Tomorrow May Come (standard:romance, 5596 words)
Author: Steven LaBri	Added: Jun 26 2007	Views/Reads: 2871/1961	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A romantic novel speaking to that place in each of us that seeks inspiration or redemption. The words and the life of Lucas Colby will speak to the heart and mind of anyone that has loved and lost, or loved and lived.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

front door. Theodius Finley, dressed as if for a Sunday morning, 
blocked the doorway with his large figure. 

“Good Mornin' Mr. Finley,” Lucas heard his mother say as she stepped
onto the porch. 

“Mornin' Mrs. Colby.” 

Theodius Finley was solemn and arrived with intent. Lucas strained to
hear hushed and somber conversation taking place. Hearing bits and 
pieces of conversation, “Finley's,” and then, “Sorry,” he said. Martha 
Colby sat on the front steps of their house; her face was blank; her 
eyes empty from a conversation held on this day of supposed 
celebration. Lucas saw tears fill her eyes as Theodius Finley, holding 
his hat in his hand, motioned towards the house. Martha Colby, her 
hands tightly clasped between her legs, her head down, shifted her body 
toward the house and softly shook her head responding “No.” Shortly 
afterwards, Lucas heard the screen door open and Martha Colby stepped 
back into the house trying to appear as if nothing happened. 

“Ma, you okay?” 

“Yes honey, I'll be okay, but we need to talk.” 

She couldn't bring herself to tell Lucas the truth. “Not yet,” she
thought. “He's too young to understand.” Her life had not been much 
more than a series of excuses -- deceit while justifying her actions as 
the right thing to do. She found comfort in the excuse she didn't want 
to hurt Lucas and she promised herself she would tell him one day. 

“Mr. Finley came by with some bad news,” she said holding a small
handkerchief to her slender nose. 

Lucas concerned with his mother's change in manner asked, “What happened
Ma?” 

Martha Colby sat on the couch in the front room and said to Lucas, “Your
father has been killed. He's dead.” 

Lucas didn't understand what he should feel. His emotions were no more
for his father than for the man in the newspaper. Still, he could see 
his mother's pain and held her hand softly as they sat on the couch. 

Three days passing, Matthew Colby, father of Lucas Colby arrived without
the fanfare expected of a war hero - the introduction taking place at 
the church where Lucas attended with his mother. Lucas stood alone in 
the heat of the day, dry brown grass beneath his feet, watching as 
workers with dour expressions approached an arriving flatbed truck. 
Together the men unloaded a nondescript wooden casket. His mom told him 
his father died alone on a battlefield halfway around the world. There 
wasn't much of an acquaintance on that quiet day, but it was all the 
time Lucas Colby would ever have with his father. He didn't understand 
apathetic thoughts tormenting him, or why the feeling within his heart 
was as dry as the heat beating the earth beneath his feet. 

The driver handed Preacher Dan some papers. He signed them, and returned
them to the driver. They shook hands while exchanging polite 
conversation. The flatbed traveled the sandy road leading back to the 
main highway. The leaves on the tree-lined road along the church 
grounds caught the white dust kicked up by the passing truck. Quiet 
settled on the church grounds as Lucas watched the truck become a small 
dot on the horizon of the long road. Alone Lucas stood, trying to feel 
why he didn't miss his father when he heard footsteps behind him. 

John Watson, the caretaker for the church stepped up behind Lucas,
kneeling down matching Lucas's height and said, “Hello Lucas, you doing 
okay?” There was a concern in his voice, and Lucas trusted the kind 
man. 

“I guess so Mr. Watson. I was just standing here wonderin' bout stuff,”
Lucas responded. 

“How's that?” Mr. Watson asked. 

Lucas thought for a moment and said, “Should I be sad?” He kicked the
dirt beneath his shoes, “I mean with my father and all that.” 

Mr. Watson looked out over the fields surrounding the church, “I would
think it would be a personal choice Lucas. My guess is you don't 
remember much about your father, so feeling sad for someone you never 
knew probably wouldn't feel right.” 

Lucas was sad for his mom, but Mr. Watson was right. He didn't know his
father. Lucas thought, “You can't miss something you never had.” 

