What Darla Does When the Tooth Fairy Dies
By Ann Rosenquist Fee


Darla doesn’t talk about the teeth in her hair, or the panties she buys in black-pink-sheer S-M-L-XL, or the trance that swirls her skin every time she sneaks into a house in the nicer part of town. Darla never gets caught thanks to the cover of nut-sweet air, the soybean breeze from the Honeymead plant that floats a hormone cologne through every alley and mail slot and lipstick mouth in Darla’s town. Eau de phytoestrogen. A scent that makes the women dreamy swoony drunk and makes Darla, in particular, shimmery and generous.

The scent swirls Darla’s skin every time Rock loses – lost, those days are gone – a baby tooth and tucks it soft and bloody in his flannel sheets. She waits until midnight those nights. Then she slips in quiet, checks his breath for the deep-sleep rise and fall, puts her cheek on his cheek to feel his heat and smell his hair, and then sticks a hand under the pillow to collect the tooth. Darla puts it in a Ziplock with the others, flesh and bone souvenirs of the nights she glides around Rock in the dark as whole and quiet as when he was a tiny thing inside her. She dusts the hallway and Rock’s sheets with a trail of lime and lavender sparkle powder. If the windows are open, the powder mixes with the soybean smell and the blend makes Darla’s blood pound so hard her skin glows.

Tooth Fairy Darla tucks – used to tuck – a single golden Sacajawea dollar along with a tiny velvet pouch or tin lantern or a dollhouse-sized balsa-wood bookshelf from Don’s Hobby and Miniatures, where she works part-time, back between Rock’s sheets. She holds the bag of teeth in her palm sometimes for a long time. She feels bigger than she is. Bigger than the room, than their rowhouse, than the whole row of eight on Parsons Street.

Those mornings-after Rock hollers. He jumps foot to foot, making stomp noises now that his feet are almost as big as Darla’s, dollar in one hand and toy in the other. Darla thinks he’s faking by now, he’s too old, he can’t possibly still believe. But he stands there in his pajamas and asks, do you think she’s tiny? Do you think she made this? Is this her on the coin? Did you see her? And Darla just smiles, a glimmery lime-and-lavender force of good. Never mind what she can’t hold together. Never mind no husband any more. Never mind a mother and sisters who knew all along Darla could never keep that kind of man. Darla. Get your head out of the sky. Darla.

Tooth Fairy mornings, the coins and powder, Rock’s big feet and Darla’s plain brown hair, it all hangs together. Just right. Like a glass bead curtain. A soft funnel of angel hair batting, white and silver, the kind Don’s has on sale for $4.99. A Darla-shaped cumulus of magic.

Until Rock’s baby teeth are almost all gone and one time in the car he asks whether the Tooth Fairy is real. Darla has to pull over to say it, she pulls off the road so she can turn all the way around even though it’s even worse when she has to look right at him, and she says no. She has to – he’s in fifth grade, he’s eleven, the very last one in his class to believe. She doesn’t want Rock to feel stupid in front of the girls who more and more often call during dinner to giggle and hang up.

It’s not that I care so much about the Tooth Fairy, Rock says. I just can’t believe you lied.

What Darla can’t believe is that the Tooth Fairy is dead yet the Honeymead plant keeps sending its scent her way. What’s she supposed to do about the swirl in her blood? Where’s she supposed to sprinkle lime-lavender powder? When she’s on closing duty at Don’s Hobby, what is she supposed to buy on discount? And for whom?

For one whole cold April, Darla grits her teeth against the breeze and lies awake on the nights that used to make her float across the hardwood floor.

Darla’s about to lock the shop doors against a damp spring sunset when Don’s wife Rhonda shows up looking for scrapbooking supplies. Which Don doesn’t stock, which is partly why the store’s quiet a lot these days, customers thronging instead to the new Hobby Lobby to get their themed stickers and scissors with blades that make fleurs-des-lis.

Rhonda rolls her eyes and pretend-smacks her forehead and says she forgot her husband’s store doesn’t carry those things. Then she leans against a Sharpie display and says, mind some company while you lock up?

Darla says sure, that’s fine, and she forgets about shopping for miniatures this time partly because of Rhonda and partly because of Rock’s new life as a boy who has permanent teeth and gets calls from girls. Who’s no longer enchanted by glitter or balsa wood. Darla grabs the dust mop and walks the aisles slower than usual to show she’s listening.

