Heap

“I think something’s seriously wrong with it.”

He shut the basement door and set his toolbox down on the kitchen table, walking over to the stove where she was pouring a bag of penne pasta into a pot of boiling water. The water calmed as the pasta settled. But the boil was rising again, just below the surface.

“Your tooth again?” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s definitely rotting,” he said. “I think it needs to come out. Look.”

He hooked a finger into his cheek and leaned toward her. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said without looking. “Probably just a cavity or something. You can call the dentist tomorrow morning and make an appointment.”

“Dentists are useless,” he said, words muffled around the finger in his mouth. “Taking your money just to tell you something you already know.”

She sighed, as the water began to return to its rolling boil. She stirred it once with a slotted spoon—a wedding gift, half melted—then put it down on the stainless steel countertop.

“Don’t worry about the money,” she said, finally looking at him. He was staring up at the ceiling, prodding his tooth with the finger in his mouth and wincing. “This is why we have savings.”

“That’s for the basement,” he said, “and the…”

He turned to walk back over to his toolbox.

“I can just take it out myself,” he said. The box popped open with a tinny clang and he rummaged inside.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “If you don’t want to make the appointment, I can make it for you.”

Leaving the boiling pasta behind, she crossed the kitchen and put a hand on his shoulder. He turned. In his hands, he cradled a pair of needle nose pliers, its shiny metal beak open and hungry.

“Infection can spread quickly,” he said.

Before he could say anything else, she snatched the pliers from his hand.

“You’re not ripping your tooth out,” she said, slipping them into the pocket of her sweatpants. “Now go clean up. Dinner will be ready in fifteen.”

Though the pliers were now out of sight, their weight still sat between them, an unfulfilled promise. She laid a hand on his cheek; gently, so as not to hurt him, and offered a smile, one he reluctantly returned.

“I’m going to get a quick shower,” he said finally.

“I’ll keep it warm for you.”

It was only when she heard the bathroom door shut and the water begin to run that she pulled the tool from her pocket. She buried it in the bottom of his toolbox, careful not to make too much noise, and shut the lid tight.

Two days later, she awoke in the middle of the night to a distant sound. It was dark, the glow from the street lights outside muted through the curtains. She rolled over in bed and reached for him, but the covers on his side were neatly tucked, as if he’d never been there at all. From somewhere beyond the closed bedroom door came a soft rasping sound. Slowly, she rose from the bed and crossed to the door, grabbing the baseball bat they kept in the corner and gripping it tight. She eased the door open and carefully descended the stairs, muscle memory guiding her steps in the dark.

Deep purple shadows bathed the living room. The armchair, the coffee table, the couch. One of the windows still had its curtain closed, the pattern of contrasting chevrons glowing from the light outside. In front of the other window, a splash of yellow light spilling in through the open curtain, sat a three legged stool. One of the ones they’d bought when they were first married, before they’d had enough money to put chairs around the kitchen table. And in that stool sat her husband, his back hunched, his face to the window. The toolbox sitting on the floor at his side, the lid thrown open.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. Though they were the only ones in the house, she felt the need to whisper. 

He jerked around to face her. His hair was wild, his face streaked with moisture, which glistened in the yellow light. In his right hand, he gripped the handle of the pilers. The other end was lodged in his mouth.

She took the rest of the stairs in twos, nearly losing her footing on the last one and stumbling into the back of the couch. She dropped the bat to the floor and rushed over to him. Kneeling at his side, she stared up into his face.

“I got half of it out,” he said around the pliers. “But I can’t. The rest.”

Now so close, she could see that his face was wet with more than tears. Around his mouth, a smear of red, dripping onto his hand. In his lap, she could see a cracked bit of tooth painted crimson, staining his pajama pants.

“Why?” she said, fear in her voice. She went to smack at his hand, but stopped for fear she might hurt him. “Get that out of your mouth.”

“I have to get the rest,” he said. “It hurts.”

It was rare that she’d seen him cry. A handful of times when they were dating. When his mom died. Their wedding. But those tears had never been like this. Pain, fear, yes. But this was wild too. Something caged, frantically scratching for a door. She watched as he suddenly coiled his body and pulled, another pained rasp escaping his lungs.

“Stop,” she said, now grabbing his hand. “Stop.”

“I have to,” he sobbed. He sucked in a breath, as if to try again, but she gripped his wrist tightly, sliding her hand up to the pliers.

“Stop,” she said again. “Let me.”

His watery eyes met hers. Once, when she was a child, she and her father had found a cat injured by the side of the road. Its leg was broken; it could barely walk. She had begged him to take it home so they could nurse it back to health. He’d said that doing so would only hurt it in the long run. That if it was going to survive, it needed to learn how to heal on its own. Their relationship had never been the same after that.

Her husband closed his eyes, a few tears squeezing out around his eyelids. He let his hand drop from the pliers. 

She stood, gripping the handle tightly, positioning herself for better leverage.

“Ready?” she said, her voice shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered around the tool. “I’m sorry.”

With a sharp twist of her shoulder, she wrenched the tooth from his jaw. For a moment, there was silence, followed quickly by a wail of relief, the room filling once again with air, like the brand-new lungs of a newborn.