The next morning a small gathering of people sat quietly in the long
wooden pews inside the church. There were soft murmurs, and whispered 
secrets, all outside the earshot of Martha Colby. Inside the walls of 
the sanctuary, the only testament to the existence of Matthew Colby was 
the sealed box laid before Lucas. Martha Colby told her son there 
wasn't enough of his father left to bring back from wherever he was 
when he died. Placed within a simple silver frame, a photograph of 
Matthew Colby sat on the top of the casket. Lucas looked at the picture 
of his father and thought, “It must have been from happier times. 
Matthew Colby was smiling.” 

Preacher Dan stood elevated on the stage, most of his portly stature
hidden behind a podium while vocalizing the life of Matthew Colby. His 
jowls shook as his voice echoed from faded church walls while speaking 
of death and resurrection, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...” Lucas 
listened with the weariness of a young child to the rhetoric of the 
wages of sin and how it wasn't too late for us. He thought, “To late 
for what?” 

Lucas watched his mother and held her hand, while sitting quietly in the
front row staring at the box before him. She wiped tears from the 
corners of her eyes with a white handkerchief. Her body trembled as she 
inhaled the stale air of the church. Preacher Dan prayed and then 
stepped down. He approached Martha Colby and whispered words quietly 
while holding her hand. She thanked him and nodded her head in 
agreement. Four men stood to carry Matthew Colby to his final 
destination on the grounds of the church. 

The earth's scent rose through the air bringing the smell of fresh dry
dirt as the sun's heat pounded from overhead. A light breeze touched 
the leaves of the large oak tree that canopied above the gathering 
providing a cooler breeze than deserved. Lucas, his hair sticking to 
his forehead, felt the sweat slip down his back, small beads of 
perspiration formed above his lip. Men and women dressed in shades of 
black stood wishing this would end. Lucas wondered if these people kept 
these clothes for occasions like this. During the walk home from 
church, Martha explained to Lucas the pine box from Uncle Sam was all 
they could afford. Lucas didn't know who Uncle Sam was, but thought he 
must have been a kind man to help them. It seemed often there were 
uncles at his house, but he never knew one named Sam. 

As the months passed, Martha Colby, preferring the solitude of her own
thoughts, did not speak often of her husband. She drew further and 
further away from Lucas, reluctant to speak of the past. Lucas 
believed, in the end his father was afraid, as most men would be when 
finding there was no hope and tomorrow may not come. Lucas believed his 
mother held hope in her heart. Lucas believed, without hope, there 
wasn't much to live for. He would have preferred to have a father, and 
thought his mother would rather have a husband. Martha Colby would tell 
him, “Sometimes fate controls what you want, but God will give you what 
you need.” He could hear his mom cry in her room at night as he tried 
to sleep. Her voice escaping muffled through thin walls, words as if 
his father were there. Morning brought the same conversations, her 
eyes, swollen and red. 

He would ask, “You okay ma?” 

Martha Colby would always respond the same, “Yes honey, I'm fine.” 

Lucas would ask, “Ma, why did he leave us?” 

Her response echoing the loneliness in her voice, “Lot's of reasons, I
suppose. None of which we will understand in this life. Eat your 
breakfast.” 

“Ma, did he love us?” His doubts never returned in kind. 

As far back as Lucas could remember his mother worked at Northeastern
Sanitarium. It was a small hospital on the edge of Finley not far from 
the Trade Emporium and near their modest house. It was a hard job, 
didn't pay much and she would work late, coming home tired. Forced to 
fend for himself on those late nights Lucas learned he had to rely on 
his own judgment. As Lucas grew into maturity, his mom tried to keep 
him on a straight path and instill a sense of goodness in his wretched 
soul. Lucas ignored the lessons and wishes learning early in life what 
a bottle of booze could do to a person. He also learned what a bottle 
of booze and a buxom young woman could do in the back of a hay wagon. 
His restless soul pushed his limits creating pain and sorrow as his 
mother watched helpless. It was a harsh and forbidding life for a 
fatherless child. A boy sometimes needs a man to kick his ass when he 
heads in the wrong direction. Lucas would have his way as he grew up 
and knew a woman just can't control a man. 

When Lucas finished school in 1929, Martha's health had declined. Her
weight dropped making her thin and frail, her skin, translucent and 
pale. The visits from Doc Phillips became more commonplace, and Martha 
spent more time in bed than out. In June of 1929, Lucas sat with his 
ailing mother at her bedside. 