Rhonda says, I don’t know, Darla, why wouldn’t he carry scrapbooking supplies if that’s what everybody wants? Do you think you could talk some sense into him? He listens to you, he really does, he raves about how great you are. He says you’re so creative, the way you set up displays and oh, God, what was it last week, how you decorated the pen jar at the checkout with little miniature birds all stuck out on armature wire? Like they’re flying? He loved that. Customers love that. All springy for spring.

Thanks, Darla says, and they walk toward the back room so Darla can put the mop away and shut the lights off.

Rhonda walks in ahead of her and opens the mop closet and says Darla, you just seem like you have it so together, I can’t see why your husband left, I just don’t know. God, I – I’m sorry, is this too much? it’s just that I can’t think of anyone else to tell, and you’re so creative, Darla, really, I just thought – Don’s bored. I think. With me.

Darla keeps the lights on and checks the clock on the wall over Rhonda’s head. Five-thirty which means Rock’s been dropped off by the after-school-care bus, probably just getting started on a can of Pringles and iChatting with Jessie and Jessica. Probably fine for a few minutes more.

What have you tried? Darla asks.

Well, nothing yet, Rhonda says. What am I supposed to do? Pretend we’re dating again after twenty years? Wear lingerie? On my fat ass? Actually he’d probably love that. But not like he’s going to buy it for me. And I just can’t. I don’t know. I can’t talk to my other friends, we all have the same problem and nobody knows what to do. I don’t know. Darla, I don’t know.

They stand against the mop closet, arms folded and eyes locked, Rhonda’s head shaking back and forth mm-mm-mm in frustration and Darla’s in sympathy.

And then Rhonda says God, Darla. I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I had to tell you. I’m not sure. That thing you did with the birds, the stuff Don always says. I thought you might know just what to do.

Darla cuts her off and says, it’s fine. I get it. I’ll give it some thought.

Darla locks the front door behind her and gets in the car and calls Rock.

Hi, Rock, she says. Everything okay? Did you start your homework? Did you make a snack?

Hi mom, yes and yes and yes, Rock says. Are you coming home soon?

On my way, Darla says. Unless you want McDonald’s. If you don’t mind if it takes a little longer.

McDonald’s! Rock says. Can I hang up now?

Ok, Darla says. McDonald’s. Now you can hang up.

McDonald’s is in the same parking lot as the JC Penney wing of the mall, and Darla parks and runs in and walks straight to the back where the lingerie is. Not underwear like she imagines Rhonda usually wears, the briefs in three-packs on the back wall. Lingerie. Laid out in patterns on tiered round tables like lacy layer cakes.

Darla picks through the ruffles and bows and finds panties in simple, sheer black except the cotton panel. Stringy satin at the hips. Not latex or crotchless or edible, but not Hanes for Her poly-cotton, either. Darla buys one pair, size L. The fabric is so slight that when she gathers it up it fits in the palm of her hand.

Darla knows Don stops for coffee at Fillin’ Station on Front Street every day at eight before he opens the store at ten. At eight fifteen, after Rock’s on the bus to school, Darla drives the two miles to Don and Rhonda’s split-level. She’s only been there for the annual Christmas party and the annual summer cookout and she doesn’t know what Rhonda drives or if she goes somewhere during the day, but the driveway’s empty. The side door is open and when Darla calls out hello, Rhonda, hello, there’s no answer.

Darla’s blood pounds. The house is closer to the Honeymead plant than Parsons Street so the sweet nutty smell is strong, and it makes Darla breathe deep. She slips off her shoes and walks light and barefoot up the stairs to where she figures Don and Rhonda’s bedroom is.

The bed has two stacks of pillows, two flat bottom ones with white cotton cases and two fluffy top ones with quilted shams. Rhonda’s side table, Darla guesses, is the one with lotion, Kleenex and More magazine – Celebrating Women 40+ – in a tidy stack. Not the one with the clock radio, art supply catalogs, a sock and four empty cups stuck to the wood.

Darla walks to Rhonda’s stacked pillows and tucks the sheer black panties in between. She hadn’t thought to bring any shimmer powder so she stretches her arms wide and swirls her hands a little over Rhonda’s quilt. She takes a deep breath of the sweet soybean air and it pulls her up, spreads her out, the Darla-shaped cumulus.

Next time Darla’s about to close the store Rhonda comes in and asks, got a minute?

Darla says, sure. Rhonda nods to the back room and they take their places at the mop closet.

Rhonda leans in and says, you won’t believe, Darla! you won’t believe what he came home with. That next day after we talked. These panties, Darla, just this one pair of black things and he stuck them under my pillow like he was all shy about it so I didn’t say anything, I just tried them out and he acted all surprised and oh! Anyway. Darla. What did you do, talk to him that next day?

