The Fireman I Loved to Hate

by Jenna Gunn

  “How many kittens?” Bridges asks.

  “Six,” I reply after counting.

  “One for each of us down at the station!” Bridges jokes.

  I roll my eyes. “Pass me the box, will yak?”

  He hands me the cardboard box I brought. These kittens are so tiny; their eyes are still closed. They’re all different colors, too - some orange, some black, some splashed with several colors. They wiggle blindly in their corner, dangerously close to edges. I may not like cats, but it’s not like I’d be glad to see actual baby animals fall to their death.

  “I’ll check around for the mother,” Bridges says. “Can you handle things from here?”

  I grunt in agreement; Bridges heads out of the boathouse, following the husband, who asserts that she’s usually near his birdfeeders. The wife stays with me.

  “If you need any help, dear, I’m right down here,” she says.

  “Appreciate it, ma’am,” I say, reaching out to gently pick up a kitten. I work my way around the entire group. They don’t struggle; they’re so helpless, tiny claws pawing at the air, little mouths emitting tiny squeaks. I get all of them in the box, check to make sure I haven’t missed any, and start to head down. “Take this box, ma’am?” I ask her, handing it to her as I climb down. “I don’t wanna drop it.”

  The wife takes the box and looks down into it with a worried expression. “They’re so small. They can’t be more than a week old - their eyes are still closed, look.” She sighs. “I have a towel you can put in there so they’ll have something soft.

  “Oh - thank you,” I say, taking the box from her. She opens a door and disappears into what I assume is some kind of living quarters attached to the boathouse. Man, these people have money.

  Bridges enters the boathouse looking grim. “Found the mother,” he says. “She didn’t make it.”

  “What?”

  “He’s out there burying her.”

  I look down into the box of helpless kittens. What’s going to happen to them?

  Michael and Carlita are back when Bridges and I arrive at the firehouse; he carries the box of kittens, and I follow.

  The two of them sit up straight when we enter. “Kittens?” Carlita exclaims, jumping to her feet. In the armchair nearby, Ben snorts and jerks awake, wiping drool from his mouth.

  “One for each of us!” Bridges says again, setting the box down on the coffee table.

  The rest of my crew descend on the box, cooing; Carlita gets on her phone and starts researching how to bottle-feed young kittens.

  “What’s all the commotion out here?” Chief Moore comes out of his office, frowning at the box on the table.

  “Rescued some kittens, sir,” I tell him, gesturing to the box.

  He, too, drifts over. Everyone begins talking excitedly, picking out which kitten to take home and care for. I head into the kitchen to make myself some lunch.

  “There’s one left,” Ben calls to me in a singsong voice.

  “Someone else can have it.” I pull some hot dogs out of the fridge.

  “Dude,” Michael says in disbelief. “None of us can take two of them.”

  “We can take it to the pound, then.”

  “There’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to take care of a kitten this young,” Carlita says, brandishing her phone. “I’m about to head out and get the stuff we need to feed these guys. This is a living thing, Alex. Can you get over your cat thing for a sec and just...take this kitten?”

  “Yeah, dude,” Ben says. He’s rarely serious, but he’s frowning at me, cradling a pure black kitten. “We get it, you hate cats. But this is a baby.”

  I grit my teeth and walk over, peering down into the box. The last kitten is white, with black-and-orange splotches all over. It’s got a big splotch right on her face, giving her a little bandit mask. It mewls helplessly as it tries to wriggle itself over the towel, looking for its siblings.

  Something in my heart twitches. I reach down and scoop her up; she squeaks and starts nibbling on my thumb with pink gums, pushing her little paws against the flesh of my hand.

  “I’ll be right back,” Carlita says, gingerly setting her grey kitten down in the box. “I’ve got a list of what we need.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Ben tells her. He sets his own kitten down and follows.

  I look down at the cat in my hand. Bridges drifts over to me. “It’s a calico,” he says. “Means she’s a girl.” He glances at my face. “You gonna name her?”

