Tooth and Nail

by Jennifer Safrey

  Tonight had to be a mental blip, an aberration, a break in the pattern. Nothing more.

  Convincing myself that I’d just convinced myself, I soon fell asleep again.

  >=<

  “Gemma.”

  “Mmmf.”

  “I’m leaving,” Avery said softly into my ear. “I have that early meeting.”

  I rolled over and got a mouthful of pillow. “Why didn’t the alarm go off?” I asked, muffled and confused.

  “It did. You were dead to it.”

  “I had a bad dream.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wished I’d held it in. It was childish, frightened, wimpy. But my face was still smooshed into the pillow. Maybe he hadn’t heard me.

  “What was the dream about?” he asked.

  I flipped over and looked at him.

  I could have told him. I could tell Avery anything. But the timing was no good. I would have had to explain not only the dream but its place in my history—that it was my harbinger of difficult times of change. Given his tendency to worry about his campaign anyway, he might buy into the omen theory, and he didn’t need that now.

  “I don’t remember,” I told him. “It’s already gone.”

  “That’s the way with dreams,” he said, and disappeared out the front door.

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  I lay staring at the ceiling, then realized after a few minutes that I was actually trying to decide what to wear to the dentist’s office, as it was my big outing of the day besides the gym. Pathetic. Yesterday, my highlight had been staring at the TV, hypnotized by Rachael Ray as she manipulated ground turkey for thirty minutes. The day before that, the digital cable telemarketer and I discovered we had a soap opera in common, and after twenty-five minutes of chat, I was kind of obligated to sign up for the deluxe package. I didn’t think Avery was yet aware of our new nudie channels, but I thought it safe to assume it wouldn’t lead to much of an argument when he did figure it out.

  That was the way it was going, day after day. I did miss my job. I missed crunching numbers, making phone calls, seeing my work published on our online site, and sometimes cited in newspapers and on TV. More than ninety percent of the polling at the company was market research, but there was a small amount of political polling, and it was enough to worry both Avery and myself when he announced his candidacy.

  I would go back soon. But I’d never been out of work, not since I was fourteen and earning paper route cash. In college, I was a scholarship student, but I needed to work during my non-class hours to buy my hefty statistics textbooks for both undergraduate and graduate courses. I worked to pay for my membership at Smiley’s. I didn’t realize until recently that I really didn’t know how to not work.

  Complaining was pointless because I took the leave from work out of love and support for Avery—the most important reason.

  But I had to face it: After three weeks, I was isolated, teetering on the precipice of ennui.

  I needed something to do with myself. Soon.

  CHAPTER 3

  "Go ahead and rinse.”

  I sat up, reaching an awkward hand for the little Dixie cup as my paper bib swiped my chin. I sipped and spit, watching drops of blood and disgusting bits of God-knows-what slosh into the—I didn’t even know what it was. Fountain? Spittoon?

  I kept rinsing until my mouth was clean, then I leaned back. My skull hurt from the slightly misplaced headrest, and it didn’t help matters when some kind of power tool zoomed to sudden loud life in the adjoining exam room.

  “At least I don’t have it as bad as the poor patient next door,” I remarked.

  Denise, the hygienist, laughed, displaying her own shiny teeth. I wondered about hygienists. When they woke up and before they went to bed, did they brush each individual tooth in their mouths to a count of sixty? Or did they figure, “The hell with it, if my teeth go bad, I get a discount at work”?

  “No, hon,” Denise said now. “We’ve got contractors renovating in there. Dr. Gold retired last week.”

  I grinned, remembering last night’s banter with Avery. “Finally, huh?”

  “You’re not kidding. We practically had to shove him out the door and down to Florida. You’d think he’d want some relaxation by now.”

  “So what are the renovations?”

  “New dentist taking over the practice. He wanted to make some changes.”

  I raised a brow, which I could do really well, by the way. “Dentists’ offices generally aren’t known for their hip and original interior design. It’s usually minimalist. Chair, sink, tray of terrifying sterilized weaponry.”

