That is, until the horrific miracle of his resurrection, four seconds after his death.

Nurses not already holding the convulsing remains of Lady Thompson, shrieked at the sight of a tiny hand drawing back the blood soaked cloth, which had been used to cover the baby’s hideously deformed face. All at once like untied theater sandbags, feinting bodies began to drop within the room. Panic-stricken Sir Edmund began pounding upon the glass of the operation chamber. Frightened orderlies loosely held him in place as father and son made eye contact across the room.

“YOU!! By Lucifer’s Jove I am undone! How could you do this to me? ” The voice of Sir Edmund bellowed at him. It would be the last distinguishable sound to echo in his brain, as the lead surgeon, Dr. Rupert Bryce placed the infant  in a nearby bedpan, he then stormed for the incubation stalls at the southern most wing of the hospital. Shouting for a room to be cleared, Bryce managed to isolate the creature far from prying eyes, but this secret would not be kept for very long.

Despite his reputation as London’s most philanthropic barrister, neither Sir Edmund‘s will, nor the fortune of his good name could keep the story from over zealous reporters looking to tell the tale of , “The Death Child“. Yet with no daguerreotypes to document the hideous rumors, the public had to speculate on just how long the infant survived his father’s anguished hatred. Those who spoke of it could not question Sir Edmund, for deep in secluded mourning did he vanish without a trace. Of the hospital workers in the room that day, all were fired and driven from their homes mysteriously or so was thought. Some were speculated to have caught the infant’s diseased breath, and as such suffered the same leprous fate.

Others were paid off so well, that new identities were given to them in America, where they and any surviving relative could be conveniently cloistered away. Only the unsung hero that was Rupert Bryce remained in a kind of de facto segregation among the populace, retired now from his practice, Dr. Bryce spent his mornings at the grave of Lady Thompson in Coventry Park. At night, below the great expanse of his lover’s summer cottage, which had been bequeathed to him in her will, he nurtured young Master Thompson, under the epithet of “Hugh the Mephistophelean”.

Over the erratic years of puberty, Dr. Bryce explained to Hugh his extraordinary condition by literally keeping him in the dark. Chaining him within the maze-like construct he had engineers undertake in secret shifts unbeknownst even to each other as to what they were completely building. Within the Maze, Hugh was fed, taught an education as would require the finest Braille texts, and given the kind of freedom that a highly intelligent mouse can be afforded by the science of very rich men.

“Father, how long am I to be kept here?” he would ask every so often as the years passed by.

At first the explanations were given as fairy tales, “You are a magical beast Hugh, we keep you here for your protection, for many would seek to harm you if they knew your whereabouts”. Bryce did not add the particulars, how this grand experiment of his was secretly backed by Hugh’s real father who upon his 18th birthday, died leaving his vast wealth to raise the child he couldn’t bare to think about.

During this time, Hugh was constantly drugged in order for his many lesions and extremities to be patched and bound. At first these bandages were torn off by the boy in fits of panic, but he soon realized that this was disturbingly for his own good. All factual knowledge of his actual condition was hidden from him, as special gloves were made that were sewn into the fabric of his flesh. As well as matching shoes were splinted into his calves to prevent Hugh from constantly falling. In actuality they had been permanently set to keep him from running at any of the mechanically hidden doors. Also amongst the walls was a vast labyrinth of hidden slots which allowed him to be given items at the distance of a crawl.

As his behavior progressed Hugh was treated with such cultural trappings like a music box system of echoed megaphones which blew out Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”. The good doctor himself personally attached a kind of harness like clothing on to him which matched his own wardrobe. But Hugh’s most prized possession, was a Sholes & Glidden Type Writer one of the first created in 1873 for public use.

Hugh would press the keys holding two unsharpened pencils in his fists, he knew better than to chance the pain of his fingers pressing down. His first “words” were on a subject he’d often discussed with Bryce… about others like him, if in fact were there any,  and could he ever meet one? In answer Bryce told him,

“Well you write the letters my boy and I shall send them out across the world, surely there will be someone out there for you. I have heard of many a married man these days who propagated their brides through honest correspondence.

Remember however, you are not to disclose anything about your condition as more than one that debilitates you from the sunlight. You may further not impart your location or your fortune. Concentrate instead on expressing your soul, pour that out in a missive, and you are bound to get results! “ Hugh consented.

