George’s Teeth

My husband is the best blacksmith in town, and how I wish I could keep him at the anvil and bellows and away from his brother, Seamus. Every time that roustabout arrives, he’s got a scheme, and something always goes amiss. Last time Seamus was between ships, it was sheep. Lord, but didn’t I have no less than three little lambs born right in my kitchen and then, of course, my cakes went flat. It took months to get those greasy, bleating mutton lockers sold. And now, the letter has arrived saying Seamus is on the way, and George can’t help but pace the docks and wait for the first sight of his brother’s ship. 

Then there’s the detritus that boils along in Seamus’s wake! Fancy teapots too good for the likes of us in this house, bolts of fabric that would mark me a hussy if I worked up a dress from them and, God save us, the animal teeth! 

Like his namesake, President Washington, my George has terrible teeth, what few he has. Heaven knows how those solitary fellows stink in his yellowed gums. I ply him with mint teas and special horehound sweets before we make love. 

And, like his namesake, George tries any manner of thing to make himself a set of working teeth. The wooden ones made splinters when he ate too vigorously, and I wouldn’t wish that outhouse trouble on my worst enemy. George hollered and begged for forgiveness. He spent the rest of the day bare-bottomed in Timothy’s Creek. 

Horse teeth and cow teeth have served him better, though the breath they make has a wind of the barnyard about them. I could live with it, though, so easily. What I can hardly bear are these new teeth Seamus has begun gifting his brother. 

“These,” he says, “come from the farthest jungles. I have it on the best authority. Trust me.” And then he hands my husband greasy packets of ivory. Kangaroo teeth. Zebra teeth. Rhinoceros horn and elephant tusks. 

Once the men have had their beers at the dockside pubs and slept it off and filled their bellies with my eggs and fresh bread, I ask Seamus to draw me pictures of these strange animals. “What even is a kangaroo?” I ask him. 

He draws a rat standing upright with regular rat arms and hands but big horse’s legs in the back and those horse’s legs tipped with rat toes. I gag. I think of George’s mouth filled with the teeth of that thing and then those teeth shining down at me as I try to lie peacefully with my bedclothes rucked up around my hips. I gag again, and Seamus just laughs and walks away. 

Despite a rowdy night drinking and wandering the riverside, the brothers are up early the next morning working diligently in George’s shop. I peer in the window, and they’re forehead to forehead doing some intricate fitting together. I leave them be and go enjoy my quiet morning. 

The basket of dirty laundry sits neglected beside the fire even though the smells of our bodies begin to rise with the heat. Instead, I measure my sugar, dig out my cocoa from its hiding place, and start to make the chocolate puffs recipe I learned from my mother. There’s not a cloud in this perfect blue sky, so I know the candy will set up right. 

I’m just finishing dolloping the last puff onto my baking sheet when George comes bouncing through the door. A strong wind blows in with him, and I fear my puffs will deflate. Thank the heavens they don’t. I kick out and quickly shut the door that George couldn’t bother to latch right. 

“My sweet blade of grass in a withered field,” George sings as he grabs me around the waist. “Gentle breeze against my ear and warm water against my cock. Let’s do some basket-making.” 

I sigh and smile. He is a romantic fellow for all his faults. Since the puffs take more than an hour to bake, I let him lead me to our bedroom where I expect he’ll start to help me out of this cumbersome dress. Instead, George undresses himself and crouches down on his haunches. Perhaps he wants to watch me disrobe. I do remember his fondness for up-dress peeps when we were courting. 

As I slip out of my stays, petticoat, and chemise, George begins to bounce up and down on his haunches. I’m surprised at the strength of his thighs to keep him going so vigorously. Once I’m naked as God’s gift, George bounces over to me and paws at my thighs and quim. I’m not sure what to do. 

“George, honey,” I say. “What’s the meaning of this? What do you mean for me to do?” 

But he doesn’t answer, just keeps bobbing and pawing until I get sick of it, push him over onto his back, and board that rowboat. The chirps and guttural noises he makes are new, but I plan out other candy recipes and am able to ignore his animal exclamations until we are completed and silent. 

