Danielle Steel: Miracle

But that afternoon, the work having gone particularly well that day, and hating the lull that came on Friday nights when everyone left, Quinn asked him in for a glass of wine, and he mentioned the list to Jack again, and suggested he take it out of his pocket, and they go over it together. Jack hesitated, and tried to brush it off, as Quinn insisted. He was like a dog with a bone about his list, and for an odd moment, Quinn thought he saw tears shimmer in Jack's eyes, and wondered if he had offended him. Jack was generally easygoing and unflappable, even when things went wrong on the job, but he was obviously upset by Quinn's suggestion, so much so that Quinn was afraid he might quit, and that worried him acutely.

“Sorry, Jack,” he said gently, “I didn't mean to press you, you must be dog tired by the end of the week. Why don't you skip tomorrow?” he suggested, trying to pacify him and back down from the pressure he had provided, apparently too much so for Jack. But Jack only looked at him and shook his head, and this time the tears in his eyes were clear. The look he gave Quinn was one of deep sorrow and immeasurable trust, and Quinn didn't understand what was happening. Just looking at Jack upset him. It was as though something in the younger man was unraveling, and could no longer be stopped. And out of nowhere came an explanation that Quinn was in no way prepared for, as Jack quietly set down his glass of wine. He looked straight at the man who had hired him, and spoke in a voice rough with emotion, as Quinn watched him, and listened with an aching heart. He had meant no harm with his questions and suggestions, but he could see that he had hurt this man whom he had come to respect and like. It was one of those moments when you can't go back, only forward. Like a pendulum swinging only forward, and never back.

“My parents left me at an orphanage when I was four years old,” Jack quietly explained. “I remember my mother, I think I do anyway, I don't remember my father, except I think I was scared of him. And I know I had a brother, but I don't remember him at all. It's all kind of a blur. And they never came back. I was state-raised, as they say. They put me in a couple of foster homes at first, because I was so young, but they always sent me back. I couldn't be adopted because they knew my parents were alive somewhere, and you can't stay in foster homes forever. I got comfortable in the orphanage, and everyone was pretty good to me there. I did okay. I worked hard. I started doing carpentry when I was about seven. And by the time I was ten, I was pretty good. They let me do what I wanted, and I did whatever I could to help out. And I hated school. I figured out early on that if I did work at the orphanage, they'd let me skip classes, so I did, a lot. I liked hanging out with the grown-ups better than the kids. It made me feel independent and useful, and I liked that. And by the time I was eleven or twelve, I hardly ever went to school. I stuck around, going to school when I had to, till I was about fifteen. And by then, I knew I could make a living as a carpenter, so I took one of those high school equivalency tests. To tell you the truth, a friend helped me take it, a girl I knew. I got my diploma, and I left the orphanage and never looked back. It was in Wisconsin, and I had a little money saved up from jobs I'd done. I hopped a bus and came out here, and I've been working ever since. That was twenty years ago. I'm thirty-five now, and I make a good living at what I do. I work hard, and I like it. I like helping people, and working with someone like you. No one's ever been as nice to me as you are, not in all these twenty years.” His voice cracked as he said it, and Quinn's heart ached for him as he listened, but he still had not understood. “I'm a carpenter, Quinn, and a good one. But that's all I am. That's all I'll ever be, all I've ever been. That's all I know how to do.”

“I didn't mean to push you, Jack,” Quinn said gently. “I admire what you do a lot. I couldn't do it. You have a real talent for finding solutions and making things work.” And Quinn had noticed that he had a knack for design as well.

“Maybe not,” Jack said sadly, “but you can do a lot of things I can't, and never will.”

“I've been lucky, and worked hard, like you have,” Quinn said, offering him the kind of respect that grows sometimes between two men, no matter what their origins or how simple or complicated their field. Quinn Thompson was a legend, and Jack Adams was a carpenter, and a good one, as he said, and an honest man. Quinn didn't want more than that from him. But Jack wanted a great deal more for himself, and he knew he would never have it. The burdens of his past were too heavy, and he knew it, better than Quinn could imagine. Quinn had no concept of the life Jack had led, or the path he had followed to get there.

“You're not lucky,” Jack said quietly. “You're smart. You're educated. You're a lot better than I am, and you always will be. All I can do is this.” He said it with total self-deprecation.

“You can go to college, if you want to,” Quinn said hopefully. There was a sense of despair about Jack that he had never seen before in the month he had worked for him. He had always been so matter-of-fact and so cheerful, but what he was seeing now was very different. It was a glimpse into Jack's heart and soul, and the sorrow he had concealed there for a lifetime. If nothing else, Quinn wanted to give him hope.

“I can't go to college,” Jack said with a broken look, and then looked straight into Quinn's eyes. Quinn knew he had never seen such trust. “I can barely read,” he said, and then dropped his face into his hands and cried quietly. The shame of a lifetime spilled over and devoured him, as Quinn watched, feeling helpless. And without a sound, he reached toward him and touched his shoulder, and when Jack looked up at him again, it brought tears to Quinn's eyes too. He was sure now that no one, in his entire life, had admitted anything as important to him. This man whom he scarcely knew, but liked almost like a son, had dared to bare his soul. It was a precious gift.

“It doesn't matter,” Quinn said, still touching him, as though his hand on the young man's shoulder would keep the connection between them, and it did.

“Yes, it does. I can't read books, or letters, or your lists. I don't know what it says at the post office, or what the forms say at the bank. I can't read a contract. I took an oral test at the DMV. I can read signs, but that's about it. I can't read what it says on medicine bottles, or directions, and maps are hard for me. I can hardly read anything. And I can sign my name. That's it. I'll never be more than a carpenter who can't even read. I can't even stay with a woman for more than a few weeks, because if they figured it out, they wouldn't want me. They'd think I was stupid, or ridiculous. All I can do is what I do, the best I can. But that's all I can ever do, or ever will.”

It was instantly obvious to Quinn that Jack wanted so much more out of life, but had no idea how to achieve it. His eyes were full of sorrow and the limitations he had lived with for a lifetime as he looked at Quinn. And what he had said was so overwhelming that Quinn didn't know what to say to him at first. He wanted to put his arms around him and hold him, as he would a child. But Jack wasn't a child, he was a man, and as decent and kind and capable as any man Quinn had ever known. He wanted to help him, but he wasn't sure how. All he could do was accept him, and try to let him know that whether he could read or not, he had won Quinn's respect forever, particularly now. His grip on Jack's shoulder remained powerful and firm. And a few minutes later, Jack stood up, and said he had to leave. He looked embarrassed by the admissions of the night, and Quinn could see that Jack looked shaken.