My Dearest Madam:

                                                Let me first introduce myself, for even those who know of me are not

                privy to my deepest desires. I give to You, my name… but I am not a normal man by

                any description, one cannot in fact classify me as solely human. For my body requires    

                contraptions of various sorts, the kind of attention possessed by a clock, whose inner

                workings are nothing more than a fallen soufflé.

                But I digress… I seek “Love” Madam. Not the kind given to a   dog wounded upon the

                hunt, nor even the purity a foundling child may beg from it’s captor.

                Instead I seek true love, romantic love, that which the poets have promised!

                For myself it cannot be based on the futures of this world, for I have none. I am ill.

                In a transitory state of this life, and one that passes for the greatest fear. As I am

                shunned, hidden by society to keep them honest, and provided for by my father who

                seeks to fulfill my slightest prayers… I have only this need left to do…

                Simply put, that ere I meet my Jester, I would know the joys of a lover’s touch, the quiet

                happiness… that I might provide for another’s care with all that my soul has to give.

                Could any of us ask for more? Is there any other impulse that drives us better?

                If this peeks your curiosity, I only ask that for now, you return my favors with some

                truths of your own. But heed me… if you are vain, I am not ‘David‘. If you seek children

                and a grand hearth to raise them by, these pleasures I cannot equip. I have but one heart,

                one voice to lend out… if this truth above all else measures you, then with all haste,

                commit to me…

                your eternal servant,

                                                      H.

Within the year Bryce had employed three dozen “postal workers” who copied Hugh’s words, and mailed them out to eligible young ladies across the European continent. A secure return address was given to each envelope, and very soon a long list of applicants was amassed.  However the doctor was not one for loose ends, he would hire agents to weed out the undesirables, out and out liars, and eager fortune hunters, who took Hugh’s message to be from a reclusive English Lord.

The Associated Press Corps of course soon got wind of some mysterious writing campaign based upon “true love” alone. They published one of the letters from a discarded admirer, and unwittingly captured the interest of every woman from York to Bangkok. Bryce was forced to distance himself through ten separate false mail boxes, until finally he’d narrowed the search to a Miss Emily Wilcox of British Colombia who wrote:

My Dearest Sir:

                                                No doubt You are he who the papers have mistook, but let me be

                equally frank. I have been married before. Several times to be exact, each upon the

                whims of a girl, who grew to the enlightened wits of a woman. I have chosen poorly

                in the past, having loved them all in my own way, however what I gave of myself has

                never been fully returned… and is that not what this is all about, the return of affection,

                the promise of more, and the hope of it all not being a lie.

                I do not mean to philosophize, but my tears have given me much to think about. I should

                add that I am perhaps seven years your senior, and have naturally known the ways of the

                flesh before… But I do have a bed sir, I do not require it to be filled with merely lust.

                I know this is bold of me to disclose, but since propriety is the least of our concerns,

                let me now share with you my own “deepest desire”. I too seek love, not so much as the

                poets described for I cannot believe a thing that is steeped in such frivolity. What I want,

                what I have never known, what I must know the truth of… is.. Can anyone still love me?

                I am not within the ranks of youthful aristocrats, I am not some stage starlet who can

                melt you with but a look. I am a flesh and blood woman with more than her fair share of

                a brain, though it has cost me much for speaking it. But I am tired of my past beating

                me down, tired more so of unworthy men stepping upon my dreams…. all I have managed to

                retain of this often too cruel existence… is my heart.

                If that is what you seek, than I am your doorway, give your knock gently at the arch, pass

                through me with no fear and bare to me your honesty, simply put… my love in equal step to

                your own. Do not count yourself too hasty to reply, I will not expect you to… what I need

                must be given from the dungeon of one’s soul, for the boundaries to reach my own are tied

                up in a gorgon’s knot.

                If you carry the key, I await your first turn.

                respectfully yours,

                                                E.

A month later on the doorstep of her modest home, Miss Wilcox was startled by the aging Dr. Bryce covered in a black surgeon‘s mask, and breathing heavily through it as if he’d run from the next town.

“My dear Miss Wilcox, let me be brief, outside I have a carriage and booked accommodations upon the Queen Mary. If my son’s love You would return, then from this night on, your life is at an end. You must agree never to come back, never to see your loved ones, only to have the life of love, your letter has promised. He does not know that I have finally chosen his bride, but truly you are the only one estimable to his fate.

