I went back to the garage. Mitch and Stan had shown up. I cracked a beer, drank half of it in one swallow, and said, “We got a problem."
* * * *
The kid must've had a hunch. He tried to barricade the door, but there were too many of us. Afterward, when we were cleaning up, Mitch and Lee wanted to bust up the equipment and burn the notebooks.
"No,” I said, “that would be wrong."
So when the time comes, we'll do what we agreed to do, sitting there at the poker table, after I'd told them what I'd seen. When all our kids are out of school and able to stand on their own feet, we'll bring the sheriff down to Lee's basement. We'll fire up the Hunchster's equipment and roll back the date to that Saturday night.
We'll be the first criminals caught by his invention. And we won't be the last. But eventually, the Hunchster will be remembered as the guy who put crime out of business. Along with IncarcerCorp. And our whole town.
And like I said, just before we poured the concrete over him, “At least nobody's gonna forget your name."
Classic Reprint: THE GODDAMNED TOOTH FAIRY: INTRODUCTION BY GORDON VAN GELDER by Tina Kuzminski
Trying to select just one story for reprint is, it turns out, dreadfully hard for me. Even after picking two dozen stories for our forthcoming Best from F&SF anthology, I've still been waffling for months on this decision. Should I choose one of my many faves from my tenure as editor, like Lew Shiner's “Primes,” Bill Spencer's “The Essayist in the Wilderness,” or Claudia O'Keefe's “Maze of Trees” (to name just three)?
Or should I reprint one of the stories that I remember most fondly from when I first started reading the magazine? Standouts in that list include Mike Reaves's “Werewind,” Michael Shea's “Polyphemus,” John Kessel's “Another Orphan,” Damon Knight's “Tarcan of the Hoboes,” and Phyllis Eisenstein's “In the Western Tradition.” And Bob Leman's “Feesters in the Lake.” And I still live by something I learned in Richard Cowper's “Out There Where the Big Ships Go."
And then there are the stories that have never been reprinted, the buried gems like Arthur Jean Cox's “A Collector of Ambroses” or Brad Strickland's “Oh Tin Man, Tin Man, There's No Place Like Home” or Robert Abernathy's “The Year 2000"—should I pick one of those? (Even now, almost a decade later, I'm still mad at myself for not reprinting that last one in our Jan. 2000 issue.)
I considered reprinting a science column from the Good Doctor. I thought about remembering departed friends like George Effinger and Damon Knight with “The Aliens Who Knew, I Mean, Everything” and “Watching Matthew."
All right, all right. I know—if I like the magazine's stories so much, I ought to buy the thing and print my favorites every month or two, right?
So anyway, when the time came to pick one, I kept thinking of this story. It ran in one of my favorite issues (Oct. 2000), it has never been reprinted, and I've always felt it's one of those contemporary stories where the magic works—not just the fantastic element in the story, but the stuff you can't explain, the special, undefinable something that settles inside you and doesn't let go. The real magic.
Readers should know that the language is a bit coarse (as you might guess from the title), but it's true to the characters.
Tina Kuzminski hasn't published much since 2000—her best-known work, might be the chapter she contributed to the spoof novel, Atlanta Nights. However, she says she's currently working on a fantasy series as well as a few shorter pieces.
In the course of swapping emails and doing some online searches, Tina and I both came across a post from March 2007 in which someone quoted a passage from “Tooth Fairy” and said she'd reflected on it a lot and it helped her decide to get her first tattoo. Tina said, “I was amazed that the story played a part in her decision to embrace her identity and embellish herself with something so meaningful to her.” I felt the same way; for me, knowing that this story connected with a reader in so meaningful a way matters more than all the Nebulas and Hugos and other trophies awarded to F&SF stories. Awards are nice, but the magic that passes between writer and reader, that's what matters.
* * * *
The Goddamned Tooth Fairy by Tina Kuzminski
Callie's got her hands in my face. Palms out, she's making square frames. She squints at her compositions of my nose and mouth and eyes. I want to say, “Sweetheart, Daddy's trying to look good for his first date since before you were born, so could you sit still and pretend you're no trouble at all until I get the lady out the door?” Callie's sitting on the kitchen table. Since I don't mind when nobody's here, I don't say anything about that, either.