No, Darla says. Didn’t say a thing.

Well, Rhonda says. I’m not sure for what, then, but thanks.

She leans in and puts her arms around Darla and their faces touch, Rhonda’s Clinique-smelling cheek down on Darla’s plain clean one. Rhonda’s dyed-red shoulder-length bob against Darla’s long brown waves. Darla’s blood pounds. She looks up to check the clock behind Rhonda’s head. Five-fifteen. Rock is fine at home. Plenty of time to run to the mall for more slight silky things that fit in her palm.

Darla buys more than black this time and more than size L. She knows the friends Rhonda’s talking about, the ones whose husbands are bored. They meet at the store Monday afternoons for bead-stringing classes. Rhonda insists Don hire a bead teacher so the store has something to compete with Hobby Lobby. The teacher comes every Monday with tubs of beads and wire and tools, and a dozen of Rhonda’s friends sit at the long project table to make necklaces. One time, for a special extra charge, they make rings with wire twisted around real gemstones. Today it’s pendants with a slouchy knot.

Before class Darla pulls pens and markers off the shelves and onto the floor. The pen and marker endcaps are close to the project table and Darla needs something to rearrange, something to do, where she can hear what the beaders need.

BethAnn picks a turquoise stone that looks like chewed gum and starts in on how her husband never pays attention to her or anything else. Julie has her own heirloom cameo for the pendant but it’s not working, the filigree looks wrong with the slouchy-knotted leather, so she’s sorting beads into color piles and nodding along with BethAnn’s complaints and saying I know, my husband too, mine too.

Renee can’t get the slouchy knot right and her ex has the kids every other weekend but she can’t find a date, not a decent one, and she hasn’t been laid in a year.

Amy’s hunched over threading tiny corals onto her leather and says hey, Renee, you can have mine for a weekend, swear to God I wish he’d back off. He’s too big anyway, I wind up feeling like the thing’s about to puncture my lungs.

Darla’s endcaps are exquisite: Sharpie, Bic, Prismacolor cartons stacked and spiraled. Craft feathers and Spanish moss filling the empty spaces between the boxes and spilling over the sides of the shelves, a nice earthy complement to so much cardboard and black plastic, Darla thinks. It goes slow because she has to step away every few minutes to take notes on a clipboard: BethAnn, size M, blue pink red. Julie, size L, black. Renee, M? Toy? Amy, something for the size. The bead class registration list has their addresses.

At home after work Darla tells Rock they have to take turns on the computer. Twenty minutes at a time. Rock’s got windows open for homework, Age of Mythology and iChat. When his first twenty minutes are up Darla gives him a hug from behind and bends her face down into his hair. He smells like dried playground sweat and the coconut deodorant he picked out when Darla took him shopping for it a few months ago, right after the last molar fell out and before the calls and the iChats started.

Your time’s up, Rock, Darla says. My turn.

Darla goes to Google Earth to zoom in on aerials of BethAnn’s, Julie’s, Renee’s and Amy’s rooftops. They’re all in sprawly split-level developments with zero crime rates and most likely unlocked doors, but they’re spread across town. It’s going to take days. First the surveillance, then the deliveries. Not to mention the shopping. At least the panties are done – she’s got plenty of new JC Penney Ms and Ls in the right colors – but there’s the issue of a toy for Renee and something to keep Amy’s lungs from feeling punctured. Something like the Fisher Price ring-stacking toy Rock used to have. Darla makes a note on the clipboard. Later when she lays down on top of Rock’s covers to read him to sleep, she notices his big teeth are crowded. She adds to her clipboard list: orthodontist.

Darla takes the whole rest of that week to find the four houses and check times when they seem empty. She does it between getting Rock to the bus at eight-fifteen and going to work at ten. Darla never sees the husbands’ cars so she’s pretty sure they’re gone first thing. When the women’s cars are also gone they come back around eight-thirty with yoga mats rolled up and slung on their backs. They don’t leave after that, at least not while Darla’s still watching.

She checks times at the yoga studio: seven to eight-fifteen Monday, Wednesday, Friday. The only times she can be sure all four women are gone.

Darla spends the weekend getting ready. Friday night while Rock sleeps over at a friend’s house she makes a special grocery trip for Eggo Flipz and syrup. Rock’s never been by himself during the morning but Darla knows he knows how to use the toaster. And even though he’s too big to swoon to tiny surprises under his pillow, no reason Rock can’t benefit from Darla’s new cause.