I have taken the liberty of drafting a letter of your disappearance,  as well as a bank note promised therein to the son you are leaving behind. Yes I know of your Jonathon, but he cannot be a part of this adventure. Make no mistake he will be provided for, for all of his days, I have seen to it that his grandfather will be notified. But now you must decide… do you choose love over reason, for there is no turning back.”

Miss Wilcox’s reply was simple as the smile on her face, “Let me get my things”.

Seven nights later and once again upon English soil, Dr. Bryce had Emily blindfolded and brought to an estate very few knew to be his own. The old cottage had long been abandoned, and new engineers had provided an even larger Maze for Hugh to scuttle about. And until recently included in one of the many chambers was a king sized brass poster bed, left vacant for the impending wedding night, prepared in a lavish decor neither groom or bride would ever be able to “see”.

But first Emily had to be introduced, and for this she wore a modest full length ivory gown with matching sleeved gloves that ran the length of her arm. Around her collar which was buttoned to under her chin, a string of pearls fit comfortably atop the lace covered cloth. With her hair folded up and back again, she seemed unusually sophisticated, Dr. Bryce highly approved. As they entered the empty house, he quickly escorted  her down one of the many winding staircases, with the blindfold remaining, he told her not to fear for he would not leave her side through the many passageways.

At once the new sounds of a stranger brought Hugh rushing towards the main doors through which he was usually taught by visiting tutors who did not mind speaking within such a bizarre confessional. In the Maze he had perfect directional response, and what might take another weeks to gain their bearings, Hugh accomplished like a rabbit which knew every crease of it’s warren. As the door to the entry station was opened, Emily immediately caught the disguised smell of roses. Though underneath she sensed something almost septic, she was briefly taken aback but not enough to discourage her.

“I am confounded Dr. Bryce, do you keep Hugh here like some kind of caged animal? Am I in any kind of danger? “ Their voices emanated from behind the Turning Wall, which only the doctor had the means of opening. Hugh leaned heavily upon the pivot stone, yearning for answers, dropping to his knees, he felt the cold air below carry the perfumed scent of a girl. He was certain it was not one of the servants, for this smelled of a musk, not unlike the false wigs he wore to satisfy his complete loss of hair. The sounds came again, this time his father took a seat upon one of the iron benches he knew to be there. But it was true, he was definitely conversing with a woman… a woman! So close, he could burn holes through the slate to see her.

“Of course not my dear, but yes I have been forced to take certain precautions. What I could not have spoken to the world is that my son, has a rare infection, what many have described as acute Hansen’s disease, which in biblical times we have referred to as…”

“My god, he’s a leper?” her voice rose an octave but did not contain contempt.

“Yes. Even to be near him for a moment is to risk your own life and surely be on the loosing end. Do you see now why only his true love would brave such a macabre rendezvous?”

Hugh jumped back as if struck by the door’s sudden opening. Had he heard correctly? All this time, his sickness had never been classified. And in truth he’d naught heard the term before, but clearly the sound of it did nothing to ease his worry. Was this the reason he could never look upon himself, why nothing in his possession would issue a reflection? It all seem to reek true like a tray lifted from a meal gone rancid. The lies of his specialty, this prison of his own cooperation. Desperately he bit away at his coverings, through the blood, through the sides of his jaw, gasping for freedom. He would finally have it he swore!

“My son is a carrier, much like a phoenix encased in ashes, who from his own constant state of death has had to fashion a life on the promise of hope. He is the first undocumented case of an infant born with this condition. And in truth his parents’ many safaris in the far off African jungle brought upon his condition alarmingly too late or I myself would have aborted him. Untreated both parents were victim to his touch, as was the staff which assisted me in birthing him.”

“But ‘you’ seemed untouched?”

“If it appears so, it is because I have taken great pains to hide my condition.” Bryce removed his surgeon’s mask, and only then did Emily notice he’d never taken it off. Opening his coat he pulled at the third button over his vest under his shirt, revealing a bulbous red welt the size of his fist, flaking from the clotted mass enveloping his abdomen.

“I am naught for this world very soon, in truth this is the last gift I may give to him. If you two are agreed upon, I will retire to my rooms and leave you both to your future. The storages are full for now, and servants unknowing of these things will replenish them from the house abov…” Before he could finish Emily stepped forward to firmly embrace Bryce, who could not believe her boldness.