Iris is winding her purse tight on its long strap and letting it spin out the kinks, over and over, while she looks at Callie's drawings taped on the fridge. Iris has real pretty brown hair, curly, but most of the time it's covering up her face which is even prettier. Her purse bounces on a perfect calf, leading up stretchy, snug pants to a shirttail that doesn't quite cover Iris's round little ass.
"And you know what else we learned in Art today, Daddy? Daddy?"
Callie kicks me lightly in the knees. She always was a stickler about quality attention. Ma said I spoiled her, but I just said she was mine to spoil.
"What, honey?” I say. I'm probably taking a drubbing in the Devoted to Date category, but maybe I'll pick up a few points on Is Kind to Children and Small Animals.
"Perspective.” Callie pronounces it carefully, proudly. She's aware another pair of ears is listening, another potential member for a captive audience. “You put a dot in the middle of your paper. That's where everything disappears. That's where the horizon is and you draw these lines from the dot to the edge of your paper. You can make buildings and streets and trees and telephone poles and buses and clouds and people and they all get bigger and bigger and bigger the closer they get."
I can tell she's just getting warmed up.
"Sorry about this,” I say to Iris. “Can I get you a drink or something?"
"No, thanks. I'm fine,” Iris says.
Shawna's late, which isn't unusual, but I told her if she was late tonight I'd have her hide. Shawna takes care of Callie quite a bit on the weekend when Best offers as much as twelve bucks an hour.
Callie's measuring tiny people, so small she can barely see them, with her fingers. Her straight blonde hair is sticking up in places like pampas grass. I smooth it down. She's got Iris in the little box between thumbs and index fingers so she can watch Iris on the sly.
I met Iris at Best Telemarketing. Only place I could find quick work at last summer when I moved up here from Kentucky. Me and Callie left when she got out of second grade. More than a quarter century's long enough to spend in one place, I think. Grew up in Powell County. Swore I'd never go back, but after my wife died, I took Callie and went home to Ma, stocked and bagged at her grocery store. At twenty-nine, I figured I was the oldest bag boy alive. I didn't want to hit thirty, still working for Ma and living at home.
So I loaded everything we owned in my pickup and said I was going as far as it'd get me. Ma said I was wrecking Callie's life. Ma had been saying that for years and Callie was the smartest child I'd ever seen, so I couldn't see how I was that bad an influence. Give me a few more years ringing up groceries for every old woman in Slade saying, “I don't want my bread on the bottom, now,” and I might be a right hindrance to myself and Callie.
The doorbell buzzes a couple minutes after I start grinding my teeth. I let Shawna in. She drops her backpack on the couch.
"Sorry, Mr. Blackburn, but Mom said if I didn't wash the dishes now and then I wouldn't be allowed to baby-sit no more for nobody and I got done with everything and she added these huge pots, but I hurried, Mr. Blackburn."
What Shawna's got to say depends on how much breath she has in her when she starts to say it. She's fourteen and Callie loves her. She puts kitty and smiley and heart stickers on Callie's shirts and lets Callie play with her makeup.
"That's okay, Shawna,” I say. “Better late than never."
&nb
sp; She's peeping around me to the kitchen, checking out Iris. Shawna's eyes are opened wide behind her round, red frames.
"Your hair looks real nice today,” I say to Shawna.
Her hand immediately flies up to touch her hair, make sure it's still there. “Thanks, Mr. Blackburn. Mom put relaxer in it for me last night. She says I got the stubbornest hair alive and no way is it gonna look like Loki Smoki."
"You and your Ma did a great job,” I say.
I watch enough MTV to know what Loki Smoki looks like. Four big women, long black hair, sexy as hell. Me and Callie get cable for twenty-six dollars a month. That's a lot on my budget, but we don't get out much.
"Try and keep Callie out of trouble, Shawna. Me and Iris'll be back around midnight and I'll walk you home."
Shawna just lives in the next apartment building over from us, but I always see to it she gets in her ma's door if it's after dark when I get back from Best.
