“Well,” she said as she set her cup of coffee on the table, “what can you tell me about yesterday?”
Benji looked at her and froze, and then he stared at the bowl of cereal.
“Now you have to take responsibility for Eddy’s prank.”
After a moment of silence, Benji gulped, looked at Aunt Stella, and asked, “How did you know?”
“I just got off the phone with Eddy’s dad,” Benji heard her say. “Eddy was laughing in the background while I spoke to his dad.” She paused, leaned forward to Benji, and asked, “Are you laughing?”
Benji shook his head as he ate in silence.
“Why did you let Eddy talk you into stealing?”
“I did it on a dare.”
“Consequences?” she asked.
“He told me if I didn’t do it I couldn’t be his friend anymore.”
Aunt Stella cocked her head and said, “So to prove your friendship you had to steal? Would you’ve said the same to him?”
“No.”
“Then why did you allow him to use you?”
Benji shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said.
“How many times have I warned you about him? Eddy’s idea of fun is getting other people in trouble. Then he steps back and watches the sparks fly.” She paused. “Is that your idea of friendship?”
Benji shook his head.
After breakfast, Aunt Stella sat quietly sipping her coffee. She wrapped her fingers around the warm cup of coffee. “I’ve decided since you stole the ice-cream bars, you ought to go back to the store on your own and tell Mr. Winslow what you did.”
Benji stared at the table in silence.
“Well?” he heard her ask.
Benji looked at Aunt Stella and asked, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why won’t you come to the store with me?”
“Why should I?” She sipped her coffee. “You’re the thief. The liar.” Her words ripped Benji’s soul. “You knew what you did was wrong, didn’t you?”
Benji nodded shamefacedly.
* * *
Benji’s eyes focused on Mr. Winslow, who was chatting with customers at the cash register. Mr. Winslow was a pudgy, piebald man with a pencil-sized mole in the center of his forehead. An outline of an old laceration, an L-shaped scar, marred his left cheek. As the last customer left the store, Benji felt Aunt Stella’s hand against his back, shoving him up to the counter.
When Mr. Winslow saw tears streaming down Benji’s cheeks, he appeared startled and asked, “What’s this all about?”
Benji gulped, looked up into Mr. Winslow’s face, and bawled. Benji felt Aunt Stella’s presence as her voice rang out in Benji’s ears: “You’re the thief. The liar.”
“Yesterday,” Benji said as he stared at the counter, “I took three chocolate ice-cream bars from your store without paying for them.” He gulped, looked at Mr. Winslow, and said, “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Winslow’s jaw dropped. “Benji, why did you steal?”
“Eddy told me if I wanted to be his friend...” Benji’s voice cracked. “I don’t have the money to pay for the ice-cream bars. If you want to call the police—”
“Is that what you want me to do?” Mr. Winslow asked. He was leaning up against the far counter, his arms crossed over his chest.
Benji shook his head and said, “I don’t have the money to pay for the ice-cream bars.”
“Well,” Mr. Winslow asked, “if you were in my shoes, what would you say?”
Benji stuttered, stammered, and shuffled his feet as he stared at the floor. He looked at Mr. Winslow and said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“How come your friend isn’t with you?”
“He...” Benji stared at the counter and then looked at Mr. Winslow and said, “He’s not my friend anymore.”
Mr. Winslow looked around the store. “You know,” he said, “I don’t have a staff to help me dust counters, rearrange canned goods, sweep and mop the floor.” He paused and looked at Benji. “I want you to begin over there,” he said, pointing to the back door, “by removing all the garbage out back. Then you can dust shelving. After that, I’ll have you sweep and mop the floors.” He paused. “When you’re done I’ll inspect your work.” He looked at Benji and asked, “Is that fair?”
Benji nodded.
Hours later, Benji was on his knees at the far corner of the store dusting when he saw a pair of tennis shoes next to him. He glanced up to see Eddy staring at him.
Eddy glanced over his shoulder toward Mr. Winslow and then looked down at Benji and said, “Woman’s work?” He laughed aloud.
Benji jumped to his feet. “I’d rather do woman’s work than steal. At least I can look at myself in the mirror.”
“Let’s go,” Eddy said.
“Go where?” Benji asked to his back.
Eddy stopped. He turned, glared at Benji, and asked, “What’re you trying to prove?”
“Part of being a man is being honest,” Benji said.
“Yeah,” Eddy mocked. “I got your man,” he said, grabbing his crotch.
“You’re sick.”
“You’re a momma’s boy.”
“At least I’m not a wimp like you are,” Benji said to Eddy’s face.
Eddy clenched his fist and came toward Benji.
