Diamond in the Rough: Chapter 34

Williams, who was waiting outside the penthouse throughout the visit to Llanview Center, made the journey back to Unforgettable with Jack in the cab of the limo, on his own, which had given him a great deal of time to think.  The first thing that went through his mind was a review of the day's events, from the homeless shelter that his father was funding out of pocket, to the talk with Anthony, over his soup, to the woman in the park's expression when she saw him.  He looked out the window, and said to himself, "So, now what?"


As the car continued along the city roads and finally to the mountain, his thoughts drifted to his father, who he had watched do everything from tackle him when mistaking him as the torturer who brutalized him to making his mother the happiest he'd ever seen her.  He flashed on them, in the kitchen, during a simple moment, where his father had come up behind her while she was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Sam.  He had moved her hair away from her neck, leaned in to kiss it, and whispered something to her.  Whatever it was made her turn to him and smile, fall into his arms, and smear the peanut butter bread knife, accidentally, on his clothes.  They both laughed as he took the peanut butter with his finger and ate it off his shirt . . .


His last bout with memory was Thanksgiving, his mother calling to his father, him waking, and him hearing her fear.  He let a huge sigh escape him then.  Would they really be okay?  Maybe Grandpa's right, he's going to be okay and they'll just be just Mom and Dad.


***


Timothy wasn't expecting Dorian when she showed up at the penthouse door, but he opened it and said, "Dorie.  My goodness, it's so good to see ya." 


"Hello, may I come in?"  she asked, surveying the less-than-neat surroundings.


"Yes, certainly, but ignore the bachelor effect.  I've got it bad, it seems."  He threw a few things into a neater pile, and said, "Excuse me one moment."  He made a note to check on the woman from the park.


"You've been a bachelor a long time, Mr. Broderick."


"There's nothing to say that can't change, Ms. Cramer."


She lifted an eyebrow.  "Touche.  I came to talk to you about my grand nephew, Jack."


"Yes, I just spent the day with him.  I'm definitely making headway.  Let's just say I shared some things with him that won't be able to be ignored."


"I'm intrigued."


"Then have a seat," he cleared a place for her on the couch, "and let me get you something.  A glass of Chardoney?"


"Yes, exactly."


He puttered around, straightening things as he went, and poured her a glass.  Handing it to her, he sat beside her.  


She said, "Are you thinking he'll be all right, then?"


"Yes, I'm fairly certain of it.  Believe me, he won't soon forget today.  He looked a bit green around the gills when I left him off."


 "Then you're having a good influence on him."


"I suspect.  Dorie?"


"Yes?"


"Why did you come here?"


She blinked, and looked down at the glass in her hand.  "I told you.  About Jack."


"A phone call would have sufficed for Jack.  I think you have another reason, Lass."


"What other reason could there possibly be?"  She said, lifting her eyes from her glass.


"This one," he said, and moved his hand behind her head, under her hair, and pulled her to him, kissing her.  The glass, almost toppling, balanced in her fingers, and she cautiously lowered it to the coffee table, before putting both of her hands on the sides of his head and through his silvery hair.  


She attempted to pull back from the kiss, but he did not relent; instead, he held her, his large hands across her back, and moved her closer to him.  Finally, they separated, and she looked into his eyes.  "No," she said, "I'm not ready for this."


"You're not?" he said, kissing down her neck.  "Then tell me again, and I will stop."


She closed her eyes, and didn't speak a word, as he moved his kisses back to her mouth, and gently moved her down onto the couch.


As he kissed her again, deeper, she moved her hand to his shirt collar.  Looking at him, finding the space between kisses to do so, she reached up to undo his buttons.  She whispered, "Never mind," and pulled him into another kiss.


***


Bea, who had eaten her dinner quietly, and sat alone, was sitting, against the wall, watching the others at the mission.  As dark fell, she became more sullen, and she took to drawing figures on the table top with her fingers and imaginary ink.  The staff member on duty noticed this and said, "Hey, Sunshine, you want some paper and a pen?"


Bea did not respond at first.  She continued to trace imaginary art on her "canvas" and ignore the address of the worker.  He walked closer, "Hey, Sunny, want to use some of this?"


