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Julia Ridley Smith Tooth |
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Tooth. Yellow as an old dog and twice as ugly. Pitted and
scarred and smooth, too. With a jagged head and a fang of a root—one end like
a human and one like a dog and hard to believe it could be either considering
where Millie Minton found it. In her mouth, but not hers. Tooth in her mouth
where teeth belong, but not hers. Her mouth and not her tooth. Now that was
strange. She wondered often if its owner—somewhere with a pit in
his gum—she wondered if he smoked—it had to be a man’s tooth—big as it
was—wondered if he smoked—yellow as it was and ugly, too. Yellow as the creamed corn she found it in—even yellower in an old, bad, ugly way—yellow-stale and rancid.
Really it seems like it would have stuck out to her eye, that she’d have seen
it before she put it smack in her mouth. Just sitting on her corn—bigger than
corn and harder, too. Crunched right down on it like it was her
own tooth. A strange feeling biting tooth not your own. Spit it in her napkin, took a sip of tea to wash that
peculiar crunch out of her mouth. But she could still hear that grinding in
her head—that grit resistance—hard tooth in among the soft corn, just
waiting. Yellow as an old dog and twice as ugly. Now that’s like
something Old Mister would say—just like. Doesn’t he always say to her—you’re
fat as an old sow and twice as ugly—and just laughs. Thinks everything is more funny if you say twice as ugly. That just about kills
him laughing. He really enjoys that. Old Mister. Not her daddy, but her daddy’s daddy. Not even
her mama’s daddy, but Millie’s daddy’s daddy. What were they keeping that old
man for? Nobody noticed her with that tooth—spitting in her napkin
and saving it. Her mama didn’t notice—too busy eating and crying, eating and
crying. Old Mister didn’t notice—too busy eating and cussing, cussing and
eating. And now she’s had that tooth a while—a long while—eight, nine years
or more—and it sits in her dresser drawer, underneath her underwear—under,
under, like a treasure. One thing for sure, she never would tell her mother or Old
Mister either. He had his own teeth—a whole set to go in and out. Stayed in a
glass of water when he didn’t want them. Once she wrote to the company and asked them what they
thought. How does a tooth get into a can of creamed corn and what kind of
tooth did they think it was and what did they plan
to do about it, thank you. She waited and waited. Finally she did get a
letter with a row of crops printed at the top—a sun setting on them—and they
said they didn’t know and they sure were sorry and how about a case of
vegetables. How about a lifetime supply of creamed corn and field peas and
some french-cut green beans, too, if she wanted,
because here at SunDale we value each and every one
of our customers. Could somebody possibly lose a tooth and not notice? Could
you really bend over the line at the SunDale
vegetable processing plant and a huge old ugly tooth just fall out of your
mouth? Wouldn’t you have to spit it in there deliberately? Wouldn’t you just
have to spit? Just have to? Somebody did it for a joke. It was a good joke, too—better
than anything Old Mister said twice as ugly, better than her daddy running
off and not coming back—her mama always said he thought that was a good joke
but they never thought it was so funny. But to throw a tooth—spit a tooth—in
a vat of creamed corn and imagine it sealed up and shipped out. Then one day
some poor fool opens the can, pours the corn in a pot—heat, serve, and just
eating along until crack—Tooth! In your mouth, but not your tooth! Now that’s
a funny joke. That’s something you
could laugh on for a long time. Millie liked to think about one day she would meet the
person who had lost that tooth. One day she’d be talking to a stranger and
she’d notice he was missing one. She’d just happen to have it with her and
she’d pull it out and say look here. Look what I’ve got. Haven’t you been
wondering where this got to? The one date she’d had since she turned thirty—that one
man—he’d had some pretty teeth—white as breath mints and twice as sweet. But
who ever had a chance at love with Old Mister reclining in his chair,
watching John Wayne at high volume and barking orders? What chance for love
with her mother crying and waiting, waiting and crying? What chance on the
itchy horsehair sofa and Old Mister barking and Mama crying and John Wayne
always in trouble? It put her mind to violence. Maybe that tooth was part of
a victim—dismembered and dismantled so good that nobody could ever put it
together. Some clever murderer walked scot free and
all over the land—in butterbeans—in black-eye peas—in stewed tomatoes—a
fingernail, an eyelid, a smidge of tendon. Somewhere those twenty-seven
others—eye teeth, incisors, molars. Thirty-one, counting wisdom. What chance for love with Old Mister barking? Sometimes when Millie got to feeling low she’d rummage
among her cotton briefs, feeling for that slick odd little thing—and then her
hand would light on it and she’d think what in the world? How did I ever find
this and how did it find me and who lost it and why did it end up in my
corn—on my dinner plate and in my mouth—now in my underwear drawer? Maybe I
am chosen for something. Old Mister always wanting a ride someplace and Millie
sweating to death in the hot car, waiting and sweating, sweating and waiting,
while he put his teeth in. Vanity said the preacher. Like he had somebody to
look good for. And what chance for Millie? Old Mister was just a little bitty old dried up thing. Not
big as a minute—only five-six now with that hump in his back. One hundred
pounds and almost as old. Could eat his weight in a week. Wouldn’t anybody
miss him if he wasn’t there. She’d thought on it a hundred times and it made her laugh
a little in her mind, thinking it but no good way to do it. Daddy's daddy,
not her daddy. One gone, and one to go. Always
wanting a ride. When it came to her it was a surprise, a gift, and before she
thought about it, he was in there, hollering, but muffled, like in a well. Only took half a minute to pick him up, set him in the
trunk and slam the door. Thirty seconds from ground to trunk. So surprised he
barely had time to struggle. Weak little old man struggle—dry bones shifting in a sack. Drove the car into the garage and shut the door. Two doors
between them. Went in the house. Three doors. In her room. Four doors now. Her
mama out shopping at the store. Hottest day of the summer. Hundred degrees in the shade. And
him, a hundred pounds, if that. At supper, her mama says where’s Old
Mister and Millie shrugs and says—Beats me. Mama on the phone calling, and
Millie says to her—what do you care? He isn’t even your daddy. Daddy’s daddy.
Not yours, not mine. Dreams all her teeth fall out and she’s
got nothing but bloody mush-mouth. Dreams so many teeth in her mouth and none
of them hers. Crunching on teeth, spitting them out—rapid-fire bones shooting.
Teeth, but not her teeth. Her mouth, but not her teeth. Skin dry as old paper, flaky like fish and smells twice as
bad. Rattle-cough, meanness, mucus, cussing and eating, eating and cussing. Don’t
miss him now and won’t miss him later. Daddy’s daddy, not her daddy. Tooth. Dull dagger-root. Sitting in the underwear drawer,
under like treasure. Smoked yellow. Flesh-rot ringed. Hard as a rock and
twice as old. Old as the hills and twice as ugly. |
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Arts & Letters is supported by |
Arts & Letters Journal of Contemporary Culture Campus Box 89 Georgia College & State University Milledgeville, GA
31061 Phone: (478) 445-1289 E-mail: al@gcsu.edu
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GC&SU is a member of |
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