Callie's in the kitchen pestering Iris. Iris has on this belt that's got a big shell for a buckle and Callie's about to undress her to see the other side and make sure it's real.
"Callie, leave Iris alone, for Pete's sake."
"What'd the tooth fairy leave for ya, Cal?” Shawna asks.
"Nothing!” Callie tattles on me.
I'd forgotten all about paying up last night. Told her the tooth fairy had to take time off from work like everybody else, that Callie must have hit one of the Fairy Holidays. I said if she tried it again tonight, she'd probably get overtime pay.
Iris is smiling. “It's okay."
She's got her belt off and is showing it to Callie. The other side isn't polished and that convinces Callie it's a real shell. She's impressed now with the polished side, a mixture of blues and greens and black.
"It's called abalone,” Iris says.
"Ab ah loney,” Callie says, “and it really comes from the sea?"
"Well, I got it at the mall, but before that I'm sure it came from the sea."
"Let Iris get dressed, honey. We're gonna be late."
Iris is driving. Her car's parked on the street, taking two parking spots. It's a gold LTD, about a ‘78. My pickup's even older, a ‘72 Chevy, and it hasn't give out yet, but I got so bored crossing Illinois and Iowa that I stopped in Omaha anyhow.
I wait till Iris puts on her seat belt to put mine on. If she didn't wear one, I didn't want to look like I was scared of her driving.
"You've never been to the track before?” she asks.
I'm pretty sure she asked me that earlier today when we got off work, but I'm no great shakes at conversation, either. “Nope, never have been. I'd never heard of racing dogs before I saw them one night on TV."
"They play the results every night except Mondays on 42,” she says.
"You go a lot?"
Iris shakes her head and lodges some more hair over her face. I want to brush it back with my hand.
"No, not that much,” she says. “Thursdays, sometimes. That's half-price night."
April's come in warm, sixty-four the high today, and Iris has on a T-shirt. She always wears long-sleeved shirts at work. Iris keeps her hands on the bottom half of the steering wheel. She's got about a dozen bracelets on. Wood and brass and copper and shell ones. They clink and chime when she turns corners. While she's preoccupied with driving and talking, I watch her mouth, full and creamy red with lipstick, the way it moves, which side goes up first when she smiles. That T-shirt looks damned fine on her—just shy of a 38, I'd say, and in good shape.
We've got the windows rolled down and a strong coffee smell floats in as we cross the Missouri into Council Bluffs. It's the Butternut factory down the river, roasting beans. Always makes me think of Omaha as a good cup of black coffee.
"So how long've you worked for Best?” I ask Iris.
"Oh, two years or so. I'm taking night classes at Metro Tech in computer graphics. What about you?"
"Just since last July."
"Are you taking classes anywhere?"
"Nah."
I guess she wants to know if I'm going to be stuck at Best all my life. I have most of a B.A. in history which is about as useful as not having anything at all. But that's from the days when I was with Callie's mom. I don't want to get into that right now.
Iris isn't too happy with my answer, but I start talking about something else and she doesn't hold grudges.
At Bluffs Run, I look back at the car as we walk away. About five foot of the tail is sticking out in the lane. I notice most of the license plates are Nebraska, with Iowa plates next, and then a handful of Kansas and Missouri. We walk into this open area that has a glass front facing the track. There's a whole bunch of people standing around, as mixed a crowd as I've ever seen. Old black ladies with their reading glasses on, college boys with those spiky haircuts and hundred dollar running shoes, married couples in their forties knocking back a few beers, greasy-haired old geezers with steno pads and pencils stuck inside the earpiece of their glasses, tough cowboy types dressed more for a rodeo, and some scrawny kids that look underage.
Iris says she'll get us a program we can share, so I go to a hot dog stand and buy a couple of beers.
A voice on the intercom says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the dogs are on the track for tonight's third race. Please make your wagers early to avoid being shut out at the mutuel windows.” The man goes on to give each dog's name and weight. There's TV monitors everywhere you look, showing the dogs in their numbered jackets.
Iris thanks me for the beer, turns the program to the third race and hands it to me. “I'll show you how it works. There's eight dogs in each race, and you can bet on them in several different ways. Win, place, and show is first, second, and third, but that doesn't pay anything."
