The Trouble Begins

by Linda Himelblau

  I'm scared. I don't know if I can get back to the window. It was stupid to come in here. It's too hot and I can't breathe.

  Oof! Water! Water's spraying across the floor. Water, water, keep coming, keep coming. Let me just get to the window. I can see now from those flames near the roof hole. What if the roof falls? I don't care how hot the floor is. I'm getting out of here. Water, keep coming.

  I stick my head out the window. Real air. It's so cold and good. I push my shirt-bag of kittens through. I'm going to get out. I don't want to land on the kittens. Let go with my feet. Fall to the ground. Ow! I'm down. I lost my shoe in there. I'm not dead. My dad's going to be mad about my shoe. Where's Cat?

  I breathe deep, deep breaths of air. I'm glad I'm cold with no shirt. I'm wet all over, clothes and skin and hair and feet, one with a shoe and one without. The shirtful of kittens is dripping too. There's the old man. He's on his hands and knees in front of the shed door. His hose is stuck under the door. He's still spraying water in there and yelling.

  “I'm out,” I yell back. “I'm out.” We stare at each other in the wild light from the flames. He struggles up from the ground.

  “It's gonna fall,” he shouts, waving his arms for me to get back. We both back away. A terrible loud crash and sparks shoot in all directions. The shed roof caves in. I'm shaking. What if I was still in there? I hug my wet shirtful of kittens.

  The old man's face looks scary, lit by the sparks and flames. He stares at his shed. “Is the cat in there?” He nods at my shirt.

  “Kittens,” I answer. We both look back at the flaming shed. Only four kittens. Cat must have rescued one. A fire truck with a siren and flashing lights comes roaring down the alley.

  I push the wet shirtful of kittens into the old man's hands. I run and vault the fence at the back of my yard. “Stop! Come back!” yells the old man.

  Bright flames light the alley. Just what I thought. Cat is lying by the break in the back of the shed. I pick her up. She doesn't move. There is no kitten. The wooden gate in the old man's back wall opens. I make it through with heavy Cat just before the fire engine roars to a stop. I push her into the old man's arms. I run back through the gate.

  “Get outa here, kid!” the fireman roars at me above the sound of the truck engine and the rushing water and crackling flames. He's high on his truck. He can't get me. Fire truck lights blind me as I splash through the alley in front of the truck. Cat took her kitten across the alley behind the garbage-can fence. I'm sure of it. “Get outa here!” the fireman yells again.

  I jump out of sight behind the cans. My hands feel around in the wet muck of the alley. Something is squishy. I grab it. I run behind the truck. I scramble over my back fence and the side fence back to the old man. He has limp Cat in one arm and the shirtful of kittens in the other. He pushes me hard toward his door with the bag of kittens. “Go, go,” he shouts. Water from the hoses pours into the shed. More sparks shoot up as the walls cave in. I walk backward, staring, as the firemen pour on more water. I was in there. The old man dumps Cat back in my arms. I hug her but she doesn't move. I hand him the soggy body of the kitten. “Come inside,” he says.

  I follow him into his house. It's warm there but I can't stop shaking. Water drips on his kitchen floor. He disappears down the hall. I lean down to Cat. I breathe on her nose. I whisper, “Cat, Cat, your kittens need you.” The old man comes back with a load of stuff. Cat's slits of eyes open. “She's alive,” I whisper.

  He nods. “Sure she is,” he says. He throws me a towel. He kneels on the floor to make a bed with a box and more towels. He empties the kittens out of my shirt into it. They mew and cry. All but the last one I found. It's wet and skinny and still. Cat twists out of my arms. I put her with them. She falls over but she licks them. She licks the still one roughly. It doesn't move. I kneel with the old man. We rub Cat and the kittens dry with the towels. He tosses me an old T-shirt. “Don't have any shoes,” he says. I shrug.

  The old man clears his throat. “You're very brave,” he says in a louder voice, “very smart to get the cat from the alley. To find the kitten.” I look at him. He's got the same mean look he has when he looks through our window. “You're also pretty darn foolish,” he adds. He's not being mean. He's saying brave and smart about me. Foolish too but that doesn't matter. I shake again thinking of the smoke and the burning floor and the falling roof.