  I shrug. “I mean...I’ll probably find someone to adopt her once she’s strong enough. No point in giving her a name.”

  Bridges snorts and gives me a “yeah, right” sort of look. I gently place the calico kitten back into the box so she can wiggle into a pile with her siblings.

  Chapter 9

  The kitten’s little mask makes it look like she’s a thief. I poke the tiny bottle into her mouth and watch her suckle at it.

  “You look like a tiny thief,” I tell her softly. I’m in my own home for once, lying on my stomach in my living room floor. I’ve been taking her back and forth from here to the station; I spend two entire weeks at the station at a time. It’s practically my second home. I can’t just leave her back here for that long. Everyone else has someone they can leave theirs with, and they’ve been making fun of me for sitting in the armchair and bottle-feeding my kitten. Bridges even told me that I look like his wife after their first kid - tired, haggard, dark circles beneath my eyes, trying to catch a nap as I feed the kitten. For the first week, I had to feed her every two hours and rub a little tissue on her butt so she’d pee and poop.

  Now, however, she needs the bottle less often, and her tiny eyes are open; they’re a bright, intense blue. At first I was concerned, seeing as I’ve met plenty of cats with yellow eyes, but a quick search told me that they’re just like human babies when it comes to that - they have no pigmentation in their eyes at first, and they’ll change color as they get older.

  “There’s so much I didn’t know, lil thief,” I say, putting my fingertip on her nose. She pulls away from the bottle and drags her tiny, scratchy tongue over my finger. She starts purring.

  I’m really starting to see the appeal of cats.

  She goes back to the bottle, and I give her little scratches between her ears while she kneads the blanket below her. “You’d make such good biscuits,” I tell her. “A little biscuit-making thief. Are there any female thieves?” I cock my head at her while she purrs mightily. “There was one when I was a kid...she had a city name…”

  The little kitten ignores me. She’s entirely focused on her food; she jumps a little when I snap my fingers.

  “Carmen SanDiego!” I say. “That’s who you’re like. Little Carmen. World-class thief.”

  She mewls and wiggles away from the bottle. I set it aside and give her some scratches; she curls up and closes her eyes. I wish I could fall asleep as fast as Carmen does.

  The next morning, Carlita greets Carmen before she even acknowledges me. I settle down in the armchair in front of the TV to give her a bottle.

  “How are things going with your kitty?” Carlita asks, plopping herself down on the sofa.

  “Pretty good,” I reply. “She’s so hungry all the time.”

  “She’s a baby,” Carlita laughs.

  Not even glancing up from his crossword, Bridges chimes in, “Guess that means you’re a baby, Alex.”

  “I’m not hungry all the time,” I mutter in mock indignation, looking back down at Carmen. “You done, Carmen?”

  “Carmen?” Carlita asks, her eyebrows raising.

  I feel a little stupid as I tug the bottle out of the kitten’s mouth. “Yeah...looks like she’s wearing a little mask. So, y’know. Carmen Sandiego.”

  “Well, what are you gonna do with Carmen if we get a call today?” Bridges pipes up again.

  I look down at her. “Maybe leave her with the chief?”

  Carlita frowns. “Actually, that’s a good point. You can’
t always expect the chief to look after her.”

  I watch as Carmen wraps herself into the tiniest ball and falls asleep. “I guess I’ll have to leave her in a box or something, then.”

  “And you should probably be introducing solid foods to her soon,” Carlita adds. “Have you taken her to a vet? She’ll need shots. Have you gotten her a scratching post for her claws?”

  I stare at the fuzzy little ball in my arms. It hits me like a ton of bricks: I have absolutely no clue how to take care of a baby cat. Solid foods? Shots? Scratching posts? Not to mention the big problem of me constantly moving between my own house and the fire station.

  I shake my head as Carlita rambles on, naming all the things I’ll need to have done for Carmen to ensure her health. “I can’t keep her,” I say out loud.

  Carlita stops abruptly. She opens her mouth for a moment, her expression angry; but then her face turns thoughtful. “Actually...yeah. It might be best for you to rehome her.”

