Free Woodsburner by John Pipkin

they smiled. The dozen or so tobacco-stained teeth still left in Mr. Woburn's gums lie sunken in the shadows of his mouth like a clumsily harvested field. And Emma's teeth were scarcely better, gray and square, overlapping as if there were simply too many for her small mouth. When she smiled, though, Odd saw only her happiness; she appeared exactly as she should be, which made Odd all the more intent on hiding his own flaws.
    What vexes him most about his rotted infant tooth is the wayit draws attention to his other teeth, which appeared unnaturally flawless, straight, white, and intact. Years earlier, he cracked a molar on a buckshot pellet in a shank of venison, but this mishap left behind a void noticeable to no one save himself. He makes no extraordinary efforts to care for his teeth, aside from scraping them clean once a month with the splintered end of a chewed stick. They were bestowed upon him like an inheritance, unasked for, unearned. Every Hus in the Old World likewise possessed a broad and brilliant smile, one that seemed as if it bespoke a flawless soul, a smile that surely aided the disreputable ones in their wicked pursuits. People might estimate a man's character by his eyes, Odd thinks, but they will gauge his intent by the shape of his smile every time.
    Odd has tried to work the infant tooth loose on more than one occasion, but its sinewy resistance always made him think of meat pulled from the bone, and the sensation forced him to abandon every attempt. The roots of the dead thing would not let go. A barber once asked him where he had obtained such masterfully carved dentures, finding it unbelievable that a man entering his third decade of life might retain all of his natural teeth in so remarkable a condition. Upon realizing his error, the man offered to extract the dead tooth for free, but as he demonstrated the gleaming forceps and the practiced yank Odd swooned.
    “
Odd-
mund!”
    Odd hears Emma call for him again, and he quickens his pace. He knows she will see him once he reaches the top of the rise. He can already picture her: knuckles rolled inward against plump hips, rounded shoulders thrown back, one foot turned outward. He brushes away the crumbs of dirt still clinging to his shirtfront, slaps his thighs and knees, checks and rechecks his trousers, making sure there is no cause for embarrassment. His clothes are mottled with dirt and grass and animal stains, greasy imprints ofmanure and feed, dried outlines and dark patches of fresh sweat. He sees nothing shameful.
    Odd mounts the gentle swell at the farm's center, and with every step the horizon rocks up into his line of sight, a little more each time, until the house pops into view: first the chimney, then the weathered gray roof, then the white shingles and the second floor windows, and at last the green door and the crooked porch with Emma before it. The farm's chickens are gathered around her feet in worship. She is almost as he has pictured her. The sun lights her hair, single strands bright as fire straying from the mass of dull orange curls hanging to her shoulders. She stands with hands at hips, feet together at right angles, head thrown back, as though she were trying to balance the weight of her cheeks on her short neck. The sight never fails to make Odd catch his breath. He feels his steps stutter as his feet suddenly grow uncertain of themselves.
    Emma's voice is soft and confident, like the hum of swarming honeybees, a voice capable of achieving distance-conquering volume without becoming harsh or grating. Her accent carries no remnant of what she suffered before leaving the famines and plagues of her native Ireland. When she calls him, she stretches out the first syllable like an invocation:
Odd-mund
. She is the only person who uses his full name. She listened with interest when he explained to her that his name was rich with meaning. He told her how
Odd
came from
Oddin
, meaning “the point of a sword,” and
mund
from
mundin
,