When Seamus finds us asleep on the floor, I fear I may die of embarrassment and the taint of sin that surely will follow me since my brother-in-law has now seen my every inch of nakedness. He only chuckles, shuts the door again, and calls out, “I see the kangaroo teeth were a success. Wake up and let’s go show them around. We might drum up some business.” 

George jumps up (but not in the way he had for me earlier), dresses, and goes to tag along after his brother. Of course, I’ve let the chocolate puffs bake too long, or I had the oven stoked too hot. My treats are but a pile of singed dust now. I push my finger into one of the charred and brittle mounds and suck at the burned chocolatey sweetness. It isn’t good, but I do it again and again, just trying to get some value out of my work and the waste of my precious cocoa. 

When George and Seamus come back for supper, I stare at how prominent George’s new teeth are as he sucks down stew and gnaws at hoecakes. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it during our intercourse, but I suppose the bouncing drew all my attention. 

The following breakfast, George bites into a sausage, and a long white tooth sticks out of the bit that remains in his hand. Thank God, I think to myself. I don’t mind serving softer foods if I can have my amorous congress in bed like a good Christian woman. 

I take a basket of eggs to Elizabeth. I know her best laying hen got taken by a hawk last week, so maybe my gift will be a help. During my visit, she explains exactly how she makes sailor duff with sauce. I love steamed pudding, so I hope this will ease my disappointment over the chocolate puffs. Plus, this recipe will spare my cocoa stores; I have molasses in abundance. 

“Seamus has put me in good stead again,” George announces just as I finish mixing together the pudding. I’m about to put water in the steaming pot. When I finally turn around, great squares of ivory are gleaming from George’s mouth. He has half the number but twice the volume. 

“God save me,” I whisper. George gets onto all fours and begins nudging at my buttocks with his face and forehead. I suppose the pudding batter can sit a moment. 

He’s a rough one this time, and though I don’t mind having a face beneath my skirts, I do fear that all the butting with his forehead is going to bruise my fanny. I had better not be squirming on the church pew tomorrow because of these antics today. 

Of course, when we’re finished, I come out to the kitchen to find an old tom cat has climbed in the window and licked up almost all my pudding. What’s left is sure to be tainted with fur and worms. I toss it in the gulley and give Seamus my most meaningful frown when I see him sitting on our stone wall, easy as an alley cat himself. 

“They were from a rhinoceros,” Seamus informs me, though I didn’t ask. “Nice looking, don’t you think?” 

“They were big,” I say. “But I don’t know what a rhinoceros is.” 

“Like this.” Seamus draws a cow with a great nose that curves and points at the sky. “We had to carve the teeth down to fit him. I think these will be the magic charm.” 

I get butted, rutted, and nudged for about a week. Then George and Seamus have a rowdy night at the tavern near the river, and a longshoreman loosens George’s smile. George is so dejected that he sleeps in my rocking chair beside the fire for three nights, leaving me to warm our bed alone. I find myself hoping Seamus’s bag of teeth isn’t empty. 

I’m awakened early one morning by a pounding at my kitchen door. The man standing there in the cold dawn light is a rough character—short, patchy beard, a great puckered scar all the way across his forehead, and patched trousers only staying together by the grace of God. But most memorable are his shoulders and forearms—Lord in Heaven, they are the most pleasing kind of huge I’ve ever seen. I know at a glance this is the longshoreman who had roughed up my George. 

“What’s your business knocking up a Christian home at this hour of the morning,” I demand. “There’s none here late for work.” 

He stares at me a moment before he can speak. 

“I come to make amends,” he stammers out and thrusts a bag at me. “Give ’em to your man and say Aug don’t like to keep an enemy.” 

I don’t know what is in that bag, and it doesn’t matter. I know the gesture of a good soul when I see one. I take the bag, pat him on the bulging forearm, and give him my most benevolent smile. 

