A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Amos was strong, but not particularly dexterous. His father, with his nimble musician’s fingers, could have tied twice as many bottles. Added to his native ineptness was the freezing cold in the unheated factory. Amos had tried hard at first, but his numb fingers just would not do the work quickly, though he stared at them and willed them to go faster. It grated on him that the young woman next to him could tie three hundred dozen bottles a day.

  She was a frail thing, with a hollow cough and two red spots on her cheeks not made by cosmetics, but her fingers flew, the string and bottles seeming to unite magically, flowing from her hands in a steady stream. She had attained a machine-like perfection. All movements of her thin fingers were automatic, and her eyes were blank as she worked, so it seemed to Amos she was becoming a machine herself.

  As for Amos, he worked under high tension and grew so nervous that his muscles twitched in his sleep, and even when he was not working, he could not relax. He longed for the farm, for the hardwork at home had been a pleasure. The sharp biting cold of the Ozarks had not been like this deadening cold inside the musty building: That air had been invigorating, while the damp cold of the factory seemed not only to numb his fingers but his brain as well.

  All day he tied the little bottles, stopping only for thirty brief minutes at noon to eat the sandwich and the half an apple. He washed it down with bitter-tasting water from the water can, then went back to the second half of his ten-hour day.

  By the end of his workday, Amos’s senses were dulled, his fingers stiff and sore, and he knew that he would go back to the house, eat, and go directly to bed. He tried to think of some way to do what he had planned—to spend part of his time searching for Lylah. That grand scheme had lasted only a few days, for he was so exhausted at night that he could not force himself to go out and look for her. The search was, in any case, fruitless, for the only clue he had to her whereabouts was the theater, and by the time he walked to Broadway, it would be too late to make any inquiries. As for days off, he was barely making enough now to pay his room and board and to put aside a small amount for emergencies.

  While he was struggling with this problem, Amos became aware that something was happening just to his left.

  The superintendent, accompanied by a burly man in a suit and tie, was standing beside a small boy named Fred. When someone whispered, “That’s the inspector!” Amos stopped work and turned to watch the little group.

  The inspector caught Fred by the arm, peered at him intently, then asked, “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen!” the boy replied, and would have said more, but was cut off by a dry hacking cough.

  “I know this boy,” the inspector said sternly. “He’s twelve years old. I’ve had him discharged from three factories this year.” He turned to the superintendent. “You’ll have to let him go.”

  “No, we ain’t got enough to eat at home,” Fred protested. “I got to work!”

  The inspector eyed him critically. “Look at him! Got rickets…and probably consumption to boot.”

  “Please, mister!” the boy cried. “I got to work! Ain’t nobody but me got work, and I got a sick ma and a baby sister.”

  “Get him out of here,” snapped the burly man.

  The Stuart breed had been subject to fiery fits of white-hot anger over injustices for longer than Amos knew. His forebears were Scotch Covenanters who had incarnadined the soil of their native land over such as this. And as the big man started to turn away, a red curtain seemed to fall over Amos Stuart’s eyes. He dropped the bottles in his hands to the cement floor, ignored the tinkling sound as they shattered, and leapt to grasp the inspector’s arm.

  “Inspector of what?” Amos demanded. “If you’re supposed to inspect this place to see that working conditions are decent…all you have to do is look around…if you’re not blind, that is!”

  Startled, the big man tried to pull his arm away but found it gripped by fingers of steel. He looked wildly at the superintendent who was just as stunned.

  “Are you supposed to see if women and children, many of them sick, are being overworked?” Amos raged. “Well, look around you, Mr. Inspector!” Amos used his free hand to make a sweeping gesture.

  Work had stopped now, and every eye was turned toward the scene.

  “That’s the stuff, kid!” Nick shouted. “Tell the dirty rotters how it is!”

  The superintendent came to himself and reached out to grab Amos, but was struck with an iron forearm that knocked him on his rear. He let out a yelp of pain, and the muscular inspector chose that moment to hit Amos in the neck with his big fist. Amos was driven to his knees, and the big man drew back his foot to administer a kick. But at that moment Nick came up and caught him over the ear with the edge of the stool he’d been sitting on. The man went down like a felled ox, and Nick shouted something in Italian. Then he grabbed Amos, a wild grin on his face. “Come on! They’ll call the cops now!”

  Amos’s head was still spinning, but Nick guided him through the factory to the outside. The sky was growing dark, and the cold bit at them, but Nick beat Amos on the back as they lurched along. “You got machismo, kid! Come on!”

  When they were clear of the area, Amos asked, “Will they arrest us, Nick?”

  “Naw. They might send some of the cops looking for us, but I got some pull with the boys now. They’ll slip him a few bucks and he’ll report that he couldn’t find a trace of us.” Nick gave his friend a proud look. “That’s the way it’s going to be with me, Amos. You get on the inside…and nobody can touch you!”

  “The inside of what?” Amos asked, puzzled.

  At once Nick’s lips grew tight, and he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ll take care of you.” He smiled then, adding, “You’re a pretty quick guy, you know? Real speedy, the way you clipped that super! Guess I’ll have to call you ‘Speed’ Stuart from now on.”

  By the time they got back to the house, the excitement of the adventure had worn off, and Amos was beginning to realize that he’d lost three days’ pay because of his escapade. He ate supper, half-listening as Nick told the story of their great revolt and he noted that the two female boarders and Mary Elizabeth were watching him with new interest.

  But after he went to bed, Amos lay awake worrying, long after Nick and Mario’s breathing grew even and regular. I’ll have to go back home, he concluded. But everything in him rebelled at the idea of giving up. Buried beneath Amos’s easy-going manner was an iron-hard stubbornness that would not let him quit as long as he was able to function. He racked his brain, trying to think of a way to stay in the city. Finally, a strange thought came to him—such an unusual thought, for him, that he grinned at his own foolishness.

  The thought, however, refused to go away, and he lay there quietly, pondering what he should do about it. He even thought about praying for help from God. He moved restlessly, but the idea seemed to bore into his mind, and he almost said aloud, Pray to God for help? Why should he help me? All I’ve done is go through the motions…never had anything real…not like Ma’s got.

  He drifted into a light sleep at last, only to awaken soon after with the same impulse nagging at him. Half in disgust at what he considered a weakness, he whispered, “Oh, all right, then—God, help me get a job!” Another thought came to him, and he added, “And I want a job that pays plenty…and one where I can do something I’m good at and like to do.” He did smile then, and as sleep came rushing back, he whispered, “Now, then—let’s see how you manage that little trick!”

  Amos slept until nearly nine o’clock the next morning, but his first thought when he finally opened his eyes was: I asked God to get me a job!

  He sat up abruptly, remembering his prayer, and for a time didn’t move, thinking how ridiculous the whole thing was. But he didn’t feel like laughing, and when he went downstairs and coaxed Mama Anna into fixing him a late breakfast, he had the courage to mention his idea to her.

  She listened carefully, then nodded. “Yes…I pray f
or 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!”