Pieces of Broken China Read online

  Pieces of Broken China

  by

  Dean R. Blanchard

  The author has published this work independently,

  using the local services of VillageBooks.com.

  Copyright © 2014 by Ronald Hewitt

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  This work may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or

  by any means electronic, mechanical, or other

  without written permission from the publisher,

  except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Print edition jacket design by Kate Weisel

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Blanchard, Dean R.

  Pieces of broken china/ Dean Blanchard

  p. cm.

  1. Fiction 2. Short stories

  I. Title

  LOC Control Number 2014920567

  ISBN 9780986204302

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product

  of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  David and Nancy Armstrong

  Contents

  A Daughter’s Love

  Caleb’s Sarcophagus

  Cody’s Promise Ring

  Confessions and Forgiveness

  Genesis

  Lower Than a Snake’s Belly

  Orson Welles

  Seth’s Sourdough Shop

  Speaking in Tongues

  Twin Sisters Inn

  Troy’s Condition of Friendship

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  Acknowledgements

  The genesis of Pieces of Broken China came out of an earlier anthology, entitled “Ron's Sourdough Shop.” I asked my editor friend, Tom Kimball, to read over the manuscript in 2014. I have incorporated Tom’s suggestions, and reorganized the material to its present state.

  My profuse thanks go to the following individuals, who have helped me move my novel through the phases of publication:

  Brendan Clark, publisher of books on demand through Village Books.

  Kate Weisel, graphic designer,

  who designed the book cover for the work.

  David and Nancy Armstrong for critiquing the most recent version, and

  My daughter, Malisa Ruth Therriault, and

  my twin sons, Jason Dean and Justin Drew Hewitt, who have read my earlier work and encouraged me to keep writing.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this collection of short stories

  to

  David and Nancy Armstrong

  for your friendship, love, and

  support of this work,

  and so much more.

  Contents

  Page

  Chapter

  1

  A Daughter’s Love

  10

  Caleb’s Sarcophagus

  36

  Cody’s Promise Ring

  49

  Confessions and Forgiveness

  63

  Genesis

  71

  Lower Than a Snake’s Belly

  92

  Orson Welles

  101

  Seth’s Sourdough Shop

  122

  Speaking in Tongues

  132

  Twin Sisters Inn

  142

  Troy’s Condition of Friendship

  A Daughter’s Love

  I put on my reading glasses and read aloud to Lazarus Malisa’s Christmas card and letter that lay open on the wooden TV tray in front of me.

  Dear Dad,

  Thank you for the Christmas card and letter; however, the letter has raised more questions than it answered. I have some immediate questions that I need you to answer.

  Is Lazarus your lover? Did he die from AIDS? Do you have AIDS?

  How old am I?

  Why did you decide to find me now?

  Enough questions from me. I was married in 1989 to Jake Lynn. We divorced in 1992. My daughter Dayna was born on October 12, 1991. I graduated from Montana State University with a double major in 1995. I’ve been teaching developmentally disabled children in Centerville since then.

  I’ve wished for you to find me for a very long time. I’d almost given up. I guess I am a dreamer. I also believe in forgiveness and hope you believe in forgiveness, too.

  Take care and God bless.

  Malisa and Dayna

  I leaned back into the futon, numb, as I held the letter over my heart; Lazarus curled up on my lap and purred while softly kneading my lap with his paws. As I stroked Lazarus’s back, I looked into his bright yellow eyes and said, “No, you’re not my lover, and I don’t have AIDS.” I removed my glasses and laid them down on the wooden TV tray. I recalled the Christmas card I had mailed to her, the first Christmas card in sixteen years. I had signed her card, “Love, Dad and Lazarus.”

  Winter passed into spring, and we kept writing. I answered her questions as best I could. Some questions there were no answers for, and Malisa never prodded further.

  On Easter Sunday afternoon I was in the kitchen making salad when the telephone rang. I walked into the living room and glanced at the caller ID. I took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as I held the receiver to my ear.

  “Dad? I tried calling you last night,” she said. “Eight thirty your time.”

  I responded, “I had convinced myself I would be ready for this moment. ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough to say to you... I know it isn’t. So I chose not to talk to you.” I couldn’t believe what I had said, and I held the receiver to my chest for a moment. I repeated, “I thought I was ready for this.”

  Lazarus stood up on my lap and rubbed his head gently against my chin; I stroked his back and whispered to him, “Not now.”

  “Dad? Who are you talking to?”

  “Lazarus,” I said. “My tabby cat, Lazarus.”

  “Oh, geez, Dad! I’m sorry. I thought Lazarus was—”

  “How would you know?” I said. I glanced at the calendar again and then said, “Happy birthday, Malisa.”

  “You remembered!”

  “You’re twenty-seven today. It’s been sixteen years since we’ve seen each other.”