  “Yeah, well, I have no idea what he’s doing in there, and I don’t want to know. I just come in, clean teeth, and leave.” She unclipped my bib and scrunched it up before tossing it in the trash can. “You’re good to go.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I enjoy our time together,” I told her, standing and sliding my tongue over my smoother teeth and sorer gums.

  “Me too,” Denise said. “I know! Let’s do it again in six months.”

  “Great idea!” Corny as I could be, I still loved it when people went along with humor. It gave me a nice we’re-all-in-this-together feeling about humanity. “Thanks for omitting the flossing lecture.”

  “Please. Everyone’s negligence keeps me off the unemployment line.” She laughed again. “I guess I shouldn’t say that. See you, Gemma.”

  After I tore out a check for the receptionist and booked my next appointment, I stepped out into the D.C. sun. My overwhelmed eyes immediately teared up, since I’d spent the last hour with my eyes shut so as to avoid staring into the scare-tactic poster of a gaping, rotting grimace on the exam room wall in front of me. I dropped my gym bag at my feet and kneeled down next to it, shoving aside my black sports bra and sweat socks to unearth my sunglasses. Mall shoppers passed me, paper shopping bags bumping against their legs. I watched the 54 bus rumble by, and the rush of dust in its wake kicked up into my face.

  Before I could put the glasses on, I saw him.

  He was across the street. Just standing there, lazy, leaning against a lamppost as if time was nothing to consider. He was casual blond, and long-legged in beat-up jeans. I’d never seen him before in my life.

  And he was watching me.

  Not only was he watching me, he wasn’t bothering to be covert. But he wasn’t flirty or cute, and he wasn’t at all creepy. He looked at me like he recognized me.

  No, he looked at me like he recognized something in me, something that was also in him.

  I couldn’t break our mutual gaze. I felt like I was drowning in it, my insides turning faster and faster until I was lightheaded. He seemed to exist in his own dimension, one that only I could see, and the cars and buses and people around me faded into silence and stillness.

  I wondered how many steps it was between him and myself, and envisioned darting across the street and pressing into his chest.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, as a suited man barged into my left side. I tripped over my gym bag, still on the ground, and put out a forearm, landing flat but uninjured. The man who had crashed into me stepped over me and kept walking without looking back, but rather switching his cell phone to his other ear.

  I snapped my head up and waited for a taxi to pass across my vision, and when it did, the lamppost stood alone.

  Hoisting myself to my feet, I shook my head—not from my crash-landing but from the sparkly fog that had enveloped me for who-knew-how-long. What was that? Who was that? Who was I?

  My still-sore mouth twinged and I put a hand to my jaw before widening my eyes. Teeth. The dream. Oh, this could not be it, could it? A warning not to cheat on Avery? No. Ridiculous. I didn’t even know that guy.

  But he knew me.

  No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. I was obviously delirious from pain. Or the contractors knocked some laughing gas loose in the dentist’s office, causing me to visualize a hot man across the street, as well as fantasize about having him.r />
  Much more logical. Because I hadn’t even glanced at another man since Avery. Well, sure I had, but only to come to the conclusion that not one would measure up to my man.

  I zipped up my duffel, snatched it up in one hand, and walked resolutely down K Street. I would keep walking until I arrived at my haven, my second home, and could pound out my unexpected and unwelcome frustration.

  >=<

  After my strange street encounter and the shock of sexuality, I was grateful to take refuge at Smiley’s Gym.

  The door slammed behind me and my eyes watered once again with the reverse adjustment from bright sunlight to dim, sweaty cave. I closed my eyes for a moment to allow seamless assimilation of the rest of me.

  Like I said, this was my haven, but certainly not for any kind of sanctuary-like silence. The auditory ambience of Smiley’s was multi-layered: Over the top were men shouting, cheering, slapping their palms against the mat in the ring as if the two boxers currently sparring were actually duking it out for a world championship. The second layer was the dull, solid thud-thud of gloves on one or more of the heavy bags, and the relentless cadence of the several small speed bags. Underneath it all was a breathing hum, proof that Smiley’s was alive with ambition and pride and pain, punctuated by an occasional strong, huffing exhale when a punch was thrown—or taken.