“I’ll do just that,” I say. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I thank you.” 

He looks down at his arm, and I notice that I still have my hand on it. Bless me, I’m forgetful at times. I take my hand away, and he retreats—big, wide-set steps all the way until he turns the corner and I can’t see him anymore. 

“Who was that?” George bellows from our bedroom doorway. His nightclothes and hair are all awry. 

“I believe it was your longshoreman. Called himself Aug.” 

George isn’t a small man, but Lord knows he has a gleam of fear in his eyes at that name. 

“He told me to say he doesn’t like to have an enemy, and he brought this.” I shove the bag in George’s hand and turn to the business of boiling water for some tea. There would be no more sleep for me this morning. 

“I’ll be darned,” George says under his breath, but well loud enough to reach my ears. 

“Yes, you will if you use that kind of language,” I exclaim. “Ruffian! Save that talk for the men that can bear it.” But then my curiosity does prick me. “Well, what is it?” 

“Teeth. I think.” George pours them into his palm, and the tinkling sound as they hit together is almost like music. We both peer at the little white jewels. They shine all the more because George’s palms are quite dirty. A blacksmith is never all clean, but I try to get him to wash better than that. Though I guess that longshoreman is even dirtier. 

I pick one up and it feels so different from the teeth Seamus always brings. His dental gifts, no matter the size, have a lightness to them; these are heavy for their size and so cold. They are more like stone than tooth. 

George closes his dirty palm around them and whispers, “Maybe this is it.” 

Without another glance at me, he rushes out to his shop, nightshirt flapping at his calves. 

*   *   * 

“Meat and bread, woman!” Seamus shouts as he bursts through the kitchen door a few hours later. “We’re deep in the work and half starved.” 

Seamus’s forehead is beaded with sweat, but I’m not as sympathetic as I might have been had his holler not caused me to spill my brown sugar on the floor. I guess my fig goodies will be yet another culinary failure. 

“Get out of my kitchen, lout,” I find the breath to respond. “I’ll bring you some food after I clean this mess you’ve caused. Be glad of whatever I can sling your way.” 

“Hmmpf,” Seamus replies and retreats. He knows there’s no great love lost between the two of us. 

I feel a little guilty over my harsh words to Seamus, and we don’t have much ready food in the house, so I put together a goodly stack of hoecakes and fry up a double man’s share of bacon. 

It’s just a few quick steps from my door to the door of the blacksmith shop, but by Jove, don’t I almost run headfirst into that longshoreman on my way to make my errand. 

“I beg your pardon,” he says and takes off his knit cap to me like I’m some lady. 

“You again,” I say. “That was my fault being in such a rush.” Since he tipped his cap, I decide to give a little curtsy. 

“That’s a lucky man who’ll be eating the contents of that basket,” he says. 

For a moment I think he’s being the boldest whoreson a sinner could ever imagine, but then I realize he’s smelling my hoecakes. I blush from my toes to the kerchief on my head. 

“That’s an undeserved flattery,” I say. “But help yourself. There’s plenty for all.” I lift the cloth from the cakes and bacon, and the longshoreman does help himself liberally. 

“You’ve a sweet heart, my lady,” he mumbles with a full mouth before taking those great steps away down the road. 

“Aye, you’ve brought us a meager portion, sure enough,” Seamus laments when he peels back the napkin covering what’s left of the bacon and hoecakes. I notice that he takes well more than half before pushing the basket toward George. 

George is sitting on a stool close to the forge, and the flames licking up behind him paint his nightclothes orange. He’s got a faraway look in his eyes as though he doesn’t know Seamus or I are there. He accepts the basket of food, takes a piece of bacon, and chews it slowly, like he’s thinking the biggest thoughts he’s ever had. 

I elbow Seamus in the side. “What’s wrong with him?” 

“I think he’s just well pleased with the new teeth. These will be the ones.” 

At that, George smiles. Beatifically. As if he’s blessing us by the sight of his teeth. 