  “I couldn't get out without the water,” I say. He looks down and gently rubs one of the kittens.

  “Do you feed her?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers. “Do you?”

  I nod. “She's a smart cat,” I say. We both rub the kittens. They make little noises as they find a place to nurse. They are so happy to be safe and warm with their mother.

  The old man rubs the one from the alley. He rubs and rubs. “Yep,” he whispers. I look at his face. I think he's smiling. The softest little squeaky sound from under the towel makes Cat lift her head. The face of the little still kitten pushes out of the folds. Another pitiful squeak. The kitten is alive. The old man gently moves the other kittens aside to make room. The little kitten drinks. Cat purrs.

  I look out of his kitchen window. There is a light on in our house. I jump up. “I have to go home. I have to tell my grandma I'm okay.”

  “Yes,” he says. “She'll be worried.” For a moment we look directly at each other. I am thinking that she had good reason to worry and, a little bit, I feel the fear from the time in the shed. We both know what could have happened.

  “Come see them tomorrow,” the old man says. “On Christmas.”

  “Okay,” I answer. I run home through the smoky air with one shoe. The trucks are still flashing at the end of the alley but the flames are gone.

  When I run up the porch stairs, the door opens. My grandma is there, dressed, ready to go out. “I'm okay,” I say quickly. “I'm sorry I made you worry. There's a fire…. That big old cat was in the shed with her kittens but I got them out…we got them out. The old man helped me.”

  She puts her hand on my arm. She feels that it's cold and I'm shaking. “Yes, Du, you're all right,” she says, nodding. “You tell me about it in the morning.” I'm still shaking when I lie down on the couch. She comes to make sure I'm covered. Usually I go in her room and pull up her covers.

  Christmas Morning

  The fire. I can smell it when I wake up. I lie on the couch and wonder when I can go to the old man's house and see Cat and her kittens. Today is Christmas but to me it's just Saturday. The only difference is nobody's around in the house. I check the kitchen but my grandma's still asleep. Tomorrow is Sunday. The day of the paper route. I'll get up at three, when it's still dark, to take all the papers. I wonder how many. I'm going to go outside now that it's light and see about the fire.

  The only thing left of the shed is the door standing up with no walls. It's still locked but the lock is too blackened now to see the numbers. Everything inside's all burned and wet. Here's my shoe. It feels funny on my foot. It kind of melted and it looks funny because it's darker than the other one. Anthony will laugh at how my shoes don't match. I hope my dad doesn't notice.

  The handle burned off the lawn mower. Everything that's left is soggy wet. The trunk burned with the old man's picture book and his tree lights. The box with the building set burned too but the metal pieces are all scattered here on what's left of the trunk bottom. It's like soup with water and soggy paper and ashes but the pieces are okay. The little car I made still rolls. Everything stinks of smoke.

  Trash cans are spilled all over the alley in the puddles. A lot of people are outside down by the burned apartments. I guess their presents burned up.

  There's my grandma on the back porch. That means food. I take off my shoes by the door. She looks at the one that is smoky, dark and melted.

  “A terrible fire for people, Du,” she says. My grandma knows that whatever I did is already done. She won't tell me that I was stupid or foolish.

  “The old man says I can come see th
e cat and her kittens,” I tell her.

  She doesn't say anything about Cat. “Does the old man have a name?” she asks. I don't answer but I know what she means. I eat a big bowl of hot noodles.

  I mess around helping my grandma make the Christmas cake. It's a lot like the moon cake but with no egg yolks for moons. I break three eggs with one hand and stir with the other.

  The old man comes outside to the shed. I want to see Cat. I go out like I'm looking for something in the yard. He sees me and nods. I help him save what's left of the lawn mower.

  “I'll make a new handle,” he says.

  “I'll help,” I say, and he doesn't say no. I would like to know how to do that.

