Fiction: Short Story...

The Girl with the Broom

A greasy bulb dangling on a cord from the ceiling struggled to light the dim room. It labored to spew enough light to expose the white flour that was spilled and tracked in a circle over the linoleum floor in one corner. Torn newspapers were scattered and littered the other side of the room.

Standing there in the confusion, looking around in sly amusement, the girl with the broom in her hands wrinkled her nose. She glanced down at the toddler beside her, and she understood his stern concentration. He was quite still and straining, and immediately, she recognized the source of the foul odor filling the kitchen.

“Davey! Jesus!” she exclaimed.

The other child, a rowdy four-year-old, looked up and giggled, then continued with his handiwork. He was purposely shredding the papers into bits and sprinkling them on the floor, making more work for her.
Exasperated, she let the little one finish his business. Then she picked him up, slinging him over her hip with his offensive backside as far from her front as she could manage.

“Come on, Danny,” she said to the older boy. “You two are going upstairs.”

“I don’t want to,” Danny answered stubbornly, like a child accustomed to having his own way. He stuck out his lower lip and opened his hands, allowing many more shreds of paper to cast off across the floor.

The girl drew a deep breath and instantly regretted it.

“Don’t argue with me!” she scolded. “Davey’s filled his pants.”

After all, he wasn’t her kid. His mother could clean him up. She put her free hand on the back of the older boy and pushed him forward. He balked a little, but he knew she was firm, and he gave up.

As the three crowded noisily up the narrow wood stairs, a door opened, and light appeared at the top. Materializing as a dark silhouette, her father was standing there.

“Davey’s filled his pants,” she explained, and handed over the boy.

Her father took the child and placed him gingerly on the floor, and Danny and Davey disappeared down the dimly lit hall. She could hear the patter of their feet crossing the upstairs floor.

Passing on the unpleasant task, her father replied, “Danielle can take care of him.”

The man at the top of the stairs wore his Levi’s tight. He was bare to the waist, and in the shadowy reflection of the dusky light, the girl could sense the rippling strength of his biceps, hardened by physical labor. Her father was a handsome man with dark, compelling eyes, an enticing smile, and a tempting body to match.

The girl had a chuckle to herself. No wonder Danielle was so jealous and bottled a gamey temper, as well.
A clap of thunder rattled the old house. All day, rain had threatened, and now, adding to the fervor, it was here.

“Did you get that mess cleaned up?” her father asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Well, get it done and go on to bed.”

“Why don’t you come down here with me?”

She knew, in her own time, she could work on him.

“No,” he answered.

“Please.”

His mouth twisted in a roguish smile. An entertaining thought had crossed his mind.

“I said no, girl, not tonight. Now do what you’ve been told.”

With her pleading silenced, the girl turned and went back down the stairs. At least her place to sleep was comfortable and in front of the fireplace where it would be warm and bright all night. She’d add another log for safe measure.

As she entered the parlor, his face appeared, startled, like the flash of lightning through the window. He’d been there in the rain watching for her. She crossed to the door and let him inside.

Back in the kitchen, the floor was a mess. Papers and powdery footprints in a morass were all over the place. Well, she’d finish it later, or in the morning, or not at all. It wasn’t her mess or her temper that caused it. Let Danielle do it.

The girl pulled a chair close under the light. She stood on it and carefully turned the hot bulb until it was extinguished. Stepping down, she felt her way in the pulse of the lightning, back across the room, down the hall, and into the firelight.

Already, the face from the window had found his way inside and was sprawled the full length of the couch. The girl knelt on the floor beside him and pulled the wet shirt over his head.

Laying her body over him, she began to kiss his chest for a taste of the damp, salty skin. Her fingers twisted and toyed with the coiled hairs growing there. In time, her hand slipped down his leg, seeking his thigh, and he moaned when she gripped him and waited.

“Oh, Missy,” the man whispered through her soft hair and into her ear. “What have you done to me?”