He handed her paper and a pen, and she smiled.  Immediately, she began to sketch a picture of a face. It was just the outline at first, but she continued to work at it, and the staff member marveled at the speed and efficiency of her drawing.  "That's pretty darn good, considering it's a cheap pen.  You can't even erase."


She continued to intently work at the picture, and it was taking form beautifully.  The worker said, "Wow, that's so awesome.  You're really good."


Of course, she did not respond.  She just continued.  Soon, a few of the other patrons came over her shoulder to see.  She ignored them, and they made various comments.  Her artwork was truly passionate and realistic and quite expressive.  


Anthony, coming in for the night, said, "Hey, what's going on over there?"


The worker on duty said, "It's Sunshine, here.  She's an artist."


He walked over, and taking a bite of an apple, he stopped chewing, and said, "Hey.  That's that kid.  He was in here today, with Timothy."


The worker said, "I wasn't here until five."


"I'm telling you, that was the kid.  The rich kid, that Timothy asked me to talk to.  That's him."


Sure enough, Bea had crafted a stunning and identical portrait of Jack Manning.


***


Jack was in the gazebo, in the chilling early evening air, with his jacket zipped, and his mouth and nose buried inside the collar of it.  His hands in the pockets, he slumped down on the wooden bench, and took in the quiet.  It was the place he thought Sam wouldn't trouble him, or ask to play, baby Ray wouldn't grasp his attention by crying or needing something, and his parents wouldn't ask how he was over and over.  He sniffed.  The evening air was not only very cold, it smelled so good, like burning wood from the fireplace at Unforgettable and slightly of pine.  


He heard footsteps and stayed still, thinking he might avoid a confrontation if he just didn't move.  The feet came closer, and he didn't turn his head, just kept staring down.  He waited it out and then saw Shaun's big Nike sneakers in front of him.  The man said, "Hey, boy, what's going on?"


"Nothing."


"Can I sit here?"


"Yeah, if you want to.  It's pretty cold."


"Dayum, it is cold!"  he rubbed his hands together.  "I was on my way back to my place.  Your parents invited me for something to eat.  They saved you a plate.  Your father made tacos."


Jack smiled, wondering if it were some magic Manning connection, or a call from Timothy that lined up the stars to bring tacos to the Manning table that evening.  "Dad's tacos."


"Yeah, they're good.  I had too many."


"Did you outdo your record of 12?"


"No, I didn't, smartass."  He looked at the boy's expression.  "Why you out here?"


"I wanted quiet."


"Come on then," he said, standing.


"Huh?"


"Come on to my place.  We can hang there.  It's quiet, no one will bother you there.  It's too cold out here, man."


He reluctantly got up, and followed the big guy into his home.  It was a beautiful, small cabin, the size of an ordinary house, that was on the Unforgettable property.  He'd only been in it a few times, but he remembered how much he liked the feeling of a smaller and undeniably warm place outside his home.  Something about the unfamiliar safety of it was comforting.  He sat, on the couch, unzipping his jacket.  He said, "It's already warm in here."


"I don't like the cold.  I keep the heat up pretty good in winter."


Jack nodded.  It got very quiet, and Shaun said, "So, there's your silence.  I'm just going to get some stuff done in the kitchen."  He looked at Jack, who was looking at him, and not removing his stare.  He said, "What, boy?  What's up, huh?  You wanna tell me something?"


Jack took his jacket off, because the house was entirely too warm for him compared to the frigidity of the outdoors.  He said, "I . . . I don't want to drink anymore."


Shaun had a difficult time not showing his emotion and relief.  He said, "Oh yeah?" turning back to his chores, "that's good, right?"


"Yeah.  I met some people.  It makes me feel sick to even think of it right now."


"Okay.  But you know it's not over."


"Huh?"


"You're doing good right now.  You see your mother, she's beautiful, isn't she?  She's like a new person since he came back.  Sort of like a half-dead plant that was watered and cared for and brought back to life.  At least, that's what it seems like to me.  She's doing well, so there's no stress.  Not right now."


"What do you mean?"


"It's easy to say that you don't want to drink anymore when you don't."


"And it won't be easy to say it when I do,"  he finished the thought.


