Kieran

 

I zip Hannah into the suit, breathing in the peachy scent of her shampoo as I lift her hair out of the way of the zipper and feel her tense up at my touch, holding her breath as if waiting for what is about to happen. It's all I can do not to plant a kiss on the back of her neck but Murphy's law means some little kid would be bored with his lessons and look out of the window at the wrong time. The last thing we need is one of the kids shouting about the fireman kissing a giant yellow teddy bear when we’re about to do a school visit.

Hannah looks down at her fat yellow middle. “I think I hate you right now for making me wear this.”

But