Page 39 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

I know what’s in the crate before I open it.

With my help, the courier slides the box made of particle board and nails off the cart, and I sign the electronic pad acknowledging my receipt of the package.

The kid hands me an envelope that has my name and office building address written in elegant script on the front, and I tip him a hundred dollar bill to reward him for struggling with the box and hauling it up to the executive floor.

Had I known how big the crate was going to be or when it would be arriving, I would have asked one of the security guards to help him bring it up.

There’s nothing I can do about it now, and the courier hurries away, pulling the empty cart behind him, happy with the largest tip he’ll get all day.

I open the light pink envelope, and the soft scents of honey and vanilla embedded in the paper remind me of Jemma.

It’s only been a week since I’ve seen her but it feels like a lifetime, and I wish with every ounce of will I have that my life could somehow be different and I could be a man she’d be proud to be with.

Dear Dominic, the note starts, and I have to clear my throat and blink before I can continue.

I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to let you know that I don’t hate you, or blame you, really, for the choice you made.

I’m not what you had in mind, and it was only by luck Leo found me online.

We never would have met otherwise, and I know that.

I wasn’t meant to be a part of your life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be.

I’m sorry about your mother, and you may not want to hear it, but she’s had her struggles too.

It doesn’t excuse the way she’s treated you, but it could ease some of the pain in your heart if you speak with her.

I’m assuming you’re going to give her a few, if not all, of Leo’s paintings.

Will you talk to her then? If you do, will you stop by and let me know how it went?

I’m sure Edgar would be happy to see you. All my best, Jemma.

PS: The Tattered Canvas did an excellent job repairing the ones that were ripped. I bet you won’t be able to tell the difference.

She doesn’t hate me.

Everything else falls away.

Relieved, I sit at my desk and stare into space.

My father strides into my office without knocking. He’s holding a rolled-up map, and there isn’t a hair out of place or a wrinkle marring the material of his pristine suit. He presents an immaculate front, and I resent him that. I resent he’s done mourning Leo when I will never be.

Death happens and life moves on.

He ignores the crate and points the roll toward the conference table that’s positioned in the corner. “I need to talk to you.”

I stand and meet him at the table large enough to seat eight.

He uses his phone to anchor one corner, and without him having to ask, I use mine to weigh down the opposite corner.

The city of St. Charlotte is laid out in front of me, and my eyes roam, tallying everything we own.

The 1100 block is my biggest achievement and I wait for the great Raphael Milano to praise my efforts once again.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he points to a neighborhood that’s close to the 1100 block.

An older part of St. Charlotte, the blocks contain a huge Baptist church anchored to the city’s largest homeless shelter and a cluster of halfway houses where people who are too unsteady to live without assistance are given stability and support.

Recovering alcoholics, druggies, hookers who want off the streets, victims of domestic violence.

Every year, the homeless shelter helps hundreds of people find jobs and places to live.

The church, shelter, and halfway houses will sit in the shadow of the high-rise, but I’ve purchased enough property to buffer the transition.

I can read his mind and say, “It won’t interfere with what we’re doing,”

“Dominic. Now that we own the 1100 block, we need to keep moving. Strike now while the iron is hot.”

“I don’t understand.” Apprehension shivers down my spine.

“I want the church and the shelter. It will be a simple matter after the 1100 block.”

“A simple matter?” I can barely force the words out of my mouth.

A simple matter to purchase a church that’s been a proud fixture of St. Charlotte for over a century and a shelter that keeps the homeless from freezing to death during the winter months.

A simple matter to purchase the halfway houses that help the desperate and downtrodden start better lives with counseling, vocational training, and a safe place to sleep.

A simple matter to purchase the largest nonprofit in St. Charlotte, maybe even the state.

“I’ve already made inquiries. The church’s congregation is shrinking by the year and they want a smaller building to hold services. We’ll be doing them a favor.”

“And the shelter?”

He looks at me out of the corners of his eyes, disapproving, and I shrink back. Not physically—I stand my ground—but inside I’m still a child who will do anything, anything, to earn his father’s approval.

“Since when do you care about the unfortunate souls who cannot properly see to their own lives?”

It’s a valid question considering I had no qualms purchasing the 1100 block while planning to evict the families who depend on their low rent to make ends meet.

Until I met Jemma.

I don’t flinch and meet his eyes. “I don’t.”

“Good. Everything can be bought for the right price and what happens afterward isn’t our concern.”

That’s true in my father’s world, and it’s been true in mine. Property, jewels, women. It doesn’t matter what as long as we have the cash, and after the damage is done, we never look back.

But the things that can’t be bought, like respect, integrity, trust, those things are not for sale at any price. My father would say they aren’t a part of our world, and he would be right. They’re part of Jemma’s world, and Leo’s.

My father squeezes my shoulder, his gold wedding ring glinting in the sunlight streaming in through the window. He’s never taken it off in the forty years he’s been married to my mother. Wearing it, he fucks his mistress.

“You’ll do this for me.” It’s not a question, and why would he ask? I’ve done everything he’s said to do without regard for the consequences. I move my arm and my gunshot wound burns, a reminder that money isn’t the only way to pay.

The cuts on Jemma’s hands, the blood staining her pajamas, the troubled look in her eyes.

The way she let me make love to her that night because I wanted it, needed it, after seeing her injured.

She offered herself to me when I should have held her and comforted her. It hadn’t been my right to take.

My fingers tremble as I trace the roads the church, shelter, and halfway houses sit on. How many lives will I destroy, how many lives will I ruin chasing my father’s love?

I don’t have anyone else.

Jemma isn’t safe with me.

Leo is dead.

My mother has never loved me.

My father is all I have.

“Yes,” I say, and he embraces me. “Whatever you want.”