  “I know.” The excitement in her voice calmed me. She asked, “Would you mind if Dayna and I came for a visit?”

  I don’t want you here or We should do this later when I’m more settled into myself. The words were on my lips, ready to speak. Why had I written her in the first place? In the pit of my soul, I knew if I turned her away now she would never return.

  I said, “I would love to see you and Dayna.”

  “You sure?” she asked

  “I’m sure,” I said and then asked, “When?”

  “Fourth of July weekend? Will that work for you?” She paused and I stared at my reflection in the computer monitor. “I’ll need directions ...” Her voice trailed into silence.

  “I’ll mail you directions,” I said.

  “Today?”

  “Yes. Today.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  The following morning I went to the post office and mailed a short note to Malisa giving her directions to my home. Returning to my apartment, I sat at my computer and began another letter.

  Dear Malisa,

 
I spent eight months in jail and five years on probation plus an additional ten years on surveillance as a registered sex offender. Family and friends have forgiven me. Forgiveness of self is a long time in coming.

  ...

  * * *

  I stopped typing. I folded my hands on top of my bald head and stared up at the ceiling. I would never forget the images, the smells, the sounds of steel doors slamming shut behind me as I walked into my jail cell to the yells and screams of inmates in cells next to mine: “Sex offender, sex offender, sex offender, baby raper, baby raper, sex offender, sex offender...”

  I cupped my hands over my ears as I stared at my reflection in the computer monitor. I chanted, “I am not a sex offender, I am not a sex offender, I am not a sex offender, and I am not...”

  I reached over and highlighted the letter I had started and hit the delete button.

  A week later Malisa sent me a photograph of her and Dayna, which I taped to the side of the computer monitor.

  At times, I dialed Malisa to tell her not to come down. I always hung up before the first ring.

  The last Monday of June, Malisa called.

  “Dayna and I will be there Friday.”

  I don’t want you here. I’m not ready for this. Those thoughts hung on my lips, but then the still voice inside of me said, “If you turn her away now, she’ll never come back to you.”

  “Dad? You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “I’m looking forward to this, Dad. I hope you are, too.”

  “I’ll see you when you get here,” was all I could say as I hung up. I was a twisted ball of emotions for the rest of the day. My mind’s eye reeled with scenes of her childhood and the wonderful times father and daughter had shared long ago. I recalled when she was in Girl Scouts and she had Girl Scout cookies to sell. I walked house to house with her in the beginning, because she told me she could not do this alone. After we sold most of her cookies, she informed me she could sell cookies on her own.

  Friday arrived sooner than I wished, and so did Malisa, without Dayna. When I saw her standing at the doorway, my mind leaped back to her thirteenth birthday, the day of my divorce.

  After idle chitchat about the weather, Lazarus, and her drive to my home, an uneasy silence fell between us. We sat down on the futon in the living room. I stared at the floor while Malisa drank the glass of water I had given her. She set the glass on the wooden TV tray next to the futon. When I looked up at her my heart broke, and I was overwhelmed with grief and anger for my silent absence from her life.

  “Dad,” she began. Her hands were shaking; her voice trembled. “I was going to bring Dayna with me, but I thought it would be better if you and I had this time alone.” She paused briefly. “I know about your time in jail. Mom found out... are you a predatory sex offender?” she asked. “I need to know.”

  “I’m not a predatory sex offender,” I said, looking at Malisa. Tears washed down our cheeks. There. I had finally said it to another person. “No. I’m not a predatory sex offender,” I repeated. “I had sex with my nephew...”

  “How old was he, Dad?” Malisa interrupted.

  “Fourteen,” I said. “What I did was wrong.” I paused as I rubbed my forehead with the palm of my right hand. “I turned myself into county mental health for help.” I paused again. “Going to jail was my wake-up call. I went through two years of therapy... emotional vomit would be a better word.”

  Malisa looked at me and said, “At my school I work with mentally challenged kids. Some of my kids were born into families where drug and alcohol addictions are the norm. Many of those kids suffer from mental and physical abuse. One boy I know has been sexually molested by his older brother. He won’t talk about the molestation, because he doesn’t want to put his brother in prison. The parents pulled the boy out of school, said they wanted to home school him. What’s sad about all this is that young boy will grow up being a sex offender too. Most sex offenders show no remorse or are in denial. I know one when I see one.”

  “Is that what you see in me?” I asked.

  A cautionary tone rang out in her voice. “No... but this is our first time together.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said as I stood up. “I am not the man I once was.”

  Malisa stood and we hugged. Soon she looked up at me and said, “When I was a little girl, you were my knight in shining armor.” She paused as she held my hands. “Your armor may be dented and tarnished a bit, but you’re still my dad.”