Benji grabbed a broom by the handle. “Come on,” Benji said.
“Faggot!” Eddy yelled.
At that moment, Benji saw Aunt Stella coming down the aisle, followed by Mr. Winslow. When Eddy started to walk away, Aunt Stella grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Eddy yanked free of her grip.
“Keep your hands off me, bitch,” he said.
Aunt Stella looked at Benji while pointing at Eddy and asked, “This is your idea of a man?”
Benji shook his head, looked at Eddy, and said, “I don’t want you around me anymore.”
“Faggot,” Eddy said.
“I’d rather have a faggot in the family than a thief and a liar,” Aunt Stella said to Eddy. He stormed out of the store, followed by Mr. Winslow.
As Eddy left the store, Benji heard Mr. Winslow say, “Don’t come in here anymore.”
For a moment, Benji stared at the floor, ashamed to look at Aunt Stella. He watched as she inspected the store with Mr. Winslow standing behind the counter. When she was finished inspecting his work, she came up to him and said, “You missed a few spots.” She took the dust rag from Benji’s hand. As she cleaned shelving, she said, “This was the first job I had.”
“Here?” Benji asked, looking around the store.
“I worked for Carl.” She blushed as she glanced at Mr. Winslow and said, “Carl and I both worked for his dad.”
“I’ll never forget those days,” Mr. Winslow said fondly. “Your aunt and I grew up together on this street. Best friends. I wanted to...” He blushed.
Aunt Stella smiled, looked at Benji, and said, “Carl proposed marriage after graduation.”
“What happened?” Benji asked.
“The war came along. I went into the Marine Corps.”
“Why the Marine Corps?”
Mr. Winslow laughed and said, “I’ve often wondered that myself.”
Aunt Stella continued to dust as she said, “The Marines appealed to me because of their virtue, pride, and honor.” She looked at Benji. “Virtues my father lived and taught me.”
“Why didn’t you stay?” Benji asked.
Aunt Stella glanced at him and said, “I wish I had.”
“Were you in the war?” Benji asked Mr. Winslow.
Mr. Winslow glanced at Aunt Stella. His eyes glazed over as he said to Benji, “I was in prison when your aunt went into the Marine Corps.”
Benji didn’t know what to say. He stared at Aunt Stella for the longest time before looking at Mr. Winslow. “Why?” The question rolled off his lips before he had a chance to think.
“When I was a young boy, I was a lot like Eddy. Always in trouble. Pet
ty theft was easy. Then I burglarized homes.” He paused. “One night I broke into a house where I thought the owner was gone. He was home, waiting. I had robbed two other houses on the same block that week.” Mr. Winslow rubbed the L-shaped scar and continued, “The owner was in better physical shape. We fought in the dark. When he cut my face with broken glass, I grabbed a bookend and hit the side of his head.”
Mr. Winslow paused. “I went to prison for murder and robbery.” He looked at Aunt Stella and said, “If it weren’t for her, I don’t know what I would have done after I got out of prison. She was the only friend I had. She stood beside me when my family and friends didn’t want me home.” He paused. “Your aunt taught me what friendship was all about.” He looked at Benji and said, “I was on the telephone with Aunt Stella when you stole the chocolate ice-cream bars. I knew what you and Eddy were doing.” He grinned. “I know how to case a store. If Eddy had been on his own, I would have called the police. But,” he said, looking at Aunt Stella, “I know how much your aunt loves you.” He pointed at Benji and said, “I knew Eddy would set you up and leave you holding the bag.” He paused. “Am I right?”
“I love you, Auntie,” Benji said.
She tossed the dust cloth on the shelf and hugged him. “I love you, too, Benji.” Then she looked at him and said, “You’re not Eddy’s puppet.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
Benji threw his arms around Aunt Stella. At that moment Benji realized how much he had hurt her.
Benji walked up to Mr. Winslow. For a moment, Benji stood silently as he glanced at Aunt Stella. Then he turned to Mr. Winslow and said, “Thank you for giving me a chance to prove myself. I’m not like Eddy.”
“If I thought you were, I would’ve never let you in my store.”
To Benji’s astonishment, Mr. Winslow paid him for his work. With his money, he bought two chocolate ice-cream bars, one for himself and one for Aunt Stella.
On the way home, they stopped by the small park and sat at a picnic table. On the ground, wedged between the legs of the picnic table, lay the two wrappers from the ice-cream bars Benji had stolen. He picked them up and tossed them into the small trash can next to the table.
Aunt Stella pitched her stick into the trash can, hugged Benji, and said, “An Eddy Bower you’re not. If you were,” she said, “I’d never have anything to do with you, either.”
