Enamel
FEATURE | ISSUE THIRTEEN | SPOOKY
Written by Emily Smith (she/her) | @emlillys | Contributing Writer
The tooth feels heavy in my hand. It is no bigger than my fingernail, but it feels weighty, like a sack of rice. It is heavy because it is full of fortune, apparently. I don’t believe the back of my mouth is a particularly fortunate place, but Grandma does.
This one came from the back of my mouth. My tongue can’t quite reach the gap it has left. When I clench my fingers around it, it bites into my skin and leaves a little imprint in my palm. Grandma urges me to hurry, so I arc my arm back and throw it out the second-storey window. My tooth skitters across the corrugated iron roof of the kitchen, sliding off the slope and down into the dry grass. A few hens flutter excitedly at the noise, seeking a second dinner.
This was my last childhood tooth. Grandma has been waiting eagerly for this. She pried my mouth open, grabbed the wobbling tooth, edged it free by dinner, and yanked it out. Even now she strains her ears to hear the clink of the tooth hitting the iron. Teeth sound like ceramic when dropped. She pats me on the back, smiling wide, and I can see through the gaps into the dark recess of her mouth.
*
Only a week after my last tooth was thrown, we find half the chickens lying dead around the yard. Their bellies are split open, separated like torn fabric, exposing their little shiny organs to the harsh sun. Flies have already begun to pick, and I have to shoo them away hurriedly. These are not good for eggs anymore, but maybe we can salvage some for meat. When I hold one up for Grandma, she notices the telltale imprints of canine teeth embroidered across the wounds.
“Dog,” she mutters.
Even though we lock up the chickens tight, the dog still finds a way to get in. We find more and more little chickens strewn over the yard, their bodies too mangled and rotten to even salvage a wing. We hide the chicks in jars, but they are still too young for eggs or meat, and the flock – one that has persisted since long before I was born – is quickly depleting.
*
On the third day, Grandma instructs me to get the gun. I rush inside and up the wooden stairs, but I miss one; then my foot plunges out from beneath me, sending me crashing to the floor. My jaw hits the wood hard, the impact reverberating up into my skull, and it makes my whole body shake. Ceramic clinks gracefully across the floor.
I can run my tongue over this one. It is from one of my front teeth, and the edges are sharp and jagged. It does not bleed like my last.
The shard has landed right by the gun’s holster. I pick it up with one hand, the gun with the other, and find Grandma outside. She grabs the little shard of tooth first, clenching it so hard in her gnarled fist that it cuts through the toughened skin of her palm. She thunders into the house and up the stairs. I see her face stick out the window, then the high arc of my front tooth sailing through the air.
*
The next day, as we are reinforcing our fence, she spots a stray dog hanging around the outskirts of our property. It is a skinny, pathetic thing, more bone than fur. What does remain of its fur is white, and we can still see the crusty dried blood clinging to its maw.
Without hesitation, Grandma takes the gun and shoots it. She retrieves the body herself, and I miss her small, stooped figure as it disappears into the brush. When she returns an hour later, she shoves the dead dog into my arms. “Take it behind the house.”
Despite gorging itself on our flock, the dog is light. I carry it over my shoulder, and its mouth sags open. Warm, thick blood gushes down my back.
Far behind me, the clink clink clink of ceramic chips echoes around the house.
While the dog had only got into our chickens, the rain comes for our house. Soon it batters the walls and roof, threatening to rip the entire building in two. Our little wooden house was built for heat, so it sways unsteadily on its foundation, making Grandma and me huddle together in the centre of the room, holding each other for warmth. It does not ease up as we hope, so on the second day, Grandma ventures out into the yard all the way to the san phra phum. She carries a plate of smoked fish, rice, and mangoes. It is specially prepared – we are still eating the dead chicken.
I watch as she leaves it, bows her head and murmurs under her breath.
The rain persists. It seems to have worsened, actually. We try to take what remains of our chickens to the market, but the rain has turned the streets to sludge, and it’s impossible to move. On the third night of rain, we have little money and little food.
*
When I wake up on the fourth day, something feels strange in my mouth. I run my tongue over all my teeth. Around my chipped front tooth is a string. I follow this string as it leads out of my mouth, down my body and all the way across the room to the wide-open door, where it is tied to the handle.
Grandma smiles at me, and the gaps in her teeth seem darker than usual.
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