Holding his hand she said, “My time will soon come, Lucas.” 

He didn't understand why this should be happening, but Martha told her
son he would understand one day. Martha believed her punishment was for 
her deceit, the lies of her life causing this sickness. She said, “I 
need you to be strong. People and situations in this world will tempt 
you and you need to hold strong.” She wanted to tell Lucas of his 
father, but couldn't bring herself to reveal the lies she had held so 
close to her heart, scars deep within her soul. 

She thought, “If I take them with me, he will never know. He won't need
to know.” 

Each day brought her pain. Each day she became worse. Lucas sat in the
chair by her bed, holding her hand. Lucas felt powerless watching her 
labored breathing, her eyes shallow and dark, and her wispy hair 
falling over her forehead. She turned gray and thin – not the mother he 
knew. For her every suffering moment, for her every scream in agony, 
Lucas cursed his father. He cursed God for letting her suffer. Doc 
Phillips would say the cancer killed her. He knew it wasn't true. “All 
we can do is wait,” Doc would repeat as if something would change. 
Lucas didn't understand what he was waiting for until her last breath. 
In late September as Lucas dozed in the chair, his mother arched her 
back and squeezed his hand. She called out, “Lucas,” her eyes hollow 
and gazing through him, “I'm so sorry,” she fell limp and quiet in his 
arms. Tears welled in his young eyes and he understood. There is no 
pain after death. He thought, “God must have heard her on those nights 
when she was talking in her bedroom.” If nothing else, Lucas took this 
lesson believing, sometimes life is just a slow form of suicide, and 
eventually everyone dies. Martha Colby's pain ended on a Sunday 
afternoon, her secrets however, would last much longer. 

After the funeral, Lucas returned to the house to sort out belongings,
gathering what little he had. It was time to leave Finley. Martha kept 
her bedroom simple and plain, not unlike her life. He found a small 
letter box sticking out from beneath the covers, hidden under her bed. 
Opening the box while sitting on the side of the bed he found old 
photos of his parents, letters from husband to wife and an official 
looking letter from Northeastern Sanitarium. Lucas cautiously unfolded 
the paper. 

“In light of Mr. Colby's current disposition, the court agrees he will
remain in the protection of this facility until further psychological 
evaluation. Patient: Colby, Matthew James DOB: December 17, 1895 
Submitted: August 15, 1914 Diagnostic Analysis: Delusional and Paranoid 
Schizophrenia. Contributing cause: Excessive use of alcohol. 
Recommended Treatment: Antipsychotic medication, Shock therapy. 

Attached to those papers was a death certificate from the Finley County
Morgue. Subject: Colby, Matthew James DOB: December 17, 1895 DOD: 
August 10, 1918 Cause of Death: Head wound - shotgun. Determination: 
Suicide 

He brushed his fingers across the words as if the action would explain
the lies he held in his hands. His head felt dense, in a fog trying to 
understand the words before him. Lucas sat on the side of his mother's 
bed, as if expecting resolution. His mind wandered while trying to make 
sense of the events beginning to come into focus. There were late night 
conversations he had heard drifting through the walls from her room; 
the emptiness in her heart, the loneliness in her eyes; sad eyes, eyes 
without love. Uncles came and went, drifting quietly in and out of his 
life. He could not understand why she would carry such a lie to her 
grave. Too many unanswered questions. Too many lies posted through his 
life. “Life ain't worth living without somebody to love, she always 
said. If nobody loved you, or you didn't love somebody, you might as 
well be dead.” The truth was the cancer didn't kill Martha Colby. 
Loneliness and lies scared her heart – something Lucas Colby could not 
stop. 

CHAPTER 2 

October 1929 

Lucas threw his bag over his back, pushed open the screen door, and
walked across the front porch, under the large oak tree and onto the 
dirt road that ran in front of his house. Without looking back, and 
with everything he owned, Lucas Colby carried himself into his future. 
He passed the cemetery without looking up, turning his back on a wasted 
youth of gambling, drinking, lies, and deception. He had nothing much 
to offer anyone and there was little hope of finding a job in this 
small town. 

