A droplet of sweat ran down her temple, and she wiped it away with her shoulder. Life hadn’t exactly turned out the way she had wanted it to. Girl was poor, depressed, and her muscles always ached. The city house they owned at the edge of the ghetto was falling apart, no matter how much she painted, sewed, and glued things together. Girl waged a constant battle to maintain a semblance of cleanliness: she cleaned up the mud, fur, and animal shit from their three dogs and four cats, and once that was done she retrieved the crusted dishes from the living room, emptied the urine-filled Gatorade bottles from the bedroom, picked the fast food wrappers up off the floor where her husband had tossed them, collected the drinking glasses scattered throughout the house, and then did the dishes. Girl looked at the filth and her heart sank further, her energy leaching out of her. That day, she just couldn’t do it.
Girl wandered off to see what Samson was doing, leaving the dishes to the flies for a while. She found him in the garage, trying to fix the used Weedwacker he had just bought. He knew Girl was depressed, knew the house was getting to her, but he just wanted to be left alone with his projects. He was happiest turning a wrench, taking apart motors, and making broken things function again. Samson didn’t turn to look at her as he worked, talking out the side of his mouth, his bald head covered in droplets of sweat and smudges of black grease. “Go to the mall,” he said. Girl left quickly, not bothering to look in the mirror or smooth her hair.
While she was at the mall, Girl fell in love with a jewelry box. It was a small, simple, wooden box, carved with flowers and curving lines. She didn’t buy it—it was eighty dollars. She thought about all the things that Samson had: four Harley-Davidsons in the garage, the ridiculously overpriced “collectible” plastic motorcycle models that came in the mail every month in two different sizes, any rare coin or stamp that caught his eye at the shops he frequented while Girl was at work. He denied himself nothing, and would deny Girl nothing as well, but she knew that they were always half a step away from having the utilities shut off, and at least one month behind on the mortgage. So she sighed, looked longingly at the box one more time, and then left.
As Girl drove down the street, she saw a fire truck parked at the other end. As she drew nearer the house, she could see that she would never get through with all the commotion, so Girl parked halfway down the block.
She smelled it before she saw it, and she half-walked, half-ran, her heart pounding. Girl had known that something would happen sooner or later, and in some way she was relieved that it finally had. The need for crisis had been building, tensions simmering beneath the surface like an angry pimple that needed to be brought to a head. Girl was just beginning to see that this was their pattern—a mix of bad judgment, high emotions, and an unsettled energy that seemed to draw crises to them like the unwashed dishes attracted flies.
Girl pushed through the crowd of neighbors gathered in front of their house to find her husband sitting on the front step, the firefighters packing up their gear. Whatever had happened, it was over. She hugged Samson even though he was covered in black soot and sweat, and confirmed the safety of the dogs and cats, and then ventured with him into the house as he told her his story.
The smell was overwhelming. The stench made Girl’s head hurt and the bile rise in her throat, and it worsened the deeper they went into the house. The house was black, blacker than black, and although it was a bright summer day, they needed a flashlight to see inside. Everything was black: the walls, the windows, the ceiling—every inch of every item that littered the beyond-cluttered, filthy home. In some ways the fire made the house seem neater, as if the fire created the mess and gave reason for its existence. They walked through the living room and down the hall toward the kitchen in the back of the house. They passed the office and Girl saw that her computer was covered in soot. She was one week away from the end of her semester and she knew her final papers were irretrievably lost.
They paused by the bathroom and Samson opened the door. Girl hated the pink, tiled bathroom—ironically, it remained untouched by the fire and smoke. They entered the kitchen and he shone the flashlight over the dishes covering the counter. The ceiling fan had melted into a dangling flower blossom. They walked through the kitchen to the attached garage, and Samson began to talk.
That July day was hot and muggy, and Samson kept the garage door closed to keep the sun out. He was paranoid about someone stealing his Harleys, so he always secured the door with four differently keyed padlocks. While working on the Weedwacker, Samson had accidentally kicked over the gas can and gasoline soaked the old piece of carpet he was standing on. He pulled the cord to start the motor and