  “Those dents remind me what I’ve done to myself. Family and friends have forgiven me,” I said, looking into Malisa’s eyes. “Forgiveness of self—I don’t know if that will ever happen.”

  Malisa tapped her finger on my chest and said, “We’ll work on that.”

  Summer passed into fall. We had our first Thanksgiving together in sixteen years in Malisa’s home in Drummond, Montana. I have two sons, Jason and Justin, fraternal twins. Jason spent the first Thanksgiving with us. The following Thanksgivings Malisa, Dayna, and I were together.

  In the summers I started to go to my daughter’s home, and together we canned all sorts of foods: carrots, sweet corn, pickled beets, an assortment of pickled vegetables, bread and butter pickles, and dilly beans too. She taught me how to can venison, chicken, pork, and fish. This was our time to bond, father and daughter and granddaughter. We laughed; we cried as we told each other about our lives after the divorce. What my daughter taught me the most was about family and forgiveness.

  In one of the letters I wrote to Malisa, “You’ll always be my daughter. But now that we have found one another I would like us to be best friends.”

  “You’ve always been my best friend, Dad,” she wrote back.

  I kissed the letter and wept until my sides hurt.

  Caleb’s Sarcophagus

  Bruce juggled three golf balls with perfect timing. His red hair flopped against his shoulders; he wore a small gold stud in his left ear and a red pullover two sizes too large for him with black lettering that read: LOOKING FOR THE MEANING OF LIFE? JOIN PEACE CORPS.

  Susan chain-smoked. A coffee can on the porch overflowed with cigarette butts and empty wrappers. I watched the one-man show from the porch; Susan and I sat on the large porch swing. Susan, in her blue sweatpants, pushed the swing gently with the heels of her bare feet. I was in my full-length hooded monk’s robe made from Pendleton wool and barefooted, too.

  “Concentration is everything,” Bruce said as he juggled the golf balls. “Being centered is what it’s all about, Caleb.”

  “Is that what you call it?” I asked.

  Bruce let the balls drop to his feet, looked at me, and said, “Yes. That’s what it’s all about,” and started running up the porch steps.

  I met Bruce at the top of the steps, pointed at the golf balls, and yelled, “Pick them up!”

  “Later.” He smirked.

  “Now!”

  I stormed into the living room with Susan following. Seconds later I heard the screen door slam shut. I turned to see Bruce poised to throw one of the golf balls at my back.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warned.

  Bruce dropped the golf balls inside a wicker basket on the dining-room table. He turned to me. “Eat this,” he yelled as he grabbed his crotch with his right hand. Moments later he disappeared down the long hallway into his bedroom, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.

  “Jerk,” I said as I sat on the futon.

  “He’s not a jerk,” Susan said. “I’ve known Bruce since grade school. You’re the newcomer. Or have you forgotten?”

  I stood facing Susan. “This is my house. You and Bruce have lived here for the past three-and-a-half years rent-free. Or have you forgotten? If you don’t like it here, you can both leave.”

  “You,” Susan began, “invited us into your home, rent-free. When we offered to pay you something, you said no. When we offered to help keep the house clean, you said no one cleans your house as well as you d
o. Every time we offered help, you said no.” She paused. “You’ve never liked Bruce, because he doesn’t kiss your ass.” She paused. Glaring at me, she said, “Money and material wealth mean nothing to Bruce. That offends you, doesn’t it?”

  “He’s a vegetarian Peace Corps wannabe geek!”

  “So... what am I to you?”

  “I can still taste your—”

  “Caleb! We were both horny and lonely. I gave you a sympathy fuck.”

  “Is that all it was to you?” I paused and then added, “How many sympathy—”

  “Bastard!”

  My face throbbed from the sting of her right hand for several minutes after she stormed out of the house. The slow clapping of hands broke the silence. I turned to see Bruce standing in the hallway outside his bedroom door. He walked behind the futon and around the living room, gesturing at the bookcase, my computer workstation. He stopped to eye the two white swans etched in stained glass hanging on the wall above the dining-room table.

  “I’ve always wondered what you saw in these two swans,” he said, his back to me. “Such beauty”—he turned to face me—“in the home of an ugly, lonely, vile man.” He paused as he walked up to me. “I know this is your house. Your mosque. No—no. Your sarcophagus!”

  “Shut up, Bruce!”

  “What’re you going to do to me? Put me out on the street?” He cocked his head to one side, smirked, and said, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? That’s why you rifle through my personal effects while I’m in school, isn’t it? You want a reason to get rid of me. This house,” he said, turning in circles about the living room and waving his hands above his head, “gives you a feeling of power.” He paused as he dropped his hands to his side. “We’re your pets. We’ve been your pets for the past three-and-a-half years. As long as we don’t mess up your home, cause embarrassment to your neighbors, and are the good little children you want us to be—”