An early snow had fallen overnight leaving the ground covered in a soft
white blanket. Ahead of him, only fence posts told the sides of the 
road, behind him an approaching truck. Sticking his thumb out, a 
flatbed truck, like the one that delivered his father, pulled to the 
side of the road. 

The driver asked, “Where ya headed boy?” 

“Away from here,” said Lucas Colby. “Anywhere but here.” 

He threw his sack in the bed of the truck, and the driver pulled onto
the road, each shift of the gearbox taking him further and further from 
his past. 

The oldman driving the truck shifted into third gear and broke the
silence, “I'm headed back to Cleveland. You plan on going that far?” 

The driver's words echoed in his head. Lucas hadn't thought about where
he was going, only he was leaving – leaving home. As the sun crested 
over the buried lies of his life, Lucas Colby left home and never 
looked back. Those words, left home, sounded so odd to him. The truth 
was there was never a home. 

“Cleveland is fine and as good a place as any to get a new start I
suppose,” he said to the driver. 

The oldman asked, “You know how to drive a truck?” 

“I can drive anything,” Lucas said quietly while looking out the window.


“Good,” said the oldman. “We'll make good time.” 

Arriving in the city, Lucas bid farewell to the kind man. He found the
Armed Services Recruiting Office near downtown. He walked into the 
office and saw a line of young bucks antsy to pick up a rifle and 
fight. The room was hot, and smelled like men. He stepped up to the 
desk and gave his name, “Lucas Colby, and I want to join up.” 

A tired man looked up at Lucas, “Strip down to your skivvies, throw your
clothes in a locker, and get in line with the rest of ‘em boy. You'll 
get your turn.” 

After removing his clothes, he walked to the back of the line of young
mavericks and watched as they impatiently waited for their chance. 

During the physical, the doctor ran Lucas through basic tests sticking
things in places he didn't know you could stick things in. Lucas had 
never needed a doctor for himself and the only Doc he had ever known 
was Doc Phillips. After the first exam, Lucas sat alone in the drab 
green room with faded walls and few windows. A small table held 
instruments of trade and there was a well worn chair in the corner. The 
nurse arrived and ordered Lucas to follow. She pointed to a steel table 
in the middle of the room and said, “I need you to lie down on the 
table.” 

Lucas thought, as she attached a series of wires and suction cups to his
chest, the metal table was as cold as her demeanor. He could see her 
name, “Katie Johnson, RN” from her nameplate, perfectly pinned to the 
right side of her spotless white uniform. Lucas could tell by the tone 
of her voice she was a professional and knew what she was doing. She 
reached across him, and said in firm character, “Your being alone and 
without parents to consent for you, and confirm your medical history, 
the doctor will need to make sure you're healthy.” 

She looked a few years older than Lucas but he found her unyielding
persona attractive. Lucas, tried to break through her ascetic 
disposition and said, “Trust me! I'm the healthiest buck in this joint! 
I'm strong as an ox, can drink all-night, and be up at dawn and ready 
to go again!” 

That little yarn didn't impress her and she coldly responded, “Shut up
cowboy, and be still.” 

The wires crossed his chest like a map of a highway. Lucas asked, this
time a little less foolhardy, “So you think I'll pass this test?” 

She smiled and said, “You look like you can handle most anything, you
know, a man your size and all.” With her slender hand, she tapped her 
finger on his chest and said, “But you'll need to behave yourself!” 

Not one to give up, he asked, “Tell me Katie, would you like to go
dancing tonight?” Lucas could see he touched a nerve. 

She looked at Lucas with her big brown eyes and whispered close to his
ear, “The Doc is my husband, so you need to be quiet.” 

Katie looked around the room, as if to make sure the Doc was gone, and
said, “He works late all the time, but I'll be out of here by five 
o'clock.” 

The Doc arrived a moment later. Standing tall over Lucas, he began
pushing buttons on a machine next to the table. 

“What are you doing Doc?” 

“It's just a test to see if your ticker is working boy. Nothing to worry
about. Just be quiet for a minute“. 

The machine hummed and produced a long paper with marks on it. “What
does it say?” Lucas asked. 

He put his stethoscope on Lucas's chest and listened, then stepped back
with a worried look and said, “Sorry kid, I wish I had better news.” 

“What the hell does it mean Doc?” 

“You have a murmur,” he said. 

