Grampa's Teeth

GRAMPA'S TEETH

         From the time I was four years old I hated him.

         He seemed to live on the faded, rose-patterned sofa. His sparse white hair was always frizzed with electricity, and his eyes, magnified by thick lenses, seemed as large as golf balls. His left eye was a watery blue; his right eye a milky clot of cataract-clouded iris. His nose was bulbous, pitted, and shiny with an oily sheen.

         I saw him once, when he didn't know I was watching, press the pad of his thumb beneath his nose and push upward. Thread-like snakes of yellowish pus oozed from his cratered snout, covering his nose as if with a blanket of dirty snow. He wiped one side of his nose with a gnarled forefinger, gathering up the eruption of blackheads and pimples into a single wad the size of a pea, then lifted his finger toward his shriveled mouth.

         I turned my head and felt my stomach lurch. The Oreo cookies and milk I had for lunch churned to come back up. He made my blood chill.

         But it was his teeth I hated most. Double rows of dingy tombstones laid side-by-side in dull pink gums. When not in use they rested in a water-filled Mason jar. Without them, his pallid, whiskered cheeks were sunken, drawn inward; his thick lips turned down at the corners, giving him the look of an imbecile. "Fech me muh teaf, boy," he would tell me in his toothless mumbling.

         Oh, how my heart raced when I picked up the glass containing those teeth. How did he take them out? Some evil magic I convinced myself. My teeth weren't removable. Or were they? Could they just drop out when I least expected? It worried me. A lot.

         Carrying the jar in both small hands, I never took my eyes off the contents until he took the jar from me. Then I would back away from him -- away from the sour, infrequently bathed body -- away from the aura of cheap cigars that hung around him even when he was not smoking.

         I watched in rapt fascination as he stuck his bony fingers in the jar, fished out his teeth, then shoved them inside his slack mouth. Once he had them in, he would bare them, his lips pulled back. He would work his jaws a couple of times, causing his teeth to come together in a wolfish "clack". "Tha's better. Now I can chew," he said, peering at me through his bifocals. Those fish-eyes seemed to look through me. "Mind you be careful carryin' them teeth, boy. They might bite 'ya!" he barked, leaning forward suddenly, snapping at the air like a rabid animal.

         Scrambling backward, I fell. Pain shot up my spine as my tailbone cracked against the hardwood floor. I burst into tears. He chuckled at my plight. And, even though he was my Grampa, I hated him.

         Fortunately, I spent little time with Grampa and Granny -- usually not more than a few hours at a time while my parents went out to dinner or a movie.

         My mother always seemed ill at ease around them, too, though they were her parents. Especially Grampa. Once I overheard him say something to my mom about "gumming" her like he used to. Mom pulled away from his embrace. Her eyes conveyed something. Fear -- disgust -- or just embarrassment I could not say for sure, but I knew she was upset. Grampa stuck out his tongue and beckoned to her with the tip of it. Saliva spilled down his chin.

         Years later, when I was twelve, the most horrible thing happened: Granny died. Not that her dying was such a big deal -- but Grampa coming to live with us was intolerable. I had to give up my room and move in with my seven-year-old sister, Rebecca. I don't think she minded. She was probably happy for the protection my presence afforded. See, Rebecca was none too fond of Grampa either.

         The years had only served to ripen the old man. His smell was even worse now that he sometimes lost control of his bladder. The stench was sickening. And he still had those detestable teeth. Stained brown by food and tobacco, they occupied a water glass on the table next to his bed.

         One evening as I walked by his open door, he called to me, "Bobby . . . han' me muh teaf an' I'll gib ya a quadah."

         "You'll give me, what?" I sneered, leaning against his door frame, my arms folded across my chest.

         "A quadah. A quadah," he mumbled, making no sense at all.

         "I don't understand Swahili, Pop. Spit it out, or shut up."

         His eyes narrowed. Without his glasses his eyes were beady little things. "A quadah. Twenny-fibe cens," he said, obviously exasperated with me.

         Too bad.

         "What do you think I am . . . a kid you can bribe with a lousy quarter? It's worth more than that just to have to be in the same room with you." I walked over and picked up the glass containing his teeth, surprised to feel that old fear fill me even now. "Make it a buck and I'll give 'em to you."

         He nodded. "Teaf fust."

         "Yeah, yeah, here's your teaf," I mocked, handing him the glass.

         He probed with his fingers, hooked his teeth and dragged them up the side of the glass, leaving a snail-like trail of slime. He lifted them out and shook them, slinging droplets of foul liquid in my face. "You crazy old . . ." I roared, slapping the glass from his palsied hand.

         The glass smashed against the wall above his head, showering him with water and jagged shards of glass. He quickly shoved his teeth in his gaping maw and snapped at me as he had when I was small. It was still frightening.

         I put my hand out, palm up, a safe distance from his mouth. "Give me my dollar, old man."

         "Ought to give you a butt-kicking, you smart-mouthed little . . ."

         "Unh-unh. Be nice. You ever want me to fetch your ivories again, you best pay up," I threatened.

         "In the drawer. Hand me the blue box," he said, nodding at the nightstand beside the bed.

         I opened the drawer and tugged out a heavy, metal box with a combination lock on the front. I dropped it none too gently onto his protruding gut. He glared at me. Turning his shoulder to make certain I could not see, he dialed the three number combination and opened the box. He lifted the lid an inch, reached in with thumb and forefinger and whipped out a crisp dollar bill. He flipped it at me. When I reached to snatch it from the air he slammed the box shut and locked it by swiftly rolling the tumblers. "Get out," he hissed.

         "Make me."