  I definitely can’t care for Carmen properly. It’s become abundantly clear that I don’t know the first thing about cats.

  But I know someone who loves cats. Someone who would probably be eager to take care of a kitten. Someone who would really know what they’re doing, who could provide the kind of home Carmen needs...and deserves.

  Carlita becomes distracted as her cell phone buzzes, and she wanders away. Bridges is still engrossed in his crossword, and Ben and Michael are nowhere to be found. With no eyes on me, I pull Carmen to my chest and cuddle her.

  “I’ll have to give you up,” I whisper to her, stroking her soft fur. “But I know where you’ll be happy.”

  Chapter 10

  I stroke Monroe with one hand as I read what I’ve written. He’s curled up in my lap, peacefully asleep, as my eyes dart across the text on my screen.

  I’m almost done with my regency-era romance. It’s always bittersweet when I get to the end of a book; my work is done, but I have to say goodbye to these characters that I’ve been with for over a year, to push them out into the real world of editors and readers and critics.

  But however sad it is to wrap up one book, it’s always exciting to start another. I glance away from my screen to the cork-board on the wall behind my desk, which is littered with sticky notes and scraps of paper pinned to it with thumbtacks; every paper is scribbled with some fragmented idea for my next novel. There’s a whole section dedicated to my protagonist, littered with conflicting ideas and a dozen different names. I know that some of those names and traits will branch off into other characters.

  This novel isn’t done yet, however; I turn back to my computer and pick up where I left off. I’m into the falling action now, but sometimes winding down can take just as long - if not longer - than building up to the climax.

  When I write, I enter into an almost meditative state. My mind goes blank. Every thought and feeling dissipates, and there’s just the words and the keyboard; the screen barely even exists. I keep the room as quiet as I can, so that only Monroe’s soft purring and the clacking of the keys exists. Time passes without me noticing.

  I drift through this strange semi-conscious state for a while, pumping out words that may or not be good enough to stay in the book; and I’m startled away from it by a knock at the door.

  Monroe shifts and looks up at me, disgruntled. I frown and glance at the clock on my screen. It’s not Wednesday, so it’s not Mrs. Logan - Ms. Lynn, I correct myself automatically - with my weekly casserole. Have I ordered any packages recently? I don’t think I have.

  The knock comes again. I pat Monroe’s butt until he gets irritated enough to jump down from my lap; he stretches and gives me the stinkeye as I stand up and head for the door.

  I peer through the peephole and quickly realize that the little hanging door plaque that Ms. Lynn gave me last week covers it; all I see is blackness. I’ll have to fix that. I reach for the doorknob and tug my door open.

  It’s Alex the Rude Fireman.

  Immediately, my heart kicks into overdrive, my stomach turns itself in knots. I freeze and stiffen. My hand tightens on the doorknob, and I start to swing the door shut.

  “Wait! I’m really sorry,” he pants, his words tumbling out of his mouth.

  I pause. I’m still speechless, but my brain is starting to process a little better now. I take in his appearance; he’s wearing blue jeans and a plaid button-up shirt, unbuttoned, with a white tee underneath. Definitely not his uniform. He holds a small bundle of blankets tight against his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again. “It sucks for me to show up like this, I know, but - I didn’t know who else would...well…” Sheepishly, he holds out the little bundle.

  In spite of myself, I peer down into it, and a tiny calico kitten looks up from it, blinking with its intense blue eyes. All my earlier hesitation falls away; I hear the squeal coming from my throat as I reach out and pluck the entire blanket from Alex’s arms.

  The little kitten squeaks back at me. “She’s adorable!” I gasp, putting my fingertip to her little pink nose. “Boop!”

  “Uh, me and one of the guys rescued them from the rafters of a boathouse,” Alex says, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “Her and her siblings. Six kittens, a whole litter. The mom didn’t make it, so we decided we’d each take one.” He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  I can barely hear him as I give the kitten scritches underneath her chin.