“Please before you go, tell me what to expect of him? “ she whispered in his ear.

“Are you asking me if he is grotesque? Because that word is too small to describe him at this stage…”

“No, that I have suspected as his letter gave hint. I meant more of… how shall we begin? What can I say to him, to ease his fears… I have no doubt that he is much loved, as your own example marvels. Fate has been gracious to keep him alive this long, perhaps that too shows your hand? “

“I must confess that Hugh’s treatments are a mixture of special chemical cocktails not approved by the known medical boards around the world. I have used anything and everything at my disposal, including many ancient holistic remedies classified as mere witchcraft… Wait a second did you hear that? “ Both of them stood silent as their ears searched beyond the walls for a feint noise. Under the blindfold Emily’s hearing had grown more acute.

“Yes just now, is it a kind of rattling? As if metal is being scraped upon stone… no dragged instead…”

“Good God, he must have overheard us, damn my addled brain! “ Bryce ran past her to the Turning Wall.

“What is wrong?” she said uncovering her eyes finally.

“My dear Emily, you must realize that Hugh’s greatest danger to himself, is himself… This contrived setting serves one purpose alone, to prevent him from going mad at what I cannot change… we must reach him before he does irrevocable damage, quickly to the far wall!”

Bryce took her hand and then tapped a series of loose stones in the wall much like a safe’s combination. Emily felt herself spin in place as the mechanism of rotating slabs moved the very ground they stood upon, within seconds a hidden tunnel was revealed where they had previously been facing. The rattling was much clearer now, but quickly fading from their position.

“Jump now!” the doctor shouted, and as their combined weight left the floor, the wall closed itself up with a whipping crash. Dust flew back at them in a slight fog, causing Emily to be momentarily sightless. Nervously she wiped her eyes even as Bryce dragged her along. They ran for several moments, until suddenly he took note of a familiar sort of cackling… yes he was certain he‘d heard this before in the early days of his field work, it was very much akin to the muffled conversations the mentally ill would have with themselves in fits of nervous breakdown. Pulling Emily recklessly harder, he caught her feet upon a loose stone, the kinetic result sent her smashing face first over his side even as she let go landing sideways upon her shoulder.

Not to be discouraged, with blood dripping across her chin, Emily rolled to her knees and began removing her shoes till she was exasperated and her hair was entirely disheveled. Bryce was forced to leave her there fumbling, as his feint echo apologized, even as a moment later she stood up again and tried to follow him. Very quickly the dark enshrouded her body seeming to drop the temperature gravely low. Emily ignored the urge to panic, gripping the walls instead with a frenzied certainty that she was somehow heading towards Hugh.

“He needs me“, she whispered to herself over and over with heightened inspiration, turning back two corners and three lefts. He needs me now more than he ever will… I must convince him we are the same, he must not loose hope, that is all that really keeps us upon this earth. Strangely enough a pinprick of light blinked to her left, and she thought it a trick of her mind. But as she began to hurry more assuredly in that direction, she understood the light to be a growing fire, even as the smoke reached her an instant later, she knew this was not the sign she’d wished for. A moment more and the shouts of Dr. Bryce and his forlorn son flew past her ears.

“You lied to me, all of this and still you lied to me?!” Hugh was frantic, naked from the waist up, his exposed and deformed hands were breaking apart the shelves of his personal library. Ignoring the massive pains in his joints he threw books upon the makeshift bonfire raging in the corner from floor to the ceiling, created with several bottles of smashed brandy and pieces of flint he’d kept hidden for years.

“What would you have me do? Tell you that your mere existence means death for all those about us? “

“I don’t understand any of this… you told me this was for my protection, and now you bring a woman to love me for what? For the length of a hand clapping? This is madness!”

“I have done whatever you have asked of me! That girl, Emily… is your one chance… do not forget that!”

“No, it’s a lie, we tricked her… no one would willingly come to their death!”

“What does that matter? We all have to face the Reaper when our time is at hand. Is it not braver to do so of your own free choosing? “

“Is that why you’ve kept me alive all these years? To cast me as Death?”

“You are my son! I took you unwanted… isn’t that enough?”

About them the fire caused high shadows from their bodies to dance about like cut marionettes. Emily flew into the open chamber at first her eyes on the cast of dark players, till she could make out Dr. Bryce kneeling at the foot of his son, who would not be held back from destroying  his surroundings.  Hugh looked up into her alabaster complexion, made even more pale by the flames, and in that instant he saw Sir Edmund’s race for the well formed flesh mannequins he could never be.