After groceries Darla goes to RiskyFunIII, one of two sex shops in town and the one that seems cleaner from the outside. She looks first for something to help Renee. Something nice and pastel, with bunny ears that look like they’d hit just the right spot. The woman working asks if Darla found everything she was looking for, and Darla says no, actually, there’s something else. Do you have anything that would help with size?

Like, an enlarger pump? the woman asks.

No, Darla says, like the opposite. Like, something to keep it from going in so far. Like ring-toss rings, but tighter, or something.

Well, the woman says, you could try cock rings. I guess. I’ve never talked to anybody who used them for that but you could try.

She walks Darla to the wall where the rings hang in plastic packs: gel, vibrating, studded, cruelty-free nontoxic. Perfect, Darla says, they’re perfect. She buys three fat gel rings plus the sky-blue vibrator with the bunny ears and a pack of C batteries. She asks for separate bags. The pearly black plastic with pink raffia, pink or maybe dark purple, will work just right as wrapping.

Late that night she piles the gifts on her kitchen table and wraps them with tissue, twine, feathers, glitter, and the black plastic bags and raffia. She loses track of time. She stops now and then to stand still and let the spring air blowing in the screens fill her up inside, soy and ozone smells swirling and mixing with the playground sweat from Rock’s hat and jacket on the back of her chair. She feels bigger than the kitchen table. Bigger than a part-time worker at a floundering craft store. Bigger than a mother no longer able to pick up her sweating, big-footed, big crowded-toothed son. Darla looks out the kitchen window and the tree behind it makes a dark leafy outline, and Darla smiles at herself pale in glass. A pearly vibrating force of good. Stacked rings of Darla-shaped magic.

When she’s done wrapping gifts Darla gets the Ziploc of Rock’s teeth from her dresser drawer. She gets a packet of bobby pins from the bathroom. She dumps the bag and the packet on the kitchen table and wipes up a blob of craft cement with the rounded end of one pin. Enough for a tooth to stick. She sticks all eighteen bits of shiny milky bone to their own pin and when they’re dry, she slides a few under the waves around her crown.

On Sunday night Darla makes sure Rock knows how to use the toaster and how to watch the clock and leave at eight to walk to the bus stop, and makes him promise he’ll wear a coat even if it’s sunny out. He asks what she has to do, why she has to be gone so early. And why she has rocks in her hair.

Do you have to work early? Rock asks.

No, Darla says.

Then why do you have to be gone, he says.

And for the first time since the last Tooth Fairy morning Darla lies.

At six-fifty Monday morning, bobby-pin teeth in her hair and packages and clipboard in a basket on the front seat, Darla pulls away from the rowhouse curb and up the hill to BethAnn’s. In the side door. Up a staircase and down a hallway and then Darla slides a rainbow of ribbon and tissue paper and size-M satin and see-through nylon between BethAnn’s pillow case and topsheet.

At Julie’s the front porch door is open, and the door inside that, and the bedspread is so tight and smooth she isn’t sure anybody sleeps there ever. She leaves three pairs of lowcut and lacy black size Ls on the cluttered counter – perfume, lotion, Adult Formula Clearsil, a powderpuff – inside what looks like Julie’s own bathroom.

The dildo’s black bag with wads of pink and purple raffia is too big to slip under Renee’s pillow so Darla puts it on the floor next to the bed, between the end table and the dust ruffle, sticking out enough that Renee will see it but her kids won’t. At Amy’s house Darla slides the pillows a few inches away from the headboard so they won’t crush the cock rings – at the last minute, she’d thought it might help to show how they worked, so she’d taken one out of the package and stretched it onto a banana.

At eight-twenty Darla gets back into her car and pulls away from Amy’s curb. Her work is done. Rock is on the bus and she doesn’t have to be at Don’s for an hour and a half. She drives to the park next to the Honeymead plant. She parks, sits for a minute and looks at her clipboard: orthodontist. Darla calls the one number she jotted down, the first one in the Yellow Pages.

I need to schedule a consultation, she says.

Any preference for the time of day? the receptionist asks.

Darla needs to be at work Monday afternoons so she can to listen in on the beaders both in case they talk about the packages and in case they mention other things. Other yearnings. And she needs early mornings free to deliver. To drive around town curb to curb with a full basket in her front seat and pink sky glinting off the teeth in her hair.

Afternoons are good, Darla says. Anything but Mondays.

Darla writes the appointment on her clipboard and hangs up. It’s sixty degrees and the breeze is strong. She gets out of the car, takes off her shoes and socks and drops them back in the half-open window. She walks past the picnic area toward the trees and feels how it feels when the rough dead winter grass is still there but the new soft green crowds up from underneath.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com