  Smiley had run this place for decades—no one knew exactly how many, but an educated guess could be made by the years etched on his face, and by the yellowing and faded photos of local heroes on the walls. On the rare occasion that he actually did smile at any of us, the irony of his longtime nickname showed through the gaps where several teeth used to be.

  Teeth again.

  A determined weight barreled into my right side, making my eyes pop open. I stepped away from the shove, and my assailant stumbled through his own momentum, straightening up at the last minute.

  “Mat,” I said, putting a hand on his bare shoulder to steady his wobbling, “it’s sad that the only way you think you can throw me down is with a dirty hit. And you can’t even do that.”

  “Well, what are you doin’, sleepin’ standin’ up?” Mat asked, dodging my verbal jab and returning with his own. “Maybe you too busy at night bouncin’ the mattress to get sleep.” He grinned.

  “Maybe that’s all you think about ’cause you’re not getting any.” I pinched his smooth cheek.

  Mat smacked my hand away. “I’m ignorin’ that, ’cause it’s so wrong, it’s funny.”

  Cuban-American, baby-faced and barely out of high school, Mat had the nerve of men twice his size and his age. Mat was not his real name. I didn’t think any of us knew what that was. Since the first day he strutted in here about eight months prior, challenging all comers and going facedown on the mat inside of thirty seconds, he’d been known as Mat. He’d since redeemed himself a bit with hard work, but his more-than-healthy ego never ceased.

  I steered Mat toward a heavy bag, and slipped into the bathroom to change from jeans, short black boots and T-shirt to sports bra, black tank and gray sweat shorts. I eyed my reflection in the streaky mirror before pulling my short hair into a baby ponytail at the back of my head. I re-emerged, sat in a creaky metal folding chair, and began to wrap my hands, winding around my wrist and across my palm and between my thumb and forefinger. I opened and closed the hand, then went to work on the other one, glancing around the gym as I did.

  The usual suspects were there. Sometimes I wondered whether they ever left. I lifted my chin and nodded to Shirley, who was jumping rope in the corner. He crisscrossed the rope in acknowledgment, and did a quick double-jump before reassuming the rhythm. Shirley was a nice guy. Really nice. Any time you asked for a favor—a ride to the bus stop in the rain, a dime to round out your money for the drink machine—he responded, “Surely,” his white smile striking in his dark, chiseled face. It was a good thing the girly moniker didn’t bother him, because he’d be real intimidating otherwise. This gallant gentleman was our current local amateur heavyweight champ.

  Not-Rocky sat just outside the ropes of one of the two center rings, swigging a Gatorade and sweating off his sparring round. He hopped down and sidled over to me while I tugged on my gloves, and took over my seat after I slid to the floor for sixty knuckle pushups. “Yo, Brickhouse.”

  Once I brought Avery in to meet the crew and see the place, and when we left, he said, “Brickhouse? You’re not—insulted by that?”

  “Of course I am,” I said. “That’s what makes it stick.” I never told him that after that day, my gang referred to Avery as The Suit. That’s how I knew they approved of him.

  Under the eye of Not-Rocky, I finished my pushups and rolled onto my back. He crouched in front of me and grasped my ankles for my sit-ups. “You want to go when you’re ready?” he asked.

  I considered, but on my next sit-up, I noticed a bit of fresh blood clotting on his chin. Between that and the perspiration still rolling down his jaw, I guessed he was done for the day. I wouldn’t have suggested to him, though, or to any of the guys for that matter, that they ever take it easy. This gym was filled with competitors, and they’d knock themselves unconscious to prove their worth. I had competed a little myself, a few years ago, but eventually decided that putting my facial bones at risk every day wouldn’t jibe with my career ambition. I boxed now because it was in me, and I didn’t think it would ever not be. And, I suspected of myself, I boxed to keep my memories of my father from permanent escape.