“No… don’t look at me!” he shrieked at her while his shivering anger rattled the chains upon his ankles.

Emily neared slowly as Dr. Bryce stood to hold Hugh back fearing what he‘d do, but in his excited state he thrashed at his father’s arms, causing him to fall backwards into the corner. With horrific screams the doctor tried to extinguish himself by rolling to his side, Hugh was stunned in anguish as the fire seem to fly over Bryce’s exposed back almost pulling him into itself. Without thinking Emily began ripping at the folds of her dress trying to clear it from her waist. All at once Hugh understood what she was trying to accomplish, and with his help they draped the cloth over the writhing victim, trapping the flames as they held him steady.

The fire moved to embrace all three, taking Emily’s auburn locks, her under smock, and a good deal of the skin on her legs. Hugh’s misshapen limbs were deceptively strong and even as he too burned, he would not let go of his father. But Dr. Bryce was beyond hope, the shock, the sudden onslaught of his melting limbs, took hold of his already weakening condition and finished his pulse. When they backed away, he was little more than a human candle spent down to his bones. In the traumatic occurrence, Emily realized now that her right arm was fused to the exposed scapula of Hugh’s back.

But she did not wish it to move. The bleak air dried their tears for a countless period till finally they spoke.

“Please don’t let go of me now…” she whispered to him, and Hugh wondered if she had reached into his skull and pulled those exact words to speak. He neared, he dared forward till her face rested in his chest, and all the while she ignored the protruding clavicle of his shoulder. Wondering instead if he would ever seek to kiss her?

Beating him to the punch, she closed her lips around his gummy skeletal forced smile, and drew her tongue over the ridges of his lower jaw. The new sensation, although exquisite caused Hugh to jerk back in surprise, in that same instant her arm was freed from his gruesome torso, exposing the falling shingles of skin from his outstretched arms. An accumulation of awkward breaths left Hugh, until Emily held him by the waist, pulling them both to the floor. Then she placed his hand upon the back of her head, his other on the side of her hip, and returned her embrace to it’s rightful position above and across his neck, then gently upon his left shoulder blade.

“There… let them find us like this.”

Nodding in pain, Hugh looked into her eyes and finally saw his reflection.

Jumeira had eyed the newest Stranger, the one with the golden hair and eyes like polished sapphires. Gagged and bound by the flesh peddler Kumah, the Stranger was chained to an stone post inlaid with iron runes. Below the copper grating at his feet was a swirling bath of vinegar and spoiled wine, and above the pillar was a sign calling it, “ the Light of God “. It had but one purpose, to garner the truth from this particular occupant, a truth which every citizen of Udad already knew, but were terrified to speak aloud.

The Hordes had been camping for weeks, there were rumours that a garrison of the royal Calvary had been slaughtered, their horses eaten over great fiery pits, turning like pigs slowly before the meal tents of the foreign army. Udad had sheltered itself from within ever since the new moon had cast the shadow of the city over the western cliffs, where the Crashing Sea awaited it’s dead.

Kumah however had struck gold, his personal guards had spotted the Stranger climbing the western walls, and like a sandstorm, he was swept up before any other merchant could discover him. But then Jumeira had stopped the bidding, she insisted on hearing the foreigner speak. She ordered Kumah, who was greatly below her station, and he complied while cursing under his lips. The Stranger spoke these words, which is as best as those in the marketplace could remember, all agree it is utter nonsense:

I am come through Time to rescue you
Within my Host, I will bring the true meaning
We cannot be separated, She who owns me
Is my mated soul and your Flame.

And while it was not questioned that the barbarian spoke the holy tongue, or how he could know he would be “bought”, one thing was true. Jumeira had been placed under his spell. She ordered the guards to release him to her under pain of death, in a panic Kumah stopped them and tried to persuade her to reason.

“Enlightened One, please I cannot allow this, you must not allow this, no foreigner is permitted to address the house of your father. For that alone his tongue should be cut out.”
“That is for me to decide, I will have this one for my personal entertainment.”
“Please I beg you, allow me to test him first, they are liars, all of them…”
“Test him? With the Light of God? You will singe off all the hair on his body and he will be useless to me…”

(sorry out of time, started late)

To him it was one giant cement tree house, and he’d borrowed enough rope from his day job at the family hardware store to fashion a perfect web of ups and downs. The rats left him alone, the junkies knew the area wasn’t safe and no one in there right mind was going to follow him inside, even if they knew how he did it.