What a sight. He’s mostly red gums and then those tiny white pearls shining out. The smallness and brightness of them make his face look gigantic. How have I not noticed how broad, meaty, and white that face is? I must admit I’m a bit disgusted. 

George closes his mouth and rummages in the basket. This time it is hoecake that he chews and chews and chews, the faraway look back in his eyes. 

I leave George and Seamus to it, whatever “it” is for them now that the teeth are finished. Back in my kitchen, I sigh and put away the remaining ingredients for the fig goodies. There’s still remnants of brown sugar in the corners of my kitchen, so I scrub again to avoid tempting varmints into the house. 

I put a stew on the hob to simmer, but suppertime comes and goes with no sign of the men. I’m sure they are out carousing and showing off the new dentures. 

I eat my bowl of supper and go to bed, a little chilled by myself, but also relieved not to see that great moon face heaving over me. 

The sun is dim but up by the time I hear our door creak open and George and Seamus come bumbling into the house. I hear someone clanging around in the stew pot, though it would be hours cold by now. 

I stretch my toes through the warmth I have generated beneath the quilts and listen to them. Seamus is babbling on and on, and I can tell by the noise that two men are in the house, but I don’t hear the rumble of George’s voice. Finally, I leave my warm nest to see what they are about. 

George is perched on a chair near the hearth, hands folded, the saintly look upon his face, while Seamus labors to get the fire lit. George is still in his nightshirt from two nights ago, and it is as dirty and smudged as I’ve ever seen that piece of cloth. 

“Help me, woman,” Seamus huffs when he realizes I am awake. 

I don’t respond but go over to George and hold his hands in mine. “My darling, are you ill?” 

“Oh, our time upon this earth is blessedly long and yet still so fleeting. I know my kind roamed mightily, roamed widely, ruled the lands, but even we had to fall. The shooting stars, the arcs of light that stunned our vision would become our doom. Ah, such is life. Long, long, life.” He squeezes my hands and looks deep into my eyes, but I can tell that he isn’t looking at me. He is looking through my eyes and deep past me. 

“What did you do to him?” I ask Seamus, who has finally gotten the fire going. 

“It’s those teeth,” he replies. “He’s been preaching at drunkards all night. We had to keep moving taverns because he couldn’t stop those gums flapping. No one could stand it for long.” 

I think about how those teeth had chimed against each other, and how small and cold they were in the hand. What creature’s are they? 

I swoop back to my bedchamber and grab the first scrap of clothing I can lay hands on. I’m not dressed as a decent God-fearing woman should be, and my hair is a right bird’s nest, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to find the longshoreman. 

“You take care of your brother, Seamus. Don’t leave him alone in this state.” 

“He’s your husband, slattern. You best not leave.” 

I give Seamus my strongest eye and shut the door to his bellowing. 

*   *   * 

Aug is easy to find. The crates he hoists from the dock go fairly flying towards the ship decks, and he’s a head or more taller than the other shabby men sweating alongside him. 

“My lady,” he says as he swings a crate up and away, knocking down the unfortunate fellow aboard ship who must receive the load. He swipes his cap off and smudges his forehead in the process. 

“Those teeth,” I demand. “What are they?” 

“Oh no. Have I done wrong?” He begins to wring his large, dirty hands. His forearms ripple at the nervous effort. 

“My George is a strange man now. He can’t quit talking about existence and shooting stars and other things a Christian man has no call to be considering. What are those teeth?” I am almost shouting now, but as loud as I get, Aug gets that much quieter. 

“They’re from a monster.” 

“A monster! What devilry is this?” No goods are being loaded now. The dock goes quiet to listen to me rave. 

Aug looks around at the situation and tries to take me aside. I pull away as he reaches for my arm. 

“My lady, please,” he whispers and beckons me away from the waterside. 

I sigh and follow him into the shadow of a warehouse. 

“I’m told the teeth were found in a great red mountain far, far west of here. Nestled in the skull of a great beast, a beast with triangles along its back and all tangled with other great big bones. They were supposed to bring me luck. I passed them along to make amends for my violence. Lord, I never manage to do anything but evil.” He hangs his head and shakes it back and forth. 

