Jeremy Desrosiers's work at The Great Bank had always been an endless source of pride. The same has been true or his eldest son, Jonathan, a boy he thought brilliant and saw as his worthy successor, but everything collapsed the day the ingrate had the gall to slit his wrists in the guest bathroom.
Thank goodness the tub had not been damaged.
The following Monday, sitting behind the wheel of his white Corvette, Mr. Desrosiers regrets all the good words he'd told his esteemed colleagues about his now worthless spawn.
They will ask for news, and inevitably my misfortune will be exposed, he thinks bitterly. Who will entrust me with their finances, if I can't even control my own son? Farewell, bonuses, golfing, Switzerland and cruising in yachts… Farewell sweet Natasha, I won't be able to afford your VIP rates…
What had possessed his son to go to such irresponsible lengths to spoil his great potential? His life was great! He had just obtained his diploma, a position at the Bank had been arranged for him, he'd stopped fiddling with that stupid guitar, and thanks to yours truly he even had a rich marriage prospect—a bit ugly, but that's what mistresses are for. That generation has everything handed to them on a golden platter and they still find ways to complain.
Perhaps he could pretend his son's death had been natural… maybe some non-genetic disease? There is no shame trespassing from cancer. But that won't work, Mr. Desrosiers realizes. He cannot misrepresent the true cause of his son's death, because his daughter had already posted the bloody scene on Instagram in a bold move to gain followers. Normally he would have approved, but this time… had he known, he wouldn't have bothered buying the maid's silence.
He parks his car in his reserved space, slowly and a little reluctantly, and walks as directly as he can to his office. He still has to spend a few long seconds commenting on his secretary's ass, he has to act natural, not to show any weakness. Upon entering his office he locks the door behind him and allows himself a glimmer of hope: Instagram is for the young and stupid, no one here will have seen it. Alas! Through the blinds, his eyes meet the esteemed Mr. Beaulieu's and he thinks he can see something more than the usual bleakness in his eyes… would it be… pity?
They know.
He walks to his ergonomic chair, ready to trudge through the rest of his life as a pariah, but as his buttocks touch the supple leather, someone knocks on his door. Mr. Desrosiers can see a crowd of associates massing behind.
“My condolences for your son, Jeremy.”
“I am so sorry about what happened!” says another colleague.
“Jonathan was an amazing young man, we will regret him.”
“He played the guitar so well!”
“It's not your fault!”
A group of coworkers give him a large basket full of Belgian chocolates, home-made jams, candy and other onerous foods. Mr. Desrosiers is moved, but confounded by such kindness.
And now Mr. Deyglun, the big boss, walks to him solemnly.
“Depression is a heinous disease, Mr. Desrosiers, and we do not take it lightly. We are all here for you in these difficult times.”
The sincerity of the big boss's speech dissipates Mr. Desrosiers's last doubts and they share a vigorous handshake.
“Thank you for your support.”
“It is the least of things. Depression is a scourge,” says Mr. Deyglun, “and it breaks my heart… thousands of promising young men and women, who are suffering and need our support. They deserve our compassion and understanding. So much pain could be avoided.”
“You are quite right…”
When all is said and done and Mr. Desrosiers is left alone in his office, he reflects on everything he has just learned. Not only did his colleagues not ostracize him, they opened his eyes on the tragedy of the situation. His son had been sick, he had been overwhelmed by suffering.
Beyond all help.
We lack resources, ourselves, the parents, Mr. Desrosiers tells himself. Perhaps a greater good lurked behind this evil. Too many people suffer from the suicide of their loved ones. They need to be reassured, taken care of, guided through that terrible ordeal.
The Jonathan Desrosiers Foundation…
The Joe Desrosiers Foundation…
The Desrosiers Foundation.
A quick Google search tells him that over a thousand people killed themselves in this great city in 2011. Considering the people close to them, that would be at least two thousand people to comfort every year. Mr. Desrosiers cracks his knuckles and starts working. He catalogues all of these poor men and women's needs, he calculates the time needed to fill them, how many people to hire…
“FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THAT COFFEE'S FUCKING SHIT,” Mr. Desrosiers howls to his secretary.
The Desrosiers Foundation accepts cash, check, debit and credit.
