Extraction by Chuck Augello

I was already late for a dental appointment when she told me my father liked to wear lingerie.
    ”Are you sure?” I asked.
     Amy stood by the dresser, hands planted on her hips, a skeptical smile hidden in her grimace, as if this was phase two of some master plan to exasperate her. “I went down to grab more paper towels and there he was: standing by the dryer in that pink nightgown you bought me for Valentine’s Day. It was all stretched out. I mean, come on, there’s no way your father is a size six.”
     “He wore the pink one? Damn it: that was my favorite. Remember that night we—”
     She shook her head. “I’m never wearing it again.”
     My father was staying with us while his condo in Long Beach was being fumigated. They’d found an entire ant civilization in the kitchen. Since Mom had died, things had gone to seed. The ants had taken over, begun to redecorate. I wondered if Dad dressed up in Mom’s old slips and housecoats. Three times he’d refused when my sister and I offered to pack up her things and bring them to the Salvation Army. The last time he’d said, “No. I’m not giving her clothes away. Understand?” in a voice that made us eight years old again, wondering if we’d lost our TV privileges or the next week’s allowance.
     “You need to do something,” Amy said.
     I pointed at my mouth. “It’s very painful,” I told her. My father was still in the basement when I slipped out the back.
     I made it to the dentist a half hour late but he took me anyway. He was a young guy, new to the area. I’d seen him pull into the lot one time in a Honda Civic when I was early for an appointment. I had my doubts about a dentist who drove a cheaper car than I did. All that gingivitis and halitosis should at least put you in an Acura.
     “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he smiled as he lowered the chair to a forty-five degree angle. I stared at the tips of my shoes as he probed and poked at my gums. I started daydreaming about Michelle Costello, the first girl I ever saw in her underwear. She wore a plain white bra and white cotton underpants with a butterfly at the hip. We were sophomore, friends from concert band; she played the flute while I played saxophone. I made it to second base a few times before she realized she preferred trumpet players and the occasional trombone. Thinking about Michelle in her underwear helped mitigate the pain in my mouth, but suddenly, horribly, it became my father who I imagined in those white cotton underpants, butterfly and all.
     I heard the dentist say something about an extraction. “Three of them look really bad, and the fourth is on its way,” he said. “I can pull them on Friday morning if you’re free.”
     “Are you sure?” I asked him.
    ”If they hurt now, in another month it will be excruciating,” he said. “Your insurance will cover it. Why procrastinate?”
     Amy was in the kitchen when I snuck back in the house. “Are you going to talk to him?” She liked my Dad but clearly she was freaked. He’d gone to the supermarket to pick up a frozen dinner. Amy and I were both good cooks but Dad preferred a Lean Cuisine or Swanson’s Turkey and Mashed Potatoes with Apple Cobbler.
     I went into the guest bedroom and pulled his suitcase from under the bed. Was this how he’d felt when he searched my room for pot back in high school? Boxers or briefs, it didn’t matter as long as I didn’t find bikinis or, God forbid, a thong. I opened the suitcase, found the usual: socks, two golf shirts, a pair of striped boxer shorts rolled into a ball. I felt better, than felt worse when I saw a black bra and one of Amy’s nightgowns jammed into the sleeve of his windbreaker.
     It had been almost a year since Mom had died suddenly, a heart attack on the frozen food aisle at Shop Rite. Dad didn’t say much about it except, “I was supposed to die first, you know. That’s nature.”
     Amy poked her head through the half-open door. “Is that what I think it is?”
     I closed the suitcase and pushed it back under the bed.
     “You need to say something,” Amy said. “What happens if he’s in an accident and taken to the hospital? He’ll be humiliated.”
     “Okay,” I said, but couldn’t imagine how such a conversation might begin. I lacked the vocabulary; sentence structure would abandon me. I’d be left trembling and mute, clutching a Victoria’s Secret catalog and pointing at the photographs.
     I called the dentist and told him I was free the following Thursday. He scheduled the extractions. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you something for the pain,” he assured me. “There’ll be forty-eight hours of discomfort, and then you’ll be fine. You won’t even know they’re gone.”
     For dinner I made stuffed shells with broccoli rabe sautéed in a white wine reduction. Dad ate a Hungry Man TV Dinner and a fistful of baby carrots. He wore a blue T-shirt and dark Bermuda shorts; when he walked to the fridge to refill his iced tea I studied his back for the outlines of a bra strap. Amy’s foot nudged me under the table.
     After dinner I asked him to help me in the yard. “The lawn mower is on the fritz again.”
     We walked outside, my wisdom teeth throbbing. I had done some research on counseling services, support groups for widowers; I’d even found a retirement home for transvestites in Miami Beach. When I was twelve Dad handed me a book about sex and said “Let me know if you have any questions.” Why couldn’t I have it that easy? Where was the book about old men who stole lingerie?
     Dad looked at the mower. “Probably a loose spark plug,” he said. “Your mother always made me disconnect the spark plug after I mowed the lawn. Did you know that? She was afraid you or your sister would start it up by accident and loose a toe or a thumb to the blade. Your Mom: she always looked after us, kept us safe.”
     “I know,” I said. My voice cracked. I was twelve again.
     “Forty-four years,” he said. “How many years have you been with Amy now?”
    ”November is our third anniversary.”
     “A blink of an eye,” he said. “Forty-four years.” He tightened the spark plug and started the mower. It roared twice before he let go of the safety bar. I saw Amy watching us from the window, her face half-shrouded by the curtain. She knew me well, was certain I’d wimp out. I put my hand on Dad’s shoulder to make it look good.
     “That damn A.J. Burnett,” I said. “How do you walk three men to start off a game?”
     Dad shook his head gravely. “Lack of control,” he said. “Lack of focus.”
     Amy dropped the curtain and stepped from the window. Dad reached down and pulled out the spark plug. “Just in case your mother is watching,” he said.
     The next day the exterminator called and said Dad could go back home. The ants were finally gone. Dad shook my hand and gave Amy a big hug. “Thanks for letting me crash,” he said.
     After he left Amy filled two garbage bags with underwear and nightgowns and donated everything to Goodwill. We drove to the mall, and I waited at the Food Court while Amy charged nine hundred and forty-eight dollars on my Visa.
     I called the dentist, asked if we could do the extractions one at a time.
    ”As your doctor I advise against that,” he said. “The pain is never as bad as anticipated. Get it over with and let the healing begin.”
     Back home Amy put on a fashion show with her new lingerie. I sat on the bed as she modeled a black silk nightie, let it drop to the floor, and then modeled a pink one. All of that silk and lace was intoxicating.
     “How do I look in this?” she said, turning toward me in powder blue. If she were gone, I would sew her nightgowns into a quilt and never leave the bed.
     The phone rang. It was Dad. I heard the game on in the background. It was the top of the fourth, he said, and Burnett was at it again. I asked him about the ants.
     “All gone,” he said. “I haven’t seen a trace of them.”
    Amy stepped out of the nightgown and blew me a kiss. I heard Dad take a deep breath. “Damn ants,” he said. “I think I miss them.”
     I imagined him alone in his condo, sitting on the couch in Amy’s old pink nightie, his bony knees pointing toward the empty rocking chair by the wall. “Me, too,” I said.

About the author:

My work has appeared previously in decomP, Pindeldyboz, Pure Francis, The Santa Fe Literary Review, and other journals including, happily, Word Riot. Stories are upcoming in Hobart, Muse & Stone, and The Dark Comedy Review.