Pumping the eight tied bricks, Mikey concentrated and began his sets. On exhaling he would listen to the police band radio he’d hotwired to the city’s power line and make notes in his binder. He’d been at it for a little more than a year now, and he knew which areas had the most murders, stolen cars, and by reading the obits he could narrow down, which neighborhood needed him most.

The time had come; he’d been fastening in his mind what kind of disguise to wear. And it was clear that the most important thing was that his face could not be seen. The jet black diving suit he had mail ordered helped with that. As did the matching gloves, the military boots he’d stolen from his father’s trunk, and the gas mask he had altered for more visibility and just the right amount of shock value. He had spray painted the mask to match his suit, and in the shadowy corner of an alley he was nigh invisible.

At five feet three, Mikey was a deceptively dense but wiry freshman. He hunched wile he walked through school, he always slicked his hair in a ridiculous middle half part, and with pants tucked up high, he anybody’s nerd. Mikey figured if Clark Kent could hide in plain sight, there had to be something to it. At close range he was often browbeaten by his peers for his cockeyed appearance.

He did just the right amount of school work to stay under the radar, made sure to make his rounds through the clicks. A trick he’d used to garner information on their habits, what they wore, who they spoke to, and who they didn’t like. He was an unassigned, unofficial Narc for all intensive purposes, and the dealers in his school had no idea that he watched them. He had stayed after school and bugged their hangouts, searched their lockers without their knowing, and taken an inventory of anything and everything illegal.

But this wasn’t enough to stop them, for that he needed to instill fear; he needed to make an example of the largest and most dangerous fish. Even though it wouldn’t bring back his father, a gang war would half his work for him, it would cleanse the school, the neighborhood and accomplish his mission.

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Colored in Photoshop 7 with a wacom tablet, from an original drawing.

They say you can’t pick your parents in life. So at the time of my father’s death, I think of that question, and I ask would I have still picked him to be my own, had I any say in the matter. The answer of course is yes. Without a doubt.

Without my father, my mother would never have known what true love is… without my father, his friends lives would have had less joy all those parties they made time for year after year. His co-workers would never have the pride in the meticulous jobs they did, and for me, I would not be who I am in any way, shape or form.

Because of my dad, I came to the US when I was 4, because of him to New York, the greatest city in the world, and because he loved to gamble, we moved into our first house just 3 blocks from the track, so he could spend his weekends there watching the horses run. I don’t think the winning was that important to him, I think he liked the possibility of living well for the day if he won. And if he did win, it would go to a party with his buddies, or a few bucks to my mom. Or even to me if I asked him at just the right time.

But my dad loved our house not just because of its location; no I think he took great pride in owning something of his own. This was his yard, his lawn, and his driveway, which he wanted shoveled in a particular manner. We would cart snow in garbage cans to the backyard, so it wouldn’t be dumped on the grass, which was his baby.

He loved to garden, he loved to mow, and if the leaves weren’t raked off every weekend, well then there was hell to pay. After all this is what he worked for, a house for his family that was always clean and great to come home to. My dad had this thing about not going out to eat, he preferred to buy good ingredients and cook meals at home. Why spend $100 for 4 people, when he could eat much better in his backyard. He loved my grilled steak, if there was a special occasion to celebrate, he would tell my mom to buy steak and have me cook it while he watched and waited.

 And then he would get to his other pastime, supervising. He loved to comment, to narrate, and to ask if you remembered all the details. I use to think of it as nagging, but he was a perfectionist really. It came from his being a flavor chemist, and from his love for tennis. I mention this, because if you knew my father, tennis to him was like being in the Olympics. Is the weather outside just right for tennis? Which of my friends will show up to be destroyed by me? I’m undefeated! Don’t you know that? 

I heard him say these things many times, and while these details may seem glossy, the truth of the matter was, my father was a simple man. He liked good alcohol, despite his lifelong shares in Heineken – expensive cognac was his favorite, preferably as a gift on his birthday. He loved to dance; he would do this thing with his hips that made you think he was about to throw his hip out. But thinking back on it, he didn’t care who was in the room, or who might see him, if he wanted to dance, he would just do it! And he swore he was good, even if only epileptics would clap.