  He goes back where the shed mess is. I help him drag soggy sacks of grass seed and fertilizer to the trash. He scoops up what's left of the Christmas lights and throws them in. I wonder if he's ever going to go inside so I can see Cat.

  He puts the burned-up picture book with the lawn mower. Maybe some of the pictures in the middle will be okay when it dries. He sees the pile I made of the pieces from the building set. He collects them all in a towel so I help him look for more of the pieces.

  “You made some nice stuff,” he says. I don't look at him. He knew all the time I was sneaking in there. “We'll go inside and get this stuff dried off.” Finally. I carry the pieces of the metal set in the towel. He carries the picture book.

  Cat is very happy in the box with her kittens. I think it's kind of funny that I thought the old man would hurt her when he was really feeding her just like I was. I feel a little sad because now my cat belongs to him. I kind of want him to know that I don't care that he won. At least I don't care very much. “I guess she found a place to live,” I say. “She's your cat now.”

  He pets her for a minute. “I believe she's our cat,” he says. “She'll live in my house and your yard.” I think he smiles because we both know about my yard, how much Cat likes the weeds. “You can visit her here whenever you want,” he adds.

  She knows me. She lets me pet her and pick up the kittens. I offer her some fish I brought her wrapped up in a napkin in my pocket but it has paper stuck to it. She doesn't want it. The old man has bowls of food and water next to her box. A yellow kitten is crawling around in there away from Cat. I offer the fish to him. He licks it a little. He is the bravest one. I like him.

  It's strange being in the old man's house. It has the same rooms as our house but it is so quiet, no radio, no TV, no talking. Everything is put away like no one lives here. Maybe that's why he looks through his window at our house all the time. I want to look through the old man's window where he sees into our dining room but I don't want to leave the kitchen unless he tells me to. I don't want him to get mad and not let me visit Cat. It's Christmas Day when Americans have turkeys and singing and presents and stockings full of toys but there's nothing here. His Christmas lights are in the trash. He doesn't have a tree anyway.

  I pet the brave kitten. The old man is putting the pieces of the building set on the table. He's so slow. Like my grandma. One piece at a time. I would just dump them all out. He's rubbing each little piece with a rag and some oil. He's got my little car.

  “Here,” he says, holding it out to me. “You better take this car apart and dry it off. Then you can put it back together.” This is just what I want to do. I sit at the table with him. He gives me a rag. He makes sure I use just a little bit of oil, which I already know.

  “Nice,” he says when I finish the car. “Did you ever make a windmill?” I shake my head because I'm not sure what a windmill is.

  “Like this,” he says, searching for a part.

  “What's your name?” I blurt because I don't know if it's okay just to ask like that.

  “Benjamin Wiezekowski,” he says. Now I'm stuck. I can't remember it all even to say it now. I don't like it when people don't say my name right.

  “Ben,” he says. I'm still stuck. He is my friend now and to call him Ben like he was a kid at school sounds wrong to me. As bad as old man.

  “Mr. W., if you like,” he says. How does he know what I'm thinking?

  “Okay, Mr. W., I'm Du,” I say, which is all I can think of.

  “How do you do, Du?” he says but I know he is not laughing at my name. I know from the book about the skinny girl in the covered wagon that this is how Americans said hello a long time ago.

  “How do you do?” I say. We keep polishing. “Is that boy in the picture book your son?” I ask. Now he knows I'm a spy too. He keeps polishing but he looks up at me from under his bushy eyebrows.

  “Yes.” He nods. “He was quite a ballplayer. Couldn't get anywhere with it, though. He's in Alaska someplace now. It's too far to visit.”

  I don't ask any more. I know how my mom feels that her family is far away. I guess it happens to Americans too. I hope he can save some of his pictures from the middle of the book. I'm glad he doesn't say anything about how I gave away his oranges. I wish I didn't do that.

  Cat is purring so loud it sounds like a motor. The kittens sleep next to her except for the brave yellow one, who bumps along the corners of the box. I laugh when he jumps clumsily on Cat's tail as she twitches it. The old man, Mr. W., looks up and laughs too. Cat doesn't mind. Through slitted eyes she watches us at the table. We don't talk much except when he tells me about the gears for the windmill. Cat sleeps.