         With no warning, he spat. His upper teeth flew from his mouth in a spray of spittle. They struck me in the chest, bounced off, and plopped on the bed beside him. I was frozen in place. My mind could conceive of no greater horror than touching, or being touched by, Grampa's teeth. "Out!" he screamed, breaking my stupor.

         I retreated hastily, covered with gooseflesh, heart thudding in my chest. Nausea pushed the strawberry shortcake from supper, hot and acidic, back up my throat.

         Three days later, I caught Grampa touching Rebecca.

         They were in the room I shared with my sister, sitting close together on her bed. Her red blouse was open, exposing her bony chest. Grampa was touching her there, an evil leer painted on his pale lips.

         When he saw me, he stood and, without a word, walked past me. Using his tongue, he pushed his lower teeth an inch and a half out of his mouth, reminding me of that creature in "Alien." I felt the devil's own force radiate from him as he stepped by me. Lord help me, the man cast no reflection in the mirror on the bedroom wall! I saw only my own gangly image standing beside a stricken Rebecca, who looked at me in the strangest way.

         Rebecca was silent, eyes wide and glazed. Her lips trembled and a thin line of saliva coursed from the corner of her mouth. She said nothing to our parents about the incident. Nor did I. Best not to rock the boat. Besides, I had other plans for dear old Grampa. Enough was enough.

         The following day, while my dad was at work and Mom was with Rebecca at ballet lessons, I stripped naked and went to Grampa's room. The Louisville Slugger dad gave me for my last birthday was heavy, but comfortable, in my hand.

         Grampa was sleeping. Stealthily, I opened the drawer of the night table and removed the lock box. No telling how much money he had squirreled away in there, I thought. I set the box on the floor near the door and walked around the bed so I was behind him.

         I drew the bat back over my shoulder.

         Remembering what my dad always said about swinging level, I brought that solid club of polished ash around in a full swing, snapping my wrists to get more power into the blow.

         Grampa's thin old skull cracked like a papershell pecan.

         The second swing burst his head open and flung what looked like hunks of paper-mache and parts and pieces of pomegranate in an explosion of red and gray.

         Wow!

         Leaning over his body I could see his ugly eyes. The pale one was open, staring at nothing. Dark blood dripped from the sheets and spattered in a growing pool on the floor.

         Phase one complete. Now for phase two -- the cover-up.

         Taking Grampa's dented, tarnished Zippo from the night table, I flipped up the lid and rolled the wheel with my thumb. Blue flame appeared, accompanied by the pleasant smell of lighter fluid. The nylon curtains at the window flared instantly when I touched the flame to the bottom hem. The material crackled and spat, dropping bits of fire sizzling to the carpet.

         This wouldn't take long at all, I thought, picking up my bat. Rounding the bed, I stepped close to the corpse. "So long, Grampa," I whispered, smiling. "No more making Mom nervous and afraid with your talk about 'gumming' her."

         Oh. I remembered then that Mom told me the only thing that scared her was she realized her father was getting senile. Sometimes he got her confused with Granny. But he had never harmed anyone.

         "Well, you won't be messing with my sister, anymore," I snorted indignantly.

         Or, now that I thought about it, that had been my reflection I saw in the bedroom mirror, Rebecca behind me crying and disbelieving that her own brother would . . .

         "Never mind that. You've been a demon ever since I was little," I cursed him.

         But the ruined man before me, who Mom said had put away enough money to send Rebecca and me to college, the man who was bedridden and unable to move from his bed since his stroke last year, was he nothing more, or less, than my Grampa?

         I stepped away, confused.

         My bare left heel slipped in the film of blood and bits of brain matter on the floor and I fell, arms windmilling for balance.

         My hand snagged the front of the old man's pajama shirt, breaking my fall but also jerking his body to the very edge of the bed.

         As I pulled myself up off my back I looked up. Grampa's dead, flaccid mouth was drooping wide open. His teeth were slowly slipping from between his lips with a vague sucking sound. His uppers fell on my naked chest; his lowers landed near my groin.

         I let my body ease back down to the floor. By straining my neck I could peer down the length of my body. The uppers were facing me. Those horrible, filthy, kid-scaring teeth were touching me!

         I could not move. Would not touch them, knowing they would be snot-slick and hideous. And remembering that they might bite if I wasn't careful. Wasn't that what Grampa said?

         As I lay rigid and frozen in fear, the fire ate its way up the wall and singed a path across the carpet. Noxious fumes filled the air and I could feel the heat now, radiating from the blazing flooring beneath the carpet.

         But I could not move. Would not move. No, sir. Those teeth, Grampa's teeth, were really dangerous. I remained motionless --hoping the teeth wouldn't move -- wouldn't creep closer to my vulnerable neck. Or my mouth!

         God, no -- not my mouth! They could not fit in there.

         Could they?

         Inhaling sharply, I filled my lungs with poison air. And the teeth on my chest seemed to inch forward. I screamed. Then fear and smoke inhalation closed in and took me away to a safer place.

         Darkness.

         Mom came home in time to drag me from the fire, but I was kind'a charred in a few places.

         This hospital they have me in is okay. The doctors are fixing my body, and the nurses are nice. My parents visit me every weekend. But not Rebecca. I guess she's still sore about what I . . . I mean, about what Grampa, did to her, you know.

         The fire burned part of my face and jaw, and I got an infection that caused my teeth to fall out. It's been a bummer not being able to eat anything but soft stuff these past few months, but Doctor Phillips, the dentist, says he can help me.

         I have an appointment for tomorrow.

         He is going to fit me for something called dentures.

         I'm sure looking forward to that.

The End