"Maybe," Shaun said, "but you won't know until it happens.  Could very well be you're done with it.  Could also be you're just able to shut it off because you don't need it.  Sometimes this stuff takes more than that.  He took you to the homeless project?"


"You knew about that?"


"Yep.  Set up the security for it, I should."


"I don't get my Dad."


"Hmf, kid, I don't get your Dad either.  You know, you grew up with me and Zeus, basically, as your father figures.  With Zeus, I always had to be on my toes.  He was erratic, nice sometimes, mean other times.  I never knew what to expect.  And when your father came back, I thought, 'this guy, there's no way I can even get along with him.'  I'm admitting my bias, against him, for what he did.  His past."


Jack moved into the kitchen and parked himself on the barstool at the counter.  Shaun continued, "When I first met him, I didn't know what to make of him."


"Me neither," Jack said, remembering how scared he was when he first had to deal with his father.


"But I learned something over time.  He's sorry.  I mean, really sorry for the bad things.  Not many people can say that and live it.  Folks say sorry all the time, but they don't act it or mean it or carry it on.  He does.  And, if you do right by his family, he's the best man in the world to work for.  But one thing I can tell you.  He doesn't like himself much.  Sees himself as some kind of . . . freak.  Someone not worthy of the things he has.  And this, you have to learn, is wrong.  He's wrong.  Things we do, don't make us who we are forever.  You can overcome them, and you can leave those bad things behind, and every person is worthy of being loved.  I think he's still working on that."


"Why?  So much has happened to him.  He's made up for it, right?"


"In my book, yeah.  But he keeps trying.  Every day.  It's like he has to work for his own acceptance and it never comes."


"So, how does this relate to me?"


"You can understand why he didn't tell you about the mission, if you understand his self-hate.  And then. . .then, Jack Manning, you have to make sure that you do whatever you can to love yourself.  That self-hate has almost destroyed that man.  You made a mistake, drinking.  You screwed up, not once but twice.  You . . . caused the death of that woman. . ."


Shaun saw Jack physically react to his words.  His pallor was whitish.  "I . . . didn't mean to."  Jack said.


"No.  You didn't mean to.  And what's done is done.  The way it was handled is behind you.  But if you let the guilt of these things work on you, you'll fall back into the escape.  You're a good boy, Jack.  You're a young guy whose had a lot to deal with in a short life.  You fucked up, here or there, excuse my language, but you have to love yourself.  Love yourself enough to pass on that booze, and deal with life.  That's the way you can really show your father, and your mother that you love them.  Love what they made.  Your father never had that.  He had no one who loved him, so he didn't love himself, his whole life."


"He's always guilty.  He thinks everything is his fault.  He thinks I drink because of him.  But I don't."


"You drink because of you."



"Yeah, I guess I do.  Or did."


"I like that.  That's good talk.  There's tons of hope for you, boy.  You're not a done deal.  Not yet."


"I want to tell you something," the teen said.


"Sure.  That's what I'm here for."


"I sort of was believing. . .I kinda thought . . ."


"Take it easy.  Take as long as you need."


"I still think sometimes that it's true."


"Go ahead.  Once you say it, we can figure it out from there."


"I think . . . because I made Shane lose his mother . . ."


Shaun reacted with recognition.  "Your mother almost died and she lost her baby.  Is that what you think?"


Jack looked amazingly like the little boy Shaun had helped raise right then.  The boy nodded and said, "It's my fault.  It's payback.  To me.  And now I have to live with it," his voice cracked.


Shaun moved across and took the boy in his arms.  Hugging him a minute, he said, "No, you're wrong."


Jack brushed a tear off his face.  "How?"


"You have to live with Gigi Morasco's death, yeah.  But you don't have to live with the guilt for the rest.  You're not the reason."


"It seems I am.  Like someone's punishing me.  For what I've done."


"Who does that sound like?"


He smiled through his tears.  "Hmf.  My Dad."


"See my point.  Nothing you did caused your mother to be shot, the baby to die, or your father to be hurt.  The only thing you caused is that one event.  That's it, Jack.  The rest is just life."


Jack sighed, raggedly.  "I'm going to try."


"That's all you can do."


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