  “Okay, now you be the wind, Du,” Mr. W. says, holding the windmill out to me. I blow. The blades whirl around faster and faster as I puff. I can see the gears working at the bottom.

  “Someday I'll show my grandma the cat,” I say softly.

  “Bring her over today if you want,” says Mr. W. I hoped he'd say that.

  When I go to the door Cat jumps out of the box and follows me. I try to block her from getting out with my foot but she is quick like a shadow out the door. “It's okay,” says Mr. W. “She'll come back.”

  Delicious cake smells meet me when I open the door. I tell my grandma that Mr. W. invited us to his house so she could see Cat. She takes a long time getting ready. Last, she covers the cake with a lace cloth from her room and puts on her hat. I carry the cake.

  I look around for Cat while my grandma and I walk down our front walk, along the sidewalk, in his gate, around to the back of his house and up his back porch stairs. It's lots faster to jump over the fence, and the long walk gives me time to get worried. She doesn't speak English much and he doesn't speak Vietnamese. I don't want to talk for them. I won't know what to say. I wonder if we should go home. Before I can decide, Mr. W. opens the back door. Welcome, he bows. My grandma bows back. Cat streaks in the open door. She came from nowhere. We all laugh. We watch while she licks every kitten in the box. “Nice kitty,” says Mr. W. as she settles among the kittens. How content they all are now, purring and pushing at her. Cat doesn't know my grandma but she is happy to let my grandma stroke her side.

  Mr. W. has set his kitchen table with three places. He shows my grandma a can of something called oyster stew. “For Christmas lunch,” he says.

  She shows him the golden cake. She has made a little holly leaf design with green sugar icing around the top. “For Christmas lunch,” she says. He understands her.

  We eat the oyster stew, which is lots better than the canned noodle soup. We eat the cake, which is delicious. Mr. W. eats two pieces and so do I. The kittens are asleep so Mr. W. puts his bowl on the floor near the box. Cat jumps out to lick up the last of the oyster stew. I look quickly at my grandma but she is only smiling a little when the cat eats from a table dish. After dinner we show her the windmill and the car I made. I am happy that my grandma and Mr. W. are okay without too much talking. Maybe because they are both old. When we go home my grandma gives Mr. W. the rest of the cake.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. W.,” she says, and then adds very slowly, “You very nice to Du.”

  “Merry Christmas, madam,” says Mr. W. “He's a fine boy.” We say good-bye to Cat and the kittens and go home.

  Dead
line

  Vuong's alarm clock beeps loudly at three a.m. Last night I put it across the room so I'd have to get up to turn it off. I don't want to be late for the newspaper delivery. The night is dark and cold and quiet except for the beep. I jump up. I get dressed and run outside to wait.

  It's cold so I jump up and down the stairs. In the Philippines one of the places we lived had a ladder instead of stairs. I climbed the ladder to get in but mostly I jumped out. I could jump and land on my feet and be running down the road before the other kid that lived there with his aunt had his feet on the ladder. If you jumped you didn't have to go down backward. I wonder if the other kid got to America. That ladder is like a dream memory now. I don't think about the Philippines much anymore. As my mom says, “You're here now.”

  I'm trying not to think about my dad and the paper route either because last night something else happened that he won't like. His boss, Mr. Vronsky, called. He wanted my dad to go fix someone's plumbing on Christmas. He was mad my dad wasn't home because that meant Mr. Vronsky had to do it himself. He yelled over the phone that my dad better call him the “minute he gets home or think about finding another job.” I'm supposed to say this to my dad. He'll be mad at me if I do and mad at me if he doesn't get Mr. Vronsky's message. What if something gets messed up about the paper route too?

  No one drives down the street in the middle of the night. The streetlight shows only our tall weedy grass and the sidewalk and the cars parked along the street. It's so quiet I can hear the freeway traffic blocks away. Maybe the papers won't come.