There are many things though that I will remember personally because our relationship had so many ups and downs. Down – he was not happy with my decisions. Why do you want to be an artist? There’s no money in that. Why do you paint with such dark colors?

Up – he paid for my art college, and my teaching degree, even though he didn’t believe in them, he did it cause he loved me. I could go on, but I’d like to share a favorite memory of just the two of us.

In 1992 I was in a deep depression, and my whole world seemed to be nothing but waking and going to work unhappy. Somehow in all of this, he noticed my pain, and on one really bad day, he asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t explain it to him, it was over a girl, and that much he knew, but what good would have come from telling him the details? He couldn’t change any of it. That’s when my dad surprised me more than I ever thought he could. He saw the tears on my face, and he just put his arms around me and held me for maybe 2 minutes. He just held me, and didn’t say a word. I will always love him for that day, for showing me just how much he cared for me when I needed it most.

I could talk on and on about how much he loved my mom, about their song being “Only You”, and how he signed all his love letters, birthday cards to her as “Rey the King”. She would know more about that part of their lives. But let’s see, dressing up, he loved that, he loved to plan his outfit so when he was done he could say,” I look good – are you kidding me?”

And I wouldn’t call him a vain man; he just liked arriving at the party in style. He still used handkerchiefs most of his life, and if you ever road in his car, he insisted on telling you how well he kept it in shape, how it had amazing mileage, and how well it ran even after 10, 15, 20 years. Only once did he ever lend it out to me, when my ex and I drove it home from Pennsylvania one time. I told her, “My dad must really love you, cause he doesn’t lend this car to anyone.” But he didn’t do that just because of her, he lent the car out because of me.

It was this kind of indirect, in between the lines kind of love, that you had to look for if you ever wanted to understand him. He wouldn’t talk to me with pride about myself, he would tell his best friend, Noe when they first met…

“My son’s an artist.”

“Oh yeah, so is mine.”

He would come home then and say you have to meet Noe’s son Joey, he’s just like you. When he’d go to California to be with his mom, he would tell my cousin Richie about me, or my uncle Ed.

“You should meet Bobby, Richie. Ed, you should see his drawings.”

Course I would know none of this, Richie would tell me years later, and so would my uncle. But that’s how my father was… In my brother’s case, I would be the one to hear about him whenever he came back from visiting with his family in San Francisco. Don has this, Don has that, Don took me here, and Don and I played tennis. This was his way.

One of the strangest things he ever said to Don and me was, “You know you guys will be much better fathers than me, because I did all the drinking, and the gambling. You know what not to do. “ And the thing is he was right, I look back on any of the fights I’ve ever had with him, and they’re perfect lessons on what not to do. I know he didn’t mean them that way at the time, but in hindsight I like to think he planned it all. He taught me to think for myself, and he made me laugh at an insult, because his sense of humor was sometimes bizarre.

One of our last conversations was when I called his hospital room the day before his last seizure. As I was saying goodbye to my mom, I yelled to her over the phone to tell him I love him, and a second later she got off and shouted to him, “Bobby says he loves you!”And my dad through his mask, as clear as day yelled back, “LOVE YOU!” I heard him perfectly, and he sounded so strong, it was as if he was on the receiver.

One of our ongoing inside jokes was, that whenever I called home, instead of asking him how he was feeling he would say, “Cut your hair, loose weight.” And that’s when I knew he was in good spirits, when he took the time to tease me, he would laugh when I’d tell him, “Okay now I know you’re feeling better…”

Like I said, you can’t choose who’s going to love you, or how they’ll love you. Some people get Donald Trump to buy them things; I get the filipino Don Rickles. I’m certain if my dad could, he’d yell at my mom for spending too much on his funeral. Ask if she bought the right kind of beer for the reception, want me to cook steaks outside in the winter rather than go to a restaurant, and above all thank everyone for coming.

But he wouldn’t tell them to their faces, later on my mom and he would be talking over breakfast and they would tally who showed up, who brought what, he would tell her… oh yeah so and so and his wife, he’s good friend. That was his way.

Goodbye Dad, I will love you more and more from this day on. Thank you for being mine.

Painted from a photograph taken by Diane. She started this first with a palette knife, and I touched up the clouds with gesso, I'd say 80% of this is her (color scheme, composition), but it was due the next morning so I had to finish it. She said, "you do it honey" and went to sleep…