well, go on, Ma, let's hear the rest of it.”

“See? What'd I tell you?” Owen interjected.

Marian put the letter down on the table, and looked across at her husband. “Will, Amos won't be back for spring plowing. We'll use this money to hire a hand to help you.”

Will Stuart nodded thoughtfully. “Guess you're right, Marian. He ain't thinking of this farm.”

Pete Stuart had listened carefully to the letter. Now he spoke up. “It sounds like Amos has another girl, don't it?”

Marian studied the letter and replied slowly, “Amos always did have a soft heart. I reckon he's just trying to look out for this Rose girl.”

Owen rose abruptly, and climbed the ladder into the sleeping loft. Seeing him go, Will was thoughtful. “Marian, it was worse than we knew—Lylah running off the way she did.” It was bad enough for her to go, but now we've lost Amos for good.” He motioned toward the loft. “Owen—he'll be the next to leave. We'll be lucky to keep him until he's eighteen.”

“I know, Will.” Marian looked out the window, and it seemed she was trying to see through the mountains that separated her from Amos and Lylah. She sighed heavily, then turned away, her face sad. “It's all in God's hands.”

“Oh, Amos, I'm too tired to go out tonight!”

Rose had come home, exhaustion evident in every line of her slender figure. She had just managed to wash up when Amos came to remind her that they were going out to eat and then to see a play.

Amos insisted. “I know you're tired, Rose, but you don't have to work tomorrow. And you need to have a little fun.” He finally persuaded her, and knowing that she had no energy left for walking, Amos splurged recklessly on a cab.

He took her to an inexpensive café, where Rose brightened up, warmed by the good food and pleased by Amos's constant stream of talk—mostly about his job. As she sipped her tea, he told her with great animation of the Spanish crisis.

“You see, Rose, the Spaniards have been persecuting the Cuban people. They've sent a general named Weyler—‘Butcher Weyler' he's called—and he's slaughtered the poor Cubans by the thousands! Well, my boss, Mr. William Randolph Hearst, has stirred up the American people. He sent the best artist in America to sketch the horrible atrocities, so that Americans can see what's going on down there.” He fumbled in his pocket, came out with a portion of a newspaper, and showed it to her. “Look at this!”

Rose stared at the picture of a beautiful, demure, young girl, standing naked and helpless as a rugged Spanish soldier pawed through her clothing. “Why…this is awful!” she cried.

“Terrible! And that's not the worst of it!” Amos's eyes glowed with righteous indignation as he recounted the murders of “Butcher Weyler.” “Well…anyway,” he said, “I'm hoping Mr. Hearst will send me to Cuba.”

Rose was instantly alert. “I'd hate to see you go, Amos. I–I don't know what I would have done without you.”

She looked so innocent and vulnerable sitting there that Amos reached over and took her hand. “Oh, Rose, it was nothing. What I really want to do is find you a better job.” He studied her face, seeing her fatigue. “I know what that place is like. You've got to get out of there.”

“It's hard.” Rose sighed. “Much harder than any work I've ever done. All I do is work all day, come home and fall asleep, then get up and start all over again.”

“Well, I want you to forget that blasted factory for tonight.” Amos got to his feet and pulled her up with him. “We're going to see a show and have a great time. Come on!”

They left the café and, thirty minutes later, were seated in the Stellar Theater, waiting for the curtain to go up. Rose, who had never seen a play, was as dazzled as Amos had been a few weeks earlier. The play,
The Devil's Disciple,
was by an Irishman named Shaw. It was a rousing comedy set in the days of the American Revolution and delighted both Amos and Rose.

After the play was over, they strolled out onto the street, reliving their favorite parts. It was late, but Amos wasn't ready for the evening to end. “Before we go home, let's go get something warm—some hot chocolate, maybe.”

Rose protested, but Amos was still charged with excitement, and she gave in. They were walking along the street when a voice called out, “Hey! Amos!” They both looked up to see Nick crossing the street, dodging the buggies. He was wearing a sporty-looking suit, with a new derby cocked over his right eye. “Look at the two o'you.” He laughed. “Out on the town!”

“Hello, Nick.” Amos smiled back. “We've been to see a play.”

“Yeah? Well, come on, let's get something to eat.” He stationed himself on the other side of Rose. “How come you go out with this guy? Don't you know you can't trust a rebel? Now a nice hometown boy like me…you can put yourself in my hands and be sure nothing's gonna go wrong.”

They smiled at his foolishness, and when he motioned toward a brilliantly lit establishment, Amos was uneasy. “That's a saloon, isn't it, Nick?”

Nick punched Amos's arm and grinned. “Saloon? Why, they serve the best steak in this old town in Charlie's Place! Come on inside and I'll prove it.”