Despite my anger, I find myself patting him on the arm. “Now, now. You’re being a mite hard on yourself. Christian forgiveness must surely extend to one’s own self.” I pause and try to think if there’s something else I should say. I can smell Aug’s sweat and the odor of ship’s tar. It isn’t entirely unpleasant to my nose. “I’ll be getting on, then. I suppose you’ve told me all I can hope for about those teeth. George will be saddened, but he must let them go.” 

“My deepest apologies, ma’am. I’m sorry I ever darkened your threshold with them in hand.” 

As I walk away, I hear the other dock workers hailing Aug and then the smack and rattle of transporting goods begins again. 

I don’t make it home before I hear my George’s familiar voice ringing out on the town square. 

“Life is so much longer than we heretofore have realized,” George rails at his audience of half a dozen. “Life extends back to lizard folk like me and further onward to the bird folk who are to come. Right now, you naked frail things are too confident that you are the be-all and end-all. You are not. You are skinny and improperly furred. Keep a wary eye on the skies, that you too don’t succumb when the stars begin to fall.” 

Seamus tugs at the horrendously dirty hem of George’s nightshirt, but my George just bats his brother’s hand away and keeps preaching. I tune out the words, they pain me so. 

“Darling, come home to me. We’ve got to get you cleaned up.” The meager crowd parts for me, and I reach my arms to my husband. He looks at me with such pity and takes a breath to start up again, so I add hurriedly, “People won’t listen if you look in such a shape. Let’s make you presentable so they’ll really hear.” The look of pity disappears, and I can tell he’s considering. 

“My devoted brethren, don’t despair,” he announces. “I’ll return shortly and continue your education.” He steps down from the overturned bucket he had been perched upon and lets me lead him home. Seamus trails behind; I can tell from the sound of his shuffling steps. 

I let the men enter the house first, and then I bolt the door behind me. “George, you’ll have to give up those teeth. Seamus will help you make more, won’t you?” 

Seamus looks at me blankly for a moment. “Yes, we’ll make more,” he finally responds. “Of course.” 

“Those teeth came from a monster,” I say. “No God-fearing man can have such in his own God-made mouth.” Seamus shoots me a questioning look. I look back and nod yes. 

“You call wisdom a monster?” George shouts. “These teeth are a gift from the heavens. I see so much more clearly now. No more animal urges. Just deep, divine clarity. This seed”—he points to his britches, God save us—“is too ancient to spawn more life. It isn’t meant for this world. I’ll stop spilling it and work instead to spill truth on these bumble-headed simpletons.” 

“George!” I exclaim. 

“No, no, my good wife. I’ll not hear another word from you or any other. Leave me be to do my work.” 

Seamus sidles up to me. “He’ll get bored of it in a day or two,” he whispers. “Let him be for now.” 

“I’m going to visit my mother,” I declare and storm into the bedroom to gather a packet of spare clothes. I want to lay my head on my mother’s bosom, eat sweets, and not think of teeth or eternity for at least a week. 

*   *   * 

When I return home after a blissful stay at my parents’ farm, my bodices are a bit snug, but mother’s cakes and goodies were well worth the work of letting out my meager wardrobe. I hope with all my heart that this extra dough looks tasty to my George, but alas, I walk into an empty home. The door unlocked to all and sundry at that! I’d be angry if I wasn’t so worried. 

A badly spelled and ink-blotted note sits on the kitchen table. I’m sure Seamus had to ask someone to help him write it. 

“Ye ol biddy. Yor man has gone to be a speker in the townes. Save yorsel fore him no mor.” I flip the note over and see that it is written on the back of a broadside advertising rectum ointment. 

I say extra prayers to beg forgiveness for the curse words that follow the reading of that note. If I never set my eyes upon that ne’er-do-well Seamus again, I’ll be righteous in my joy over it. 

