Pieces of Broken China by Dean R. Blanchard

Author:Dean R. Blanchard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Anthology, gay issues
Publisher: Dean R. Blanchard
Published: 2014-01-04T16:00:00+00:00

Orson Welles

Gaxon—the name she wanted to be called—was born in San Francisco to parents who taught literature at the University of San Francisco. She was raised in the shadows of huge libraries in her home and at the university. One of her parents’ favorite authors was Orson Welles.

Her parents insisted that Gaxon read whatever she wanted as well as learn a foreign language—Spanish because of its influence on California history.

On Hallowe'en evening of 1938, she was twenty-eight years old. She sat in the living room of her home with her parents as her father tuned in to the radio drama, War of the Worlds, directed by Orson Wells. It was reported to have caused widespread panic when listeners thought that an invasion by extraterrestrial beings was occurring. These reports of panic were mostly false and overstated, but in spite of the rancor, the story propelled Orson Welles to instant notoriety.

Gaxon immediately became a fan of Orson Welles and promised one day she would have a male dog and would name him Orson Welles.

After high school she continued her education at the University of San Francisco, where she earned her Ph.D. in literature at a time when most women were satisfied to be homemakers.

I was introduced to Gaxon by a fellow writer who lived in northwest Washington at the time. We became best friends, and I shared all my writing with her. She encouraged me to keep writing. All the critters in this story lived with her among her extensive library.

Gaxon died in her home on Friday, August 25, 1989, when an aneurysm burst in her brain. She was seventy-nine.

* * *

The lettering on the tiny, weather-beaten sign read 7875 Camper’s Circle. A larger white enameled sign with gaudy red lettering was nailed to the bottom of the road sign: A ROTTEN DOG LIVES HERE!

I barked at the sign. “As if I’m the only oddity living in this house,” I growled as I ran up the driveway.

I can’t help the fact that humans take one look at me and think I’m a disaster. I was born looking like this. I have matted, coarse yellow hair with white splotches. I have my father’s yellow, pointed ears and temperament and my mother’s brains. That isn’t to say my father wasn’t smart. I wouldn’t know. He left shortly after I was born. The rest of my body represents the best of my mother and the worst of my father. I’ve been told that when I smile, you see the terrier in me. When I growl, my nose and face quiver and my teeth fan out over my lips. Truly a forbidding sight! My eyebrows are bushy, and I like to think of my eyes as piercing.

I wag my tail and smile when people come into my home. When they leave, I growl and bite their feet and ankles. That makes me a bit schizophrenic. I keep telling myself it isn’t my fault. It’s entirely my father’s doing. He was a full-blooded, hot-tempered romantic—a Chihuahua, so I’ve been told.

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