She takes a drink of beer and her bottom lip leaves a red crescent moon on the cup. “And the quiniela bet is where you pick two dogs to come in first and second, any order. Say you pick eight and one. It doesn't matter which one comes in first or second as long as both come in. An exacta's where you bet which order they'll come in. For the trifecta, you choose the three dogs that finish first, but it's really hard to get those. Shit, it's hard to hit quinielas."
"Then I'll stick with those, how about?"
"Two minutes till post time. Better hurry if you want to bet this race."
"I'll wait and do the next one,” I say. “See how it's done first."
"Okay,” she says. “I'll get in line. You can come with me if you like."
She explains while we're in line how to give the clerk your bet, first the amount, then the kind of bet you're making, and the number of the dogs you're betting on.
"Two-dollar quiniela, three and seven,” she says to the woman who punches it in and hands her a silver ticket. “That's all there is to it,” Iris says.
We go outside to sit down and watch the race. There's a strong wind chasing plastic cups and cigarette butts around the stands. It's too strong even to set your beer down and it blows Iris's hair up and out of her face. She's so pretty I feel like the wind stole the next breath I had coming. The dogs are led to the starting gate and the young handlers run back. One of them's a girl, and I hear some punks at the fence make loud comments about betting on a pair like that.
More lights get turned on. The electric rabbit starts squeaking its way around the rail. A guy behind me yells, “Here comes Rusty,” just before the announcer says, “Here comes Lucky,” the way Ed used to say, “Here's Johnny."
The dogs rip out of their stalls hell-bent on catching the sparking rabbit. A couple of them wipe out on the first turn. Seven's in the lead, but three's near the back. As they come around the bend, seven falls behind, and the number two dog passes him. Iris lets the wind grab her ticket and shrugs.
There's groans and cheers but mainly groans. I wedge my beer between my knees and study the lineup for the fourth race. Bust A Gut, Some Fine Day, Macy's Magic, PD's Lizzy Longjohns, Who Dr. Who, Iowa Dawn, Ain't Misbehaving, and Sweet So and So. I ignore the odds because I
don't feel like getting too precise about all this and pick out Who Dr. Who and Ain't Misbehaving. Five and seven. Iris wants to follow the odds board a bit before placing her bet, so I drink my beer and watch the numbers change across the black screen behind the track. There's a big coffee cup in the distance on a pole. Novelty billboard. Has the word Oasis on it in big block letters.
I get in line behind Iris. She bets one and five. I say “Who Dr. Who” before I remember the clerk wants the number, not the name. I look down at the program and say, “Uh, that's five and seven."
The silver ticket looks somehow fragile, easily altered. I hold it in the palm of my hand, not folding it. We stand at the fence this time. I'm surprised by how my heart pounds when the dogs come out of the gate and I've got a personal stake in who's finishing first. My dogs are quick in the lead. I start yelling like everybody else.
Number four edges up as they're heading to the finish line and finishes a nose in front of Who Dr. Who. I glance down at the program. It was Lizzy Longjohns. Iris's number one dog, Bust A Gut, came in third.
We go to the bleachers to look over the next page in the program. What I really like is these dogs’ names. I'd like a job just thinking up names for all the new litters of pups. I like how the names are clever and mean something. I always thought a name should mean something, seeing as how I got named Ute. Once, I asked Ma what Ute meant and she said “You was named after Uncle Ute.” When I asked what his name meant, she said “He was named after Great Grandpappy Ute. What else you want to know?” I gave up on it. But me and Jenny named Callie after Calliope, the goddess of epic poetry. Soon as she discovered her lungs, though, I thought she took after the circus organ a whole lot more than some Greek goddess.
The fifth race has Cornflakesandmilk, Sassy Lass, Make Me An Offer, Just Sam, Uzifire, Shadowylady, PD's Betty Bikini,and See See Rider.
I choose Cornflakesandmilk and See See Rider. Iris goes for the dogs with the best odds—Make Me An Offer at five and two and Just Sam, seven and two. Iris says she'll walk the bets up this time if I'll hold her beer. There's about a swallow left in it, but I say sure.
FSF, August-September 2009 Page 10
