The Beggar’s Gift: Fables for These Times

By Joan Dodd

Thoughts, words, and deeds have consequences, good and bad. These stories reflect people's actions in various situations––prejudice, poverty, fear, looking different, and the helpless elderly. One may recognize a bit of Aesop's Fables, Ten Commandments, Beatitudes, and the Golden Rule. The Beggar's Gift: an ironic tale about paying attention to the things in life that really matter. David: a humorous fantasy on mores, its elements plausible in a well-thought-out way. Saving Myself: A teenage couple is faced with parental religious bigotry. Picture Man: a suspenseful story that builds on fear that leads to a revelation followed by a surprising conclusion. The Guardians: an elderly woman hides her life savings as her daughter threatens to place her in a Home if she doesn't give it to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Jul 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781594338052

Joan Dodd

Joan Brown Dodd was born in 1933 in Missouri. After receiving her degree from Western New Mexico University, she moved to Seward, Alaska in 1958 to teach high school English. Also an RN, she then worked as Director of Nurses at Seward General Hospital. In the ‘60s she moved to the Aleutian Islands where she lived for thirteen years between Dutch Harbor and Akutan. Her full length books, Cow Woman of Akutan and Welcome to 1960s Dutch Harbor, Alaska are memoirs of those adventures. She enjoys writing short stories and some have won recognition and prizes over the years. For relaxation she likes to do oil painting. She and her husband, Doug, live in Homer, Alaska

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Guardians

SAVING MYSELF

BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL

SAVING MYSELF

When my mother answered the door, Buckshot asked, Is Jean here?

Her name’s Jane, you lummox, she snapped, as I stood behind her and sucked in my breath. She had warned me that I should not go with boys from that school. Now hulking Buckshot stood on our porch smiling lamely at Mama, and could not even get my name right.

When Dad lost his job, eleven years at St. Ann’s Academy ended for me. In 1940 most Catholics tried to send their children to schools taught by nuns, but he said he could not afford to keep me in that private girls’ school, though it would be my senior year. While I cried and threw a tantrum, he reminded me he had a family to support and his first concern was finding another job right away; I was going to attend the public school. Mama took my side. She knew money would be tight for a while; nevertheless, she angrily argued that I would no longer be protected from the secular views of the world, which could lead to heretical thinking and loose morals. As things turned out, she was right.

Buckshot gave Mama a pitiful look and then said, I’m sorry, Ma’am, I know it’s Jane. I’m just a little nervous is all. I’m kinda shy around girls. I was surprised that he hadn’t just turned and walked away.

Mama ignored his excuse and plunged on bluntly, I don’t remember seeing you at St. Ann’s Church. Don’t you go to church?

My mother still wanted to control everything I did, though I was almost eighteen. My face felt hot in my embarrassment as I tried to get closer to the door.

Buckshot didn’t act offended. He actually sounded rather proud when he replied, Oh, yes Ma’am, every week. It’s across town. My family is very religious.

I squeezed past Mama and sailed out the door without looking back before she had a chance to ask him if he smoked cigarettes or drank alcohol. Understandably few boys ever asked me for a second date after enduring Mama’s interrogations.

I’ll be home in time for dinner, I called without turning around. I had been feeling angry, but now that I had my back to her, I felt calmer and added, We’re just going to Al’s Ice Cream Parlor, Mama.

She had to let me know she was still in charge. She called after me in the same tone she had used with Buckshot, Make it back before dinner so you can give me a hand in the kitchen. You know I’ve got my hands full with your little brothers.

I knew she didn’t approve of my date, so I wanted to get away from there as fast as Buckshot could get that old Model T moving, which wasn’t very fast. I didn’t look back and wave till we had reached the corner. She was still standing there, hands on her hips.

As we rounded the corner, Buckshot audibly breathed out. "Boy, I was afraid your mom wasn’t going to let you go, Jane. He emphasized my name and I laughed. Then he added, I’ve really been looking forward to this afternoon and wanted to get to know you better."

I only knew him from classes till that day in the library. I had started my senior year at Central High the month before and I was miserable. I missed my old friends, and the kids at the new school had their own friends. They ignored me. When I walked through the crowded halls, they would bump into me and just keep on talking to their friends like I was invisible.

I know you didn’t want help with history, I said, as he drove slowly down Duncan Ave., the main street in that New Mexico town. You didn’t have any books with you. So why did you start talking to me in the library?

He glanced at me, and then gave a little smile. Besides being partial to red heads? I’ve been around those girls most of my life and they seem so silly and boring. I can tell you’re a serious person from the way you act in class. You’re pretty smart but you’re not a showoff. I like that. I guess you just seem different.

His answer was not what I had expected. He didn’t try to flatter me about my looks, which were just average, nor my outgoing personality, which was nonexistent. But he recognized that I was different from the other girls. Of course, I was different! My mother and the nuns made sure of that. Like the previous year when Sister Mary Ellen gave a sex education lecture which lasted all of a couple of minutes and consisted of, Catholic girls are special; they save themselves for marriage to a good Catholic boy. Well, what if I was saving myself for a Jehovah’s Witness? Then I admitted to Buckshot, When you sat next to me in the library I didn’t really want to talk to you.

I know, he said. I’m sorry I got you in trouble.

As we drove slowly through the town my thoughts were on that afternoon in the school library. I picked an empty table in the library to do my homework, so when Buckshot came over and took the chair next to me I had pretended not to notice him, just bent my head down further. He wore his bulky letterman jacket and spread his large frame out.

He leaned toward me and whispered, You’re new here, huh?

I looked sideways and saw his face less than a foot away. He continued with more questions he already knew the answer to, like - ‘What’s your name?’ though he heard it every day at roll call, and ‘What are you studying?’ though he could see my history book open in front of me. He was grinning at me all that time, like it was a game to get me to talk.

He continued, Do you know my name?

Finally, I decided he would go away if I answered. Everyone knows it’s Buckshot, I whispered. Why do the other kids call you that?

Of course he kept talking. I guess it started my freshman year when I was playing football. Someone nicknamed me that because when I get moving on the field there’s no stopping me. I’m all over the place. Then others started calling me Buckshot and it stuck, except with the teachers and my folks, who stick to James, though I don’t really like it.

His voice rose slightly. If I ever get a job as a butler I won’t have to change my name. James, bring us some tea. James, take the ladies’ coats. I was unable to suppress a laugh at his imitation of an aristocratic voice, just as Mrs. Griffin, the librarian, appeared from nowhere and cast her shadow over the table.

As we neared the ice cream parlor, I told Buckshot, It’s only been four days since we were sent to the principal’s office. I’m still embarrassed about it.

It couldn’t have been all bad, Buckshot said, as he parked in front of Al’s. We got to know each other and now here we are.

When we walked into the