Loose Teeth

         “Son, if you don’t need to kill somebody, then don’t.  Save ‘em up.  You’ll need ‘em later, and you’ll wish to the Lord you still had ‘em.”  Father had said this to me through a mouth bereft of teeth, save for a few.  He had lost a couple of teeth from rot, had them root canaled and then finally removed when they became dead and crusty and brittle.  The other teeth he had lost slowly over the course of his life.  One evening the tooth would be grinding up supper, healthy and robust.  The next day it would just be gone.  No trace of the tooth, just bloodied gums.  It happened so casually that up until then I had never noticed.  That’s when he told me our family secret.

         He told me that our ancestors had been cursed long, long ago.  The story goes that my Father’s great, great, great grandfather Edwin shot a peasant woman’s terrier because it had been killing his chickens. The woman had buried her dog in her garden, and then placed a curse upon him and all his descendants.  Edwin was bestowed with the ability to kill by thinking of someone while pulling a single tooth from his mouth.  A tooth for a life.  Edwin had scoffed at the woman, thinking he would never, ever choose to murder somebody.  It wasn’t in his nature, he had told her. 

         Within the year, however, Edwin’s wife began having a clandestine affair with his brother, Neil.  Edwin learned of this and confronted Neil.  They had an argument which quickly escalated.  Edwin swung first, but Neil swung more accurately, ending the fight with a punch square on the jaw.  That night, tucked in beside his sleeping wife, Edwin felt one of his molars begin to ache.  It had been loosened by Neil’s fist, and Edwin was unable to sleep.  He got up, tied one end of a piece of string to the tooth, tied the other end of the string to the bedroom door knob, and slammed the door shut.  He went to bed and slept soundly with the taste of blood on his tongue and a mushy socket where his tooth had once been.  Edwin was not surprised to hear the next day that his brother had died in his sleep.

         Now I watch my father eating his dinner, spooning soup delicately into his mouth..  Some of it dribbles down his chin.  I see him eyeing my steak.  He knows he can’t have it.  Slowly he is dying.  Starving.  I can see it now, as he pushes his bowl away, still half full.  The trouble is, he has always been an angry man.  He's always been quick to hold a grudge.  Now I know that he was never able to stop himself.  He must have thought he might grow another set of teeth, that they were expendable.

         I see the look on his face.  He is almost begging me.  I nod.  “Okay Father.  Good night.”  I stand up and kiss his sunken face.  I go to the kitchen drawer, remove a spool of butcher’s twine, then cut myself a decent length.  I tie one end of the twine to my front tooth, and it's a good thing I am slightly gap-toothed.  The other end of the twine I tie to the kitchen door knob.  I picture Father as I imagined him in his youth: strong, kind, innocent. 

         I take one final look at him. He is a wasted shell, sitting there staring at the remains of my steak dinner. He doesn't even notice me or what I am doing.  Bracing myself for the pain, I slam the door.