“A murmur?” 

“It's an extra or unusual sound heard during your heartbeat. It could be
serious, or it could be nothing and you will grow out of it. I don't 
think you need to start planning for a funeral right away.” 

Lucas sat up and said, “I don't understand Doc. I feel fine! I am as
strong as a bull!” 

He said, “Could be true, but with this diagnosis, the NAVY can't take a
chance of your dying while at war.” 

Die at war? Lucas let out a loud laugh. 

Without answer, the Doc told Lucas to get up and get dressed. 

The Doc wrote some notes on the paper and told Lucas, “You're probably
not going to die soon and you could live to be a hundred years old. It 
all depends on how you choose to live. Right now, the NAVY wants 
healthy men, and your health isn't perfect.” 

It looked as if destiny had other plans for Lucas. He was at a crossroad
and the only thing he knew was he was broke. Before leaving Finley, 
Lucas scraped up some money by selling everything he could get his 
hands on. He sat on the curb of this godforsaken town and heard a 
whistle as a train approached the station. Running until his heart felt 
like it was going to jump out of his throat, he arrived as the train 
was pulling away. Grabbing the handrail, he hoisted himself through an 
open door and into a cargo car. He had no idea where he was headed, but 
he knew it wasn't Finley. He settled into the boxcar on a pile of hay. 
The gentle sway of the train became a rhythmic pattern, slowly rocking 
back and forth, Lucas thought about his mother. He thought about his 
life. He thought about the lies. Lucas leaned back on the scratchy hay 
as the train traveled northward through the night, north to his future, 
a future of uncertainty, but his future nonetheless. 

The evening air was cold as it blew into the open door, the landscape
was clear of towns, with only small hills and open land. The train sped 
along the tracks bringing him closer to his future. He fell asleep when 
sometime later; the blaring sound of the train horn announced its 
arrival heralding a new beginning. He stuck his head out the door as 
the train slowed. He saw a sign posted above the station as the train 
wheels squealed to a stop. 

New York City, New York. 

CHAPTER 3 

The long day was ahead and full of misgiving. He worked his path down
the busy street carrying nothing more than a sack of clothes, small 
change in the pocket of well-worn pants and hope within his wearied 
heart. He watched for any business with an open door, finding the same 
answer, “Sorry kid, no work here.” 

Tired, his stomach empty, he sat on the curb at 86th and Bedfort
reviewing his choices. The cold wind of October flapped a small 
handwritten sign tacked to the door of a stark building across the 
street it read, “Need a Job? - See Charlie Inside.” Lucas jumped up, 
ran across the street, yanking the sign off the door. 

With confidence, Lucas pulled open the large door and walked into the
building, the door slammed behind him. The lighting was dim and the 
place was old. Making his way through the room, across the dance floor, 
the smell of old liquor and cheap perfume invaded his nostrils. His 
eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he wondered if anyone had ever put a 
mop to the floor. A man sat at a table in the corner, the cigarette he 
smoked glowed in the darkened room. Lucas said in his strongest voice, 
“I'm looking for Charlie.” 

“Over here kid, I'm Charlie. You lookin' for a job?” 

Charles Leland wore a floppy hat, an open shirt, and a loose tie around
his thin neck. In a gruff voice he asked, “What's ya name kid?” 

“Lucas Colby, Sir.” 

He peered at Lucas over the top of his eyeglasses, “You're a big one,
Lucas Colby, have a seat, and let's talk.” 

This place, he called a Dance Club, was a speakeasy where you could find
a stiff drink, a card game, and sometimes the dames would come in for a 
little fun. Charlie Leland needed someone to help clean the place up, 
bring in ice, and do the dishes, and Lucas's guess, the dirty work. 

“Ya know, I used to work the Wild West Show in my younger days in the
last of the Old West,” Charlie Leland said, as he shifted in his seat. 
“I then moved to Chicago and waited tables. You ever worked in the 
union, kid?” 

“Uh, no sir. Never have.” 

“Yeah, well that's okay. I used to be part of the American Workers Union
in Chicago, but it got so tough I had to split town. As a matter of 
fact, the authorities started arresting all the big cheeses, so I 
hightailed it and ended up here.” 

Impressed with Charlie's past, Lucas asked, “So how did you end up with
this place?” 

