Free The Flood Girls by Richard Fifield

behind finding things to be grateful for and her close proximity to the space heaters made her sweat. It had become bitterly cold again, just like that, predictable for the last days of February.
    When the knock came, Rachel pushed her face against the plastic sheeting that covered her living room window. She could barely ascertain the flash of red.
    A volunteer fireman occupied her porch—they all wore red mesh baseball caps outside the hall, like a flock of brutish cardinals. They always grouped together in crowds, at basketball games and at spaghetti feeds. The fraternity of the black QVFD jackets and red heads made them look like a pack of matches.
    In her sweatpants and giant New Order T-shirt, with her hair still stuck to her cheek from perspiration, she answered the door.
    She caught Bucky as he was about to knock again. He stopped himself before he could knock right on her face. He was distracted, staring at the mess outside the trailer house.
    â€œWhat?” She was irritated. She had a suspicion that this ugly young man had come to sell more raffle tickets.
    â€œHeard you needed a handyman.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I’m not licensed or anything, but I know my way around a trailer house.”
    â€œJesus,” she said. Rachel had forgotten how fast word got out in Quinn, how it swept through without consideration, yet another fire through town.
    â€œI have references,” he continued. “I waited a week before I came over.”
    â€œOh,” she said. She was so shipwrecked lately that she’d lost track of time. She felt that she should be carving marks in the wall with a kitchen knife to keep track of every day she spent making her amends.
    â€œCan I come in?” He pointed to her living room. She opened the door and stepped back; her living room was a junkyard. With her foot, she pushed the gratitude list under the pillow she had been sitting on—it had been a short list anyway. One: having a job. Two: continuing her sobriety. Three: being a natural blonde.
    She felt sorry for both of them. At least Bucky could blame his misfortune on his teeth. Her new home was becoming a halfway house for pathetic creatures.
    He entered her living room and let out a low whistle.
    â€œI know,” she said. “You don’t have to make me feel like shit.”
    â€œYou got some soft spots,” he pronounced, and knelt down by the giant dimple in the center of her carpet.
    â€œYou have no idea,” she said, and yawned.
    Crouching down, his knees stuck out, sharp enough to be another tool. He needed a haircut. His hair was jet-black, and it curled around the back of his cap. He stood up, and he was at least six inches taller than she was; he seemed to be composed entirely of gangly limbs and jutting teeth.
    â€œCan I make you some coffee?” She had only two mugs, one of which held her toothbrush.
    â€œNo, thanks,” he said. He quietly regarded the kitchen. The coffee could wait.
    â€œThere aren’t any problems here,” she said. “This is the one room that works.”
    â€œBlack mold,” said Bucky, standing in a dark corner, where the linoleum of the kitchen floor disappeared under the baseboard. Rachel had just assumed those shadows were bad lighting.
    â€œWhat the fuck is black mold?”
    â€œIt’s the worst kind you can get,” he said. He crouched down to inspect it, dug a finger into the darkness, brought his hand over to Rachel, his whole arm extended outward as if the black mold was so dangerous he didn’t want it near his body. “I suspect the whole floor is rotten.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” said Rachel. “Can I spray it or something?”
    â€œLady, you aren’t even supposed to be breathing right now. This stuff has spores, and it poisons the air.”
    â€œFabulous,” she said. “I’m going to take my chances.” Bucky removed a pocketknife from his jeans