The teeth do not only grow into your mouth, Swanny. Those are just the ones you can see. They grow into your rib cage, into your lungs and heart. I watched the teeth chew up my little boy, and then your father. It happened to the other Gray Ladies’ children too. For them it took just months. For you it is taking much longer. I do not know why.
But I do know that soon your teeth will leave no room inside for anything else.
I have hidden a manila folder under the lining of this chest. In it I have put X-rays from your dentist. You can look at them if you do not believe me. They show the teeth you have never seen, and new ones that have not yet dug in their roots. I am not telling you this to warn you: if the truth could save you, your mother would not have swaddled you in lies. I am not even telling you so you can lead a fuller life in what little time remains—I do not pretend to know what pain or joy this truth will bring. No. I am telling you because I once promised your father that I would educate you, and though your mother set me to different tasks, I will not break that promise. I owe that to him, to you—and most of all, to myself.
Here is your lesson, gordita: you will die. No name or title or fortune can ever protect you from that. Now here is your homework: how are you going to live?
Your housekeeper,
Corona
Swanny tears the letter to pieces, then holds the pieces together and reads it again. She shoves it into the pocket of her coat and flings the rest of her clothing from the trunk. The lining is red satin. Corona was never fond of sewing, and the place where she tore the fabric along the seam is sealed with a long shimmer of scotch tape. As promised, the X-rays are inside. Swanny’s hands shake as she holds them up to the light. It doesn’t take her long to see the nascent teeth, nestled between her ribs like fetuses. Corona has marked some of the larger ones with Pippi’s SIGN HERE stickies, the ones they used on all the contracts.
Swanny feels as though she’s in a dream as she rises from the floor. She wafts through the suite’s little parlor, into her mother’s room, and deftly, silently drifts between the pieces of furniture until she finds Pippi’s valise, the one with the valuables. She twists the combination lock—it’s always been the Wonland County area code, 666—and in the darkness moves aside the ring boxes and the cut-glass business trophies until she finds her mother’s gun.
Despite the curlicued monogram on the grip (PFD in a tangle of lines), it isn’t a lady’s pistol; it’s a double-action semiautomatic sidearm and Swanny has no idea how it works. Still, she lifts it up to her temple, experimentally, feeling the weight of it in her hand. The lamp switches on.
“Burglars!”
Her mother’s sleep mask has large Egyptian eyes embroidered where her real eyes should be; combined with the teal cream on her skin, it makes her look like an otherworldly thing: a septuagenarian Sphinx. She whips the blindfold off over her head.
“Swanny, drop that handgun this instant.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“In that case, perhaps I should use it on you.” She points the gun at her mother.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Pippi plucks a clawful of tissues from the box on the bedside table and begins to swab her face. “If you didn’t have someone to tie your stays, you’d never get your clothes on in the morning.”
“I know about the X-rays.” Swanny wipes her eyes on her sleeve.
“What X-rays?” Pippi’s voice snaps like dropped chalk.
“I’m sure you’re quite aware which ones I mean, Mother.” She articulates each word with care, aiming for some semblance of wounded dignity: “I know the truth. I know I’m going to die.”
Pippi swings her legs out of bed, pats her hair. “You are not going to die.”
“Don’t lie to me anymore. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear all this pointless, hollow playacting. I’m not even angry anymore. I simply feel nothing.”
“You feel nothing?” Pippi yanks a shearling robe around herself and knots the belt as if girding for battle.
“That’s right,” says Swanny, shrinking slightly.
“Well, perhaps you can try feeling grateful for a change.” The muscles of Pippi’s neck work as she grinds her teeth.
“Grateful?” Swanny laughs through her tears. “Grateful? Oh, Mother. I’m going to die, and you—”
“You’re going to die? Die? You’ll do nothing of the kind. Look at this house. Look at where I’ve taken you. Would you like to know a secret? I was born in an apartment, Swanny. I worked summers as a typist to pay my way through underschool. I was the top of my class at Hartford-Hazlett, and for overschool, I won a scholarship to Chokely Bradford’s business program—a scholarship, Swanny, back when they were still co-ed. I was their last female valedictorian, the last one in their history.”
“Mother, what does this even—”
But Pippi doesn’t stop. This is an aria.
“I was the last, and I was the finest. All my life I have watched the world dismantled around me, even as I climbed up into it. The day after my graduation, the first day of my assistantship, those goddamned dragons torched the roof of our office building. But I did not stop. I Did Not Stop. I have never let anything stop my getting what I want.
“I transformed McGuffin-Stork. I kept them on their toes. The conference rooms fell silent when I appeared. I remember when I met Humphrey Ripple. I took him out to lunch. I took him, Swanny.
“I got braces on my teeth at twelve, froze my eggs at twenty-two, and had you at my earliest convenience. You were a stellar embryo, a rowdy toddler, a willful child, and a stubborn girl. But never in my life did I expect you to disappoint me. Look at me, Swanny. Do you think your father made our millions? Your father? The poet? No. He was scion to a crumbling dynasty, squeaking by on name alone. No. It was me.” She glares at Swanny from deep within a fire of furious triumph. “You are my daughter. You will never die.”
Swanny shakes her head. She drops the gun on the floor and stares at it there for a long time.
“You’re senile,” Swanny says. The statement is so huge, it leaves no space in the room for air. And then she screams it: “You’re senile, you’re senile!” And then she’s running, in red flannel pajamas and a chinchilla coat, deep into the labyrinth of the house.
* * *