Amos glanced at Rose, who was waiting for him to decide. “Well, we're not really hungry, but we'll go in for just a few minutes.” They followed Nick and were promptly escorted to a good table. Nick seemed to know the manager, Charlie O'Steen, and remarked, “He's a good egg, Charlie is…and always has a good show.”

Nick bullied them into ordering steaks with all the trimmings. But it was soon evident that Charlie's Place was more than a restaurant. As they were waiting for their food, a sudden blast of music interrupted their conversation.

“Charlie's got a great idea here,” Nick said. “Guy can eat, have a drink, and see a swell show, all for one price.” He sipped at his drink, and nodded toward the stage, which took up one end of the large room. “This is a great show…you're gonna love it!”

Amos and Rose watched as the entertainers came on. It was a revue, with singing, dancing, and several comedy sketches. The star was a slender fellow by the name of Eddy Sparks. Eddy had a fine voice, and his specialty was singing love songs to an attractive young woman…or several of them. In most of the numbers, the stage was filled with these girls, either singing along with him, or cavorting about, kicking up their heels.

After the show, which lasted forty-five minutes, Nick winked at them and got to his feet. “Hey, Eddy!” he called out. “Come over and meet some friends of mine.”

To the surprise of both Amos and Rose, the entertainer turned his head, and seeing Nick, smiled and walked over as the rest of the troupe left the stage. “Hello, Nick.”

“Great show! Just great, Eddy!” Nick beamed. “Want you to meet some people. This guy you better watch out for—Amos Stuart, a big-shot reporter on the
Journal
.”

Sparks put out his hand, his mobile lips curving into a smile. “I always treat the gentlemen of the press right. I get better reviews that way.”

“And this is Miss Rose Beaumont.”

Sparks bowed, smiled again, and cocked his head to one side. “Did you enjoy the show, Miss Rose?”

“Oh, yes!” Rose had forgotten her fatigue, and the excitement of the evening had heightened her color, so that the glow in her cheeks set off her black hair and her unusual eyes. She smiled, revealing even white teeth. “You sing so well, Mr. Sparks.”

“Put that in your review, Mr. Stuart,” the actor said quickly. He was regarding Rose in a peculiar manner, and asked abruptly, “Are you in show business, Miss Rose?”

“Me! Oh, no!” Rose blushed slightly, which only increased her charm. “I only work in a factory.”

Sparks made a show of indignation. “What? A factory? Why, that's a crime against nature!” He made a sweeping gesture toward the stage. “Not one of those girls is as attractive as you!”

“You offering her a job, Eddy?”

Sparks nodded instantly. “As a matter of fact, one of our young ladies is leaving the company. Would you be interested in a change of professions, Miss Rose?”

Rose gasped and shook her head almost violently. “Oh, I couldn't! I mean, I never learned how to sing or dance or anything like that!”

“Neither did most of the girls you saw tonight,” Sparks said dryly. Then he brightened. “But the girl who's got to be replaced is more decorative than talented. She's the one I sang to.” He frowned slightly. “You don't like garlic, do you?” Without waiting for a reply, he rushed on, “She does a simple little dance once in awhile, just with the other girls, nothing complicated.”

“What's the pay?” Nick demanded.

“You her agent?” Sparks grinned. “Well, the job only pays twenty dollars a week.” When he saw Rose's eyes grow wide and her mouth form a perfect O of surprise, he pressed his advantage. “Of course, the hours aren't long. From seven until eleven. We do the show twice each night. But you can sleep 'til noon if you want to.”

Rose thought of her mornings, when simply getting out of bed and staggering down to the factory took all her strength. Sleep until noon! But she was too shy, and whispered, “Oh, I just couldn't do it.”

Nick was right at her side, urging her. “Can't do it?
Sure
you can, Rosie! Why, I could do it myself…except I'm not as pretty as you—”

He laughed at his own joke and kept urging her, until finally Amos interrupted nervously. “Nick, don't say any more. Rose doesn't want to do it.”

Nick stared at him, temper flaring in his dark eyes. “Oh? And she
does
want to work herself to death in that factory? Amos, stay out of this.”

Sparks intervened. “Hey, don't get mad, okay?” He smiled at Rose. “Miss, if you want to try it, I'll give you a couple of days to think it over. I'd like to have you…but you might as well know that acting is a hard world. Lots of fellows will promise you you'll be a star, but you probably won't. Too much competition. This job here isn't like trouping all over the country, though. Home every night…and no funny business with my company,” he added, looking meaningfully at Amos. “I'm a happily married man, and I don't allow my people to fool around.” He bowed. “Good to meet you both. Come and see me if you change your mind.”