Pieces of Broken China

By Dean R. Blanchard

A father struggles to tell his long-lost daughter that he is not a predatory sexual molester.  A promising ring becomes the symbol of a boy's love for a girl he thought he knew.  A son stands by his dying mother, and in return, she helps him to make peace withj his adopted father. A mother attempts to help her daughter deal with an emotioanlly crippled Vietnam vet, who happens to also be her father.  A wife senses her husband's sexuality after an encounter with a gay man in a striight bar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean R. Blanchard
• Release date: Jan 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9780986204302

Dean R. Blanchard

I share a home with Sarah, my calico who undersands me more than I do. Sometimes I stare at a blank page on my computer. when the muse illudes me I go for long walks at the shopping maul near my home or bake loaves of bread or go play backgammond with a disabled veteran. 

Book preview

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

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