Tooth and Truth Munching on bits of gouda and swiss, I digested the problem before me. All had been more or less well until that morning. The previous night the family inhaled entire racks of ribs, sucked down crab, and popped shrimp until we all had a nice glossy coat of barbecue sauce and butter. My Aunt Pat was getting married come the dawn, and we celebrated the nuptials in the usual gustatory manner. Those who had chosen the seafood route of engorgement suffered the consequences of food poisoning; I was told that my soon-to-be-Uncle Chuck had spent the morning puking. He looked rather well by the end of the wedding mass, though, and most others just felt a little ill. That was not the problem I pondered. During that evening's meal, my middle sister Amy had a baby tooth give way to the toughness of the dish she was eating. In short, the tooth popped out, and I think she swallowed it. It would've made sense if she had; her and my youngest sister Carey's teeth were both like little corn kernels. They even had the color of pale yellow corn, due to the lack of enamel on them. Whether intact or in-stomach, the teeth were exchanged for money in the usual way overnight via the Tooth Fairy. This was the origin of my complaint. Amy had gotten a quarter. I had always gotten dimes for my teeth. Something was not right. I didn't say anything that morning; we had to put on the flower girl dresses Ma had made, remember what we were supposed to do, pose for pictures, and think about the party to come. I was still enjoying the presents Dad had brought as well as trying to decide if I liked his moustache. Ma told us he had also grown a beard, but she got him to shave it off when she visited him in New York. These matters absorbed me well into the reception. Luckily, food was served in a catch-as-catch-can manner -- no kiddie table ghetto for me this time, no having to watch my older cousin Kelli reign over the younger cousins. This novel arrangement didn't help me much escape the reality of Kelli's queendom, though. There was a larger mix of adults here than I usually saw, talking about things and people I had never heard of before. "Mary Pat" hung in the conversational atmosphere constantly, which I had had to concentrate to ignore -- you see, Aunt Pat and I share given names. Sharing was imposed on me from every quarter. Once upon a time, I had been an only child, but I was too young then to realize the benefits of that situation. Then came Amy. I hardly noticed her for awhile, thinking her a mere benign addition to the family; upon return from my grandparents house, I walked past mother and child heading straight for Dad, "What did you get me?" Amy was beneath my notice, no threat to me, I thought. I taught Amy how to climb out of her crib, as I had done when I was a little older than she was then. Later Amy and I taught Carey the same, and she was out and about at a much earlier age. Little did I know at the time I was eroding my authority, privelege, and superior position as oldest child just so I could have a couple of playmates. Early on, all concessions I won through hard-fought battles were almost immediately extended to Amy, and then Carey. I convince Ma to let me go to bed at 8, a whole half-hour or "muppet" later than previously, Amy would have the same bedtime a month later. I wheedle a raise in allowance for myself, Amy and Carey saw the benefits as well. I find out where babies come from, but we all learn this at the same time. I had to share my books, I had to share my toys, I had to share my parents! And now the greatest indignity of all: Amy had gotten a quarter. I am two and a half years older than Amy, and at 8 years old, my tooth-losing days were, for the most part, behind me. It seemed odd to me that in a short amount of time the market price of teeth had increased. It seemed unfair that I, the oldest child, who had the largest, whitest, most enameled-covered teeth got piddly for my dental offerings, and Amy got enough to put into the candy machines at the grocery store. Amy had most of her teeth capped with metal crowns, but the one she lost had no metal on it. If she got a quarter for this one, what would she get for one with _metal_? Fifty cents? Maybe she got more because she lost it on a special occasion -- would she get a dollar if she lost a tooth on her birthday during a solar eclipse (those being extra-magical teeth good for the fairying business)? Well, okay, I wasn't thinking in those terms, but my ideas weren't much different. I was dimly aware that prices changed, that there was something called inflation that kept increasing how much Ma paid for milk and steak. However, I wasn't sure that fairies should be swayed by such worldly things. Perhaps I had some innate number sense that told me inflation would have to be