  But Not-Rocky and the others, they still did it for dreams.

  “I’ll take a pass today,” I said with tact, feeling my stomach muscles tighten and contract with each lift of my torso.

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  Not-Rocky abruptly turned and I looked over his shoulder, following his gaze to the other side of the gym.

  Within these walls, punching and yelling was expected—but there came rare moments when the athletic crossed into emotional, when aggressive became violent. Maybe it was strange that it didn’t happen more, what with the testosterone levels and competing bravados, but when it did happen, we all went on high alert, ready to defend, to fight for real.

  But no one would have wanted to be the one to hurt a kid. And that was who was causing this commotion.

  “I said, back the fuck off!” he screamed again at a boxer easily twice his age and many, many pounds heavier. I raised my brows, marveling at his reckless stupidity.

  The kid was Trey Sawyer, a skinny, freckled boy barely into his teens with a myopic squint and uncooperative brown curls. A boy I wouldn’t have been surprised to see amassing Boy Scout badges or mathletes trophies. A boy from whose mouth I was damn surprised to hear the word “fuck” emerge. Smiley had taken him in a couple of weeks ago, and he came in after school. Trey couldn’t punch a fixed target three feet in front of him, but no one gave him a hard time. He’d been quickly identified as one of Smiley’s charity cases: someone he was asked to keep busy or straighten out.

  Back when I was his charity case, Smiley did both. I’d mouthed off and I’d acted out, but I’d learned my place, and I’d learned it was a place I wanted to be.

  Looked like it was Trey’s turn.

  His shouts were louder in the new silence around him. “I don’t need this!” He put his gloved fists on the bigger fighter’s chest, and shoved with all his violent might.

  Jackrabbit, the recipient of the shove, put one foot back, the only indication he’d been touched at all. He didn’t move from his spot—a calm stone wall. He caught Smiley’s eye while Trey stood there breathing heavily, his twiggy arms weighed down with his gloves.

  “Dumb kid,” Not-Rocky murmured.

  I didn’t disagree. But something didn’t feel right.

  No one moved. Trey, maybe sensing he’d gone just far enough, quieted, but his eyes were wildfire.

  Smiley moved slowly but deliberately between Trey and Jackrabbit, and his back was to Not-Rocky and me. An innocent, non-boxing bystander might see the delicat
e skin of the back of Smiley’s neck, or the thinned, nearly transparent hair that barely whispered against his head, and assume him to be anyone weaker than he was.

  Before he said a word, I caught the irony that though not one fighter in here would want to be the one taking heat, they all wanted to hear someone else taking it.

  “You done?” Smiley asked.

  “It’s my turn!” Trey yelled. “This is my time. There’s fifteen minutes left in my lesson and this asshole interrupted!”

  “Hey, punk, this in’t no private school,” Jackrabbit said.

  “Pipe down.” Smiley’s tone was mild. He glanced at the big guy before fixing his gaze once more on Trey. “He was letting me know I had a phone call. Jack, go take a number.”

  The boxer scowled at Trey a moment before walking away to Smiley’s office, muttering, “I’m the damn secretary now?”

  “He had no right!” Trey yelled again. “This is my time!”

  “This is my gym,” Smiley said, advancing, and though far less imposing than any of the rest of us, he slowly backed Trey into the wall. “And,” Smiley added, “I make the decisions. I run the show. That means I’m interruptible, even if you were actually paying me for this lesson.”

  Trey screwed up his face again and took a deep breath but Smiley continued. “You heard me. Your brother helped me out a few years ago and you’re the way I decided to repay the favor. But I can decide against you at any time. So change your attitude.”

  “But—“

  “Change it. Something inside you got to get out? I give you plenty of outlet here. There’s no reason for this bullshit. I’m on your side, but I’d just as well not be. I got enough guys to take care of. I don’t got to waste my free time. Lesson over. Now get the hell outta here. Come back when you’re interested in learning something.”

  Smiley walked away and Trey glared after him.

  The captive audience scattered, and the noise and sweating resumed.