  “Um, the thing is, the rest of the crew has family and stuff back home that can look after their kittens when they’re at the firehouse,” he continues. “I live alone, and my work cycle is two weeks on, two weeks off. I can’t keep bringing her to the firehouse. I don’t think I can give her - ”

  His voice breaks slightly, and he pauses. I look up at him, astonished. Is he emotional over this kitten?

  Alex clears his throat. “I don’t know if I can care for her properly,” he continues. “Shots, solid food, toys, all that stuff - I don’t know how, and I don’t think I can keep changing her environment every two weeks. I mean, at the firehouse, the whole crew could get called away to a fire at any moment, and who would watch her then, right?”

  He takes a deep breath, and I squint at him. Where, exactly is he going with this?

  “That’s why, I, uh...I was wondering if you would want her.”

  I look down at the kitten, now enthusiastically attacking my fingers. “You want me to keep her?”

  “Well, you know so much about cats,” he says quickly. “If you don’t want - I can take - I can find - ”

  “Does she have a name?”

  He stops abruptly. “I’ve been calling her Carmen. Like Carmen San - ”

  “Sandiego,” I finish for him. “Because of her little mask, right?”

  He smiles, and it lights up his whole face. My heart skips a beat. “Yeah! She looks like a little bandit, doesn’t she?”

  “She does,” I say warmly, looking back down at her. Carmen gnaws on my finger, grabbing it with paws so tiny they both fit comfortably in the center of my palm.

  “I’ve got some stuff in my truck,” he tells me, gesturing to the pickup idling in my driveway. It’s not the one I usually see him with. This one has no fire department logo, and it’s older, maybe from the 80s instead of being brand new. It must be his personal truck. “Carmen’s stuff, y’know? I’ll bring it.”

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask.

  He hesitates and shifts his weight awkwardly. “Ah, I better not, I - I gotta get going, y’know, get to the station for - ”

  A yowl interrupts him, and he whips around, looking for the source. I, however, find it immediately; Monroe has slipped past me and gotten into the big tree in my yard again.

  “Dammit, Monroe,” I sigh. I’ve been so preoccupied with Carmen that I didn’t think to step out onto my porch and close the door.

  Alex sighs too and heads over to his truck. “I have a ladder with me,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I blink at hi
m, then look back down at Carmen. She has to be about three weeks old; she’s still got a lot of baby fuzz, and her teeth haven’t quite grown in all the way. Her head is still wobbly, but she’s incredibly alert, windmilling her tiny paws at anything she can reach. If he’s been taking care of her all this time...he must have gotten her as a newborn.

  I glance up as Alex treks across the yard with his own ladder, which looks much shorter than the fireman’s ladder he usually has. I try to imagine him waking up every two hours to feed Carmen kitten formula through a syringe. Somehow, it’s impossible, but Carmen is alive and healthy, so he must have done it somehow.

  Alex sets the ladder against the tree and clambers up it; it only gets him to the first branch, far below Monroe. I watch in amazement as Alex reaches up, grabs the branch, and hoists himself up.

  He climbs the tree with so much confidence you’d think he was only a few feet off the ground. Like a lemur, he scrambles up to Monroe and scoops him up, tucking him under one arm before shimmying himself back down to the ladder.

  Alex lands gracefully and heads across the yard to my porch. He’s holding Monroe more gently than I’ve ever seen him do before. As he walks back up my steps, I grin at him.

  Alex has been taking care of a newborn kitten. He just rescued my cat of his own accord, without me even asking. He recognized that he can’t give a kitten the life it deserves and brought it to me.

  There must be so much more to this man than I thought.

  He walks up to the porch, still holding Monroe, who seems completely relaxed. “Um, maybe I can come in for a bit,” he says, smiling just a little. A blush creeps across his cheeks. “I can show you the way Carmen likes to be fed and all.”

  I smile back at him. “That’d be great. I’ve got some sweet tea in the fridge; just made it this morning.”

  He nods and hands me Monroe before heading back out into the yard to put away his ladder and grab Carmen’s things.