I lock up my house properly and go about to get the truth of my George. The minister had written the note, but he can give me no other information, only pitying looks that set my anger to boil. I find the same ignorance at the taverns and docks. I’m out at the heels of my stockings and running low on spirit when I pass by the windows of a chandler’s shop. 

“Madam, please pause a moment,” the shopkeeper calls to me from his doorway. 

I turn and look but am too tired to speak. 

“Are you the wife of that speaker? Him that talks about long, long times and shooting stars?” 

I brighten a bit. “I am. Have you seen him?” 

“Indeed! All the way in Richmond. His speeches are inspiring, though I can’t say I understand them completely.” 

“He’s in Richmond?” My heart drops. 

“Four days ago, he was. I wish I had thought to ask when I saw him, but does he have any pamphlets? I thought if I read his words, I’d understand more. Maybe I could even sell them in the store.” 

“Pamphlets? Oh lord, I don’t even know where my husband is, and I’m being asked for pamphlets!” 

The shopkeeper steps back closer to his door and looks at me aghast. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m just an admirer of your husband’s work.” He has his hand on the knob now. 

“No, no, I beg your pardon. You’ve been most helpful.” I can’t muster any more pleasantries, so I make my way back home. 

The chocolate puffs I make that evening are delicious. I take some to Elizabeth, partly to be a good neighbor and partly to spark a little envy, God forgive me. 

The house is so quiet without George and Seamus that I let a cat take up with me. He’s a rough-looking character with torn ear and crooked walk, but he lets me scrub him up one good time and pick away all his fleas. He’s got a pleasant warmth, too, when he curls on my lap by the fire or atop my feet while I sleep. 

I follow the doings of my George through the neighborhood gossip chains and occasionally a printed sheet that someone leaves at my doorstep. I suspect it to be Seamus, but I’m shamefully relieved to pick up the broadsides and not have to force idle chatter with him who was always a stinging nettle to my spirit. 

George is lecturing all along the seaboard – Portsmouth, Wilmington, little towns I’ve never heard tell of. I even see a broadside advertising his appearance at a real University. To think, my George spouting his nonsense to learned men and them nodding their heads and mulling it all over. I chuckle a bit when I think of his first big speech in a soiled nightshirt. 

George and Seamus have been gone nigh on nine months when I run right into the longshoreman. I’m going along just as absentmindedly as you please, returning home with a basket of rutabagas, when I crash into the solid wall of his chest. 

“Lord forgive me. I was walking too fast. Are you hurt, my lady?” Aug’s face is red and he’s trying to hold me up for some reason, though I wasn’t in any danger of a fall. 

“I’m the one as blank as a nanny goat, not watching where I’m heading, just barreling along.” I let him continue holding me up. 

“No, no, my lady. I’m at fault. You’re not hurt, are ye?” 

“I’m of sturdier stock than that, I assure you.” 

He lets go of me and looks me up and down. “Yes, I can see that.” 

I hear a note of admiration in his voice, and then I watch him blush even harder as he realizes that I saw all that looking of me. 

“Mr. Aug, let us be friends,” I say eventually. “I’m heading home to cook a pot of rutabagas, stewed chicken, and cornbread. Will you join me this evening?” 

“I’ll be honored, ma’am.” Aug tips his hat to me over and over as he backs away down the street until he bumps into a cart and must walk right way around. 

Now, I know that George will always be my George, preaching his falderal all over creation, but he isn’t home now, nor is he ever likely to be again. A woman needs to live, and I don’t see why I can’t spread the love of heaven in whatever way brings the pilgrims to their knees. 

When I awake late in the night to make a meringue treat for Aug and me, it turns out perfectly, even though mother always says to make it in sunshine on the bluest day. 

JESSICA FORDHAM KIDD

Jessica Fordham Kidd is a lifelong Alabamian. She teaches at the University of Alabama. Her poetry has appeared in The Paris Review and other journals; her fiction credits include Phantom Drift, Puerto del Sol, and other publications. She is the author of the poetry book Bad Jamie, published by Anhinga Press.