“You knew all along,” Benji said as he licked at the chocolate of his ice-cream bar.
Aunt Stella glanced at him, smiled, cocked her head, and asked, “What’s that?”
“I’m not lower than a snake’s belly.” He tossed the stick of the ice-cream bar in the trash can.
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. My mother was a Toy Terrier.
I came to live with Gaxon after she rescued me from an awful place where I was caged with a crowd of other dogs.
When I arrived at Gaxon’s house I discovered, to my chagrin, I was not the only pet in her life. There was young Joseph, a two-legged animal like Gaxon and, I presumed, the runt of her litter; Mrs. Kitty, the tortoise-shell cat; and Agnes, the African Senegal parrot.
Mrs. Kitty and I finally became friends after several skirmishes. She’d hiss, I’d bark, and then we’d both shut up and go our separate ways.
Agnes was in her cage suspended in midair. I could never understand what kept that cage from crashing to the floor, but it never did.
Mrs. Kitty spent most of her time in Joseph’s room, which was in a loft above the room with all the books, the Chesterfield, and Agnes.
I only visited Joseph’s room once after I moved into the house. I’m not as agile as Mrs. Kitty. The stairs made me dizzy when I came back down, the blood rushing to my head. After all, it wasn’t Joseph I belonged to; it was Gaxon.
One day Agnes was especially annoying and kept calling out, “Gaxon, Gaxon.” Mrs. Kitty had had enough of her squawking, so she began to climb to the top of the book case to shut the parrot up. I tried to climb the bookcase, too, but crashed to the floor with many books on top of me. I screamed out in pain. Mr. Kitty jumped off the bookcase and raced up the circular staircase to Joseph’s bedroom. Agnes continued to call out, “Gaxon, Gaxon.”
My legs wobbled as I stood up and shook myself and sneezed. It was at that moment that I noticed Gaxon staring down at me. Agnes screamed out, “Bad dog, bad dog!” I never forgave Mrs. Kitty for leaving me to take all the blame.
* * *
After I got to know Gaxon, I discovered she had odd habits, too. She always held these long, narrow, smoking brown sticks between her thin lips. She sat for hours on the Chesterfield and watched this box at the far end of the room. Humans were in the box, laughing, crying, and talking. She held this long, flat, black stick in her hand and would point it at the box. The humans would disappear and other humans would appear and then those would disappear. Oh my, it was frightening. Besides loving her, I came to appreciate her power.
But I worried sometimes about that black box. It was nothing to fool with.
One time she pointed the black stick at me, and I ran away into another room. I didn’t want to disappear. When I came back into the room, Gaxon was gone, which worried me. What if she’d lost control over the flat black stick? The black box was quiet, and the black stic
k was on the Chesterfield. I jumped on the couch and eyed it suspiciously. I sniffed it cautiously, touched it gently with my paw, and then withdrew to the corner of the sofa. Gaxon returned and sat beside me. She smiled, and I wagged my tail because we were still together in spite of the flat black stick.
One day Gaxon was standing in front of a window, or at least I thought it was a window. When I walked over to where she was standing, I saw two Gaxons! They were standing there smiling at each other. As I got a little closer, another Toy Terrier appeared just like me. I cocked my head; it cocked its head. I barked; it barked, but I didn’t hear it bark. It did everything I did but without any noise. Then I looked up into the other Gaxon's face. When my Gaxon looked down at me, the other Gaxon looked down at me too. It was then I realized why I liked Gaxon so much: she looked just like me without the fur.
I heard Mrs. Kitty coming down the staircase; I knew her walk by now. She sauntered over to where I was and sat next to me. I looked into the window and saw another Mrs. Kitty with the other Gaxon and me. When Mrs. Kitty put her paw on the window, the other Mrs. Kitty put her paw on the window. I growled and barked, and Mrs. Kitty hissed and ran away with me chasing her.
After we settled down, I turned to see if Gaxon was still in the window. Gaxon sat on the sofa watching the black box, holding the flat black stick in her hand, one of those smoking sticks between her thin lips.
The last time I saw Gaxon, she was sitting on the Chesterfield across from me. She had the black stick in her hand and was making people appear and disappear in the black box. Sometimes I minded the stick more than others, and tonight it made me nervous, so I left her there and crawled under her bed to sleep. I must have slept soundly, because when I woke up, Gaxon, Agnes, and Joseph were gone. The house was empty and cold; all the shutters were shut at the windows.
When Joseph came home, I ran outside to greet him. He picked me up and held me in his arms.
Pieces of Broken China Page 6