“That was crazy, let me tell ya,” Charlie responded. “When I got here,
prohibition was in full swing. New York is full of gangsters, 
bootleggers, and crooked cops, but what I saw was opportunity. This 
business is tough, but it pays well so I knew it would be a good deal. 
I bought this old building and cleaned it up. Once the word spread, 
which don't take long around here, it was business as usual.” Charlie 
pushed his hat above his forehead, and with a firm look from cynical 
eyes he said, “Think ya can work here, kid?” 

With caution, Lucas told him, “Sure I can - and I can take care of this
place like you want.” 

Charlie leaned back on the chair and asked, “You married kid? 

“I don't even have a girlfriend,” Lucas responded. 

“Hell! I'm on my third!” Charlie said. “My first wife died on me, my
second wife never came home after an argument we had one night. I 
haven't heard from her in the past two years ago. Then I found number 
three, Harriet. She's a tough one, and I think she'll be around 
awhile.” 

Charlie took a drag off his Lucky, releasing the smoke he said, “Over
the years I have been busted by the cops, shot twice, and robbed once. 
I've been in a few fights, which you can't help with being in this 
business.” He laughed and rubbed his tobacco stained finger across his 
crooked nose and said, “That's how I got this!” 

He stood up, told Lucas to follow him, and said, “No matter what
happened to me, I always come out on top.” Charlie motioned to Lucas, 
“Lemme show ya around, kid.” 

Charlie kept rooms upstairs for his AWU brotherhood so they could get
together and discuss business. The speakeasy was on the ground floor in 
the back and the dance hall was up front. Charlie walked to the back of 
the building and showed Lucas a trick staircase. He said, “I use this 
to trip up the cops.” Charlie continued, “I also made the bar entrance 
look like picture walls, and here is a trapdoor to hide the booze.” 
Charlie smiled at Lucas as if he was a proud papa gloating over his 
children. 

Charlie stopped and looked at Lucas from head to toe, “How old are you
kid?” 

“I'm twenty years old.” 

“Yeah, well you'll look a lot older after working here a while.” 

Charlie pointed across the room and said, “That's the dance hall, and
through the picture wall is the bar. Most of my customers come in the 
front door, you know, like they're looking to dance. Some of the 
customers know the back door.” 

Lucas asked, “What do we do if we get raided?” 

Charlie said, “I'll get to it in a minute.” 

Lucas decided it was best to keep his mouth shut and his eyes opened as
Charlie continued, “The girls working at night are here to get these 
chumps to buy more drinks and dance and then buy more drinks. They 
usually sit up front here and will escort the gentlemen to the back so 
they can buy the booze, he paused, or go upstairs.” 

Charlie told Lucas, “We get a fair share of dames coming in from time to
time as well, so don't expect all guys. Some of them are chippy, and 
the men don't mind, but you need to watch yourself.” Charlie pointed 
towards the stairs, “Nice girls don't usually hang around bars unless 
they have something on their minds.” 

Lucas asked, “Are there many problems with cops?” 

“I can tell ya this, I ain't gonna coddle those bastards and give them
my hard earned money for nothing.” 

Occasionally, the cops would bust in and act as if they were going to
close the place down. “They never did,” Charlie said. 

“Hell, some of them are our best customers! Mostly, I play along. They
bust in, I know they're coming. Everybody runs out the back, and the 
cops have the place to themselves.” 

“So here's how it works, if you want the job. I need someone to work
behind the bartender, and most of the time it would be me. You'll put 
the ice up here from the back, clean the dishes, and make sure the 
place is kept clean.” 

Lucas looked around and figured this would at least put some money in
his pocket. Charlie said he would teach Lucas the ropes and show him 
how to bartend. 

“This ain't a place for the faint of heart and there will be some tough
days, but judging by your size and attitude, a tough guy like you 
should be able to handle this place,” Charlie said while walking back 
to the front of the building. “So, ya want the job kid?” 

Lucas tried to control his excitement, “Hell yeah... I mean, yes sir.” 

Charlie laughed and said, “Okay kid. Be back at six o'clock sharp!” 

As Lucas turned to leave, Charlie handed him a couple of bucks and said,
“Consider this an advance on your pay and grab yourself something to 
eat kid.” 


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