The winds of Spring gently rustled through the meager grass of the cemetery. The sun became red on the fading horizon, as it turned its favor away from the gnarled old trees that had taken root where they pleased. A man and a woman could be seen standing inside the rough stone half-wall that surrounded the small, private graveyard. A fresh grave lay before them. Two bouquets of flowers lay between the packed earth and a simple, yet archaic headstone. The sound of Spring water flowing down a tributary of the Danube could be heard in the distance.
"I’m sorry." The man said, looking over at the woman. She was barely even that, he noticed as the lines in his face wrinkled in sorrow.
She turned her head and met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "So... no one knows how she died?" She sniffled and brushed her disheveled black hair back with her hand.
"The New York police say natural causes. They found her dead in her apartment." The man said, weakly shrugging his shoulders and breaking her gaze as he spoke. She had all the Hungarian features of her mother – the strong jaw line, conservative cheekbones, small nose, lithe figure – but her eyes... those intense, piercing eyes made Benicio feel like he was looking at her father himself.
"Then why was it a closed casket funeral?" She quickly inquired, the pain betrayed in her voice and her tears.
Benicio let out a sigh born of grief. He scanned the ground for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "There are some things that I cannot tell you, and there are some things that you cannot know."
"Like who my father is?" She shot back, her voice cracking. "Ever since I can remember, I’ve wondered who he is, what he’s like... and why he left us. I’m twenty-one, Benicio. I’m not a child any more. Isn’t it time I knew who my father is?"
"It has nothing to do with how old you are, Camilla. You’re mother asked that we keep it a secret from you for fear of what might happen. I gave her my word. If you hate me for it, I... I understand."
"I don’t hate you, Uncle." She said in a soft tone. "It’s just that you and Mom are my only family that I know about. Now that she’s gone... if I lose you too... I just don’t want to be alone... I don’t want to be alone..." She began to sob despairingly into her hands.
Benicio balanced himself on his cane and gently reached his free arm around her, pulling her close to him. As she cried he began to speak in a soft, cautious tone.
"Your father came over to America from the Old Country, just as I did, except earlier. He’s older than I am, which may seem odd too you considering your mother’s youthfulness, but sometimes things work in strange ways." Benicio thought about his own mixed Italian and Hungarian blood as he made this last statement.
Camilla glanced up from where her face was buried against Benicio’s jacket with a look of tear-stained amusement. "Benicio, my Mom just had a lot of plastic surgery to keep her looking that way. She wasn’t really that young."
"Indeed she wasn’t." Benicio said, more to himself than anything. Noting the curious look on Camilla’s face, he cleared his throat and continued. "At any rate, your father, like myself at the time, was a very driven man. That’s why he came over to the New World. To succeed. And succeed he did. Always straight to the point, your father. Always the perfectionist. Always the over-achiever."
"Then why... why would my Mother hide me from him? He actually sounds like a great person."
Before he realized it, Benicio slapped Camilla across the face. A look of shock froze his face into a colorless mask, his eyes wide with surprise at what he had just done.
"I’m... I’m sorry child, but don’t you ever say that about him."
Camilla put her hand to her cheek and stared at him, her lower lip quivering. Questions raced through her mind and flashed across those deep, brown eyes. Those eyes!
"I thank God that I can never tell you the full extent of what men like your father and I have done. Your father was an accomplished man, yes, but he also did things... things that I can’t even put words too. I know this because I used to clean after your father got sloppy. And I don’t mean dusting the drapes, child. Your father was never a great person. He didn’t even want you, Camilla."
Benicio knew that his last statement cut too deep. How could he do this to the poor girl now, at her mother’s own funeral? He was aware, however, that he would have to tell her more, if only to dissuade her from ever wanting to meet the man that created her. It was all he could do to protect her.
"I’m sorry, but it’s true, child. It was all your mother’s idea, and as I worked with your father and had married into your mother’s family, they recruited me to help. Remember when I said that your father got sloppy? Well, he didn’t get sloppy often, but when he did, Camilla, things got bad. And I mean bad." Benicio took a deep breath before continuing, forcing himself to say the next part in front of this innocent young woman. "When I would clean up for him, it wasn’t difficult to get my hands on some of his fresh semen. It was all modern technology and artificial insemination from there."
Benicio took a flask out of his jacket and took a long, hard drink of bourbon. Camilla stood, frozen.
Benicio took a second drink and added, "I don’t know what she ever saw in him, girl. He was a monster."
Tears welling in his own eyes, Benicio turned and walked back towards his car. He took several swigs from his flask as he hobbled along on his oaken cane.
Camilla stood there, motionless, as tears streamed down her own face. She stared at the fading image of her Uncle as he walked through the break in the half-wall and descended down the hill, slowly fading from view.
"You look just like your mother." A dry, ghastly voice from behind her said.
She turned to see a man standing there. He wore an Armani suit, and leaned heavily upon an elaborate black cane. His other hand clutched a small bouquet of flowers. His frame was bent over and hunched, and his skin pulled tightly at his bones, giving him a horrid, skeletal appearance. His brown eyes held her gaze with an frightful intensity.
"F... Father?" She strained just to say the word.
The man’s eyes began to tear as his taunt facial muscles transfixed into a disturbing expression of self-loathing. He looked down at his withered form, then at the fresh grave before him, and then back to his daughter. In this moment the horrible irony of his existence washed over him like a wave of fire. He had murdered the only person whom he had ever cared for, and now he knew that her daughter, his daughter, was born from a union between them. The young woman before him was the child he had always wanted, but never had. All the power that he commanded in all the world could not undo the horrid thing that he was. He held her gaze for many moments, staring into those deep, brown eyes so filled with pain. He wanted to help her, to aid her, to comfort her. He wanted to hold her close and tell her that everything would be alright. But he didn’t even know how to do something so simple as that anymore, and he hated himself because of it. Tears ran down his face as he said the only thing he ever said during these moments.
"My name is Mr. Parker."
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This story © 2003 Seth Horton
This page © 2003 anneke@scarywhitegirl.net