over 50% to account for such a raise. I doubt it. The pounding thought just kept gonging like an alarm: Amy got a quarter, I got dimes. The party soon ended, and we retired to our rooms. Now was the time, I thought, to get some sort of explanation. Dad would be going back to New York for a little while longer, so this injustice had to be righted immediately. Amy and Carey were napping in our hotel room, so I went next door to see my parents. No reason to delay, I thought. Besides, it might be better not to have extra witnesses, as I might find out again that my position as oldest child counted for naught. "Why did Amy get a quarter and I only ever got dimes?" I demanded querulously. Dad looked at Ma. Ma looked at Dad. They tried not to look at me. I can't even remember the explanation they gave, it was so weak. All I could see was their fidgeting and looking around the room. They kept talking to fill the void, trying one attack after another. Suddenly, I was no longer indignant over the injustice for a darker thought had bubbled up from the bottom of my mind: the Tooth Fairy isn't real. I had heard of this before -- from larger, older, cockier kids. Usually it was Santa Claus whose existence was denied. However, I didn't listen to them; how could they deny the proof? Didn't presents show up miraculously in our house during evening Mass and dinner? Weren't baskets hidden with goodies galore in the house Easter morning? Didn't my teeth disappear and coins take their place? Couldn't only a supernatural being know I had lost a tooth, when I had swallowed it? Besides, I considered the source of these rumors. These were the same kids who bloodied themselves popping wheelies, tried to fish out dead water moccasins from the creek, and in general undermined their authority in prevailing in matters profound. Still, Ma and Dad were acting kind of strangely, as if they had been carrying a 50-pound sack of sugar for miles and didn't want to carry it anymore. Ma picking up the hotel stationary and putting it back down, Dad playing with his caterpillar-like moustache -- these were not the acts of parents at ease. Something was up, and I had to know the truth now. "You're the Tooth Fairy, aren't y'all?" I asked simply, for I was no longer angry and I really didn't care one way or another. I just wanted to know. They admitted they were. After a moment of considering this, I made the obvious deduction, "I guess that means there's no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny either." They agreed to that as well. I suppose I could have extended my newfound skepticism to ghosts, ESP, dinosaurs, Jesus, God, ancient history, foreign languages, atoms, the roundness of the earth -- things adults had told me about, perhaps even showed me pictures of, that I had never actually seen. However, that holiday triumvirate shared one major aspect that all the other unobserved objects did not: they all gave presents. Money, candy, and gifts damned them. I've heard that for some people, finding out that these childhood gift-givers didn't really exist was a loss of innocence, that the truth killed the realness of fantasies, imaginary friends, fairy tales. Holidays lose their sparkle because there's no pixie dust intervening between the store and opening of the presents. Some people say that it made them lose faith in their parents. Realizing that one's parents would lie to one can be harsh to some, starting a little tear that rips a huge rift through adolescence. No such dagger blow was driven in my heart. I became smug. I didn't tell Amy or Carey about my discovery, this information was _mine_. If being oldest was going to count for anything, it had to stay mine. So I boosted these little white lies of my parents more than I ever did when I naively believed them. I was the first to say I heard the "hooves on the rooves", the first to exclaim on the fifty cents that Carey received for her teeth ("Isn't that great? Did you feel the Fairy put it under there?"), the first to look for the bunny trail. I wrapped my younger sisters in the warm fog of these stories, trying to keep them from the truth that only I shared with our parents. Despite all my efforts, they did find out eventually (it would be interesting to meet a 20-year-old who believed in Santa Claus), but the benefits have lasted long since then. My support in their lie earned the trust of my parents, so I was endowed with other secrets -- secrets that I never had to share with my sisters. I would get to help pick out birthday presents because I wouldn't shout out "You're gonna love the pink nightgown we got you!"; I got special trips to get ice cream or fried chicken because I wouldn't parade it in front of my sisters. Looking back on these perks, I wish only that I could've found out the truth earlier.