I set the bowl of shrimp down on the table. Ursula’s expression underwent that subtle change when a guest turns into a victim. She recognized what we were about to eat as our former bait. I shall add that the heads of the shrimp were still on; and not just the heads; the legs, eyes, fantails. I suspected the country my mother came from didn’t bother with daintiness.
My mother began twisting their heads off, tearing off their rigid pink bathrobes, and eating their soft curved bodies. Ursula reluctantly put her hand in the bowl. I lifted a specimen up by a long antenna and left it to rest in peace on my plate. My mother liked seafood so much, she rarely complained about our pickiness with it. The price per pound was high, even if she didn’t buy it in a store, but on the peer, as bait.
When Cecilia served the main course, our mother’s chin lifted habitually: rump roast, cream of wheat with sesame oil and thyme, mashed sweet potatoes with finely chopped raw onions. I pressed the cream of wheat through the prongs of my fork, and made a deep criss-cross design. Meat was rarely too hot to put in the mouth, though I often acted as if it was; if it could not prevent my eating it, it could at least delay it.
“Kate. Eat you meat. You need de red to replace what you lose.”
“With teeth like that, Olga, you know she’ll never get a man.”
I made a face to show them I didn’t want one, which amused, of all people, Ursula. It was the first time she laughed all day.
“You know the Minsky girls are getting them, too. Rosa and Lucy. Braces are really a must these days.”
“Please, Ursula, stop. You are ruining my appetite.”
Someone who hadn’t grown up with my mother might not understand what she meant, might think she simply shunned all that was related to the teeth, or those forlorn days with a man. I, her eldest child, could explain. My mother had thought that braces were going to do most of the work like an electric hedge-trimmer and that it would be like buying one at K-Mart on sale for $19.99, for braces were not even a handful of stainless steel, when you can get a casserole for under five bucks. She had not been prepared to part with two thousand dollars of hardworking money for abstract dental services. For that price, one could purchase a used vehicle and in her mental balance, a used Buick versus a palm full of metal bands were no more comparable than a feather and a lead-heavy life of sin. My mother would never consider an orthodontist’s know-how as work, as he did not sweat. The consultation which started out friendly enough had ended up otherwise, and that was what was ruining her appetite.
“De damn crook. He wan’s to cheat me, all ’lone in de world wit’ two chil’ren, two tousand dollars, an’ on top, he tinks I have nothin’ to do dan go over de bridge, back an’ fort’, one hour ev’ry week, de traffic, my gas, den wait more hours of my precious time so he can take her five minute an’ look in her mouth to say ev’ryting is a’kay?! Fin’ another sucker!”
Ursula watched me block my nose to swallow my meat. I used my milk as mouthwash.
“Olga. You can’t do that to the kid.”
“Why not? She can eat with dem. If she don’ eat, it’s not b’cause o’her teeth, it’s b’cause her stubborn head.”
“Look at her. Just take a look.”
“An arm an’ a leg for a few stupi’ teeth??”
“Olga, there’s no price. It’s unthinkable! Come on, she’s your daughter!”
“Do I need them? Look.”
Cecilia clenched her teeth together, and spread her lips wide, exposing her Hallowe’en pumpkin smile. In her enthusiasm, she’d forgotten what was in her mouth and a small piece of beef filled the space where the front teeth normally were. At first, I mistook it for her own tongue, for it blended in so well with her gums and the lining of her lips.
“We are a’ de table now, not de dentis’ office! Cecilia?! Shut you mouth! It is time to eat!”
We continued our meal with heads bowed in silence, though it was not really silent; it was rich with the familiar sounds of eating. Even the silence was in a way loud. It always was when my mother had just shouted.
“Who wants more?” my mother threatened.
I spoke up first, “Not me. No thanks.”
“I do. Well done,” Cecilia requested.
Ursula held out her dish. “I’ll take a little piece from the middle, please, if you can find something rare … ”
My mother carved a generous portion for Ursula off the flat red end, when a thought of Betty’s posterior entered my mind.
I never should have thought that. I put it out of my mind immediately. Quick, I had to concentrate on something because I could feel the thought was coming back. I thought of a toothache, icebergs in Antarctica, my dead grandmother, the pool filter that had to be emptied, but the thought of Betty’s buttocks returned as predicted, and the more I chased the thought away, the more it returned with gusto. The tingles were like tiny fireworks, pulling my attention more and more to them, pulling the blood out of my head, and down to that inglorious crossroad. I couldn’t understand how buttocks could trigger off such a reaction, make my blood change its very course. Naked human buttock used to make me scream with laughter. If Laurel or Hardy’s britches dropped, that would have been the end!
“Stop that this very instant!” I ordered myself.
To my surprise, my body answered me, it answered me with an unexpected wave of, what can I call it? Concentrated sweetness?
It was with distaste that I noticed my underwear was wet; a baby would have had to be changed, but in my case, it was my second mouth that had begun to drool, to hunger. It wanted to be fed. I looked at the roast on the table. That wasn’t it. I closed my eyes and Betty’s copious behind popped again into my mind. So did Harry’s. The way he moved it to some inaudible beat when he was sloppily consuming Ursula. I thought of Belinda Moors’ breasts. Why were domes of flesh all at once, out of the blue, so bewitching? They had always been so pitiful before; ludicrous outgrowths, obnoxiously protruding humps, human hills that made you simultaneously laugh at and feel sorry for an adult.
“Mótina, may I be excused from the table?”
“Wha’ for?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You can’t contro’ youself?”
I shook my head miserably.
“Den hurry up.”
There was a golden oval tray on the dressing table in my mother’s bedroom. On it, one invariably found an imitation turn of the century brush, mirror and comb set that she had purchased for twenty books of green stamps many years ago, orderly arranged on either side of a powder compact like a fork, spoon and knife. I locked the bathroom door, sat down on the toilet, leaned forwards and backwards with my arms hugging my abdomen, but the sensation was not going away.
I took in a deep breath, prayed to God for courage, and with my mother’s mirror sought the source of agitation below. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I consulted the other face of the mirror until I was sure a trick wasn’t being played on me. The two tender lips of my childhood had opened like a steamed clam and in-between, an excess growth of newborn flesh similar to a turkey’s crest ostentatiously proclaimed its status. Its colouring was that of a rooster’s comb. Multiple folds gave it the look of a sluggish, defenceless mollusk, just homely enough for people to consider a refined morsel, much like escargots, mussels, oysters and other bite-sized, boneless seafoods for which they are willing to pay great sums.
The crest separated into two smaller flaps, well done and crinkly like bacon around the edges. I moved them up and down like airborne wings, stretching them out to their full wingspan. They were covered with permanent goose bumps which was proof that the material for this part originated from the plucked members of the fowl family. A small patch of hairs had grown nearby, curly as a lambs. The outer lips were browned at the edges as though they had undergone a light roast in the oven. I opened them like a dissected frog. I knew it! The inside was less cooked! It was exactly that red called medium rare, like the roast beef I had eaten on Thursday night. There was a brown opening to the very back, well done and stringy like the veal I’d also eaten not so long ago at Ursula’s. How fascinating: below, one found patches of the exact same skin as that which lines the interior of our mouths; not surprising, then, it was constantly feeling something similar to hunger.
The more I looked down at the mirror, the more I found the composition prehistoric. It was the skin and flesh of seven animals without the brains of a single one; if they were under my brain’s jurisdiction, it certainly didn’t show. I removed a needle from a Holiday Inn sewing kit and gave each meat a prick. I couldn’t believe it. Each prick hurt me! So they, all seven distinct fleshes, were me.
I hoped baptizing it would help and drew a palm of cold water from the tap, sprinkling it with the hopeful drops. At first, it did quell the hot tempers, but soon enough the beastliness resumed. I flicked it with a comb. It made me jump with pain, but it throbbed and enjoyed the attentions all the more.
My fingers curled inwards like a cat’s paw, digging nails into my palms; my toes tried curling under in a similar manner, as though my feet were turning into bird claws; my head was thrust back; whatever was overtaking me didn’t need my head around to think. My jaws clenched: it was not that mouth that wished to be fed, despite the hungry grunts that escaped from it.
It wanted to be fed. Didn’t it have all the ingredients it needed? Egg, yeast, Jesus’ bread, my blood that I could feel pounding down there. How could it ask for my husband’s meat if I had no husband? It didn’t care what I said or thought, it didn’t care one bit about me. It was a composite monster, drooling at the mouth, beckoning me for my hand. One cannot imagine my fear and abhorrence when I witnessed my hand disobey me and descend towards it. My poor hand was going to be bitten right off! I just knew it! Or even worse, it was going to be sucked up into it, or merge with it, and I wouldn’t be able to get it away! How would I explain such a thing to my mother?!
I despairingly tried to fool the uncouth, salivating creature by touching it with a lint brush that was in the drawer next to me, in lieu of my hand. It moved! To my amazement, it accepted it, and gave the lint brush little kisses. It was almost cute, and yet it was not. It was simply as touching as any weakling is when in need of nourishment. It had no teeth as of yet; only the soft lips of an innocent baby that puts everything and anything in its mouth. I must not let the innocent baby parallels fool me, I warned myself. The hunger spells of babies are by far the most tyrannical.
I closed my eyes. The pleasure increased until it could increase no further. My arm dropped limply, anchoring me back to reality, and the lint brush fell to the floor. I was freed of the curse, I was rid of it.
Before returning to the dinner table, I ventured nervously to the medicine cabinet mirror, the model with three doors one can adjust to see oneself at every possible angle into eternity. I expected to see sparks in my eyes, two horns sprung out of my head, perhaps even a fluffy tail. I saw no bloodcurdling transformation, no horrific signs of catastrophe, only that old familiar me.
I washed my hands with hot water and soap. I had trouble looking my mother, Ursula, and Cecilia in the face, so I concentrated on the meat left on my plate, cold and stiff like me. That’s when a lump began to form in my throat. I asked for more milk, but it didn’t help it go down. My mother treated my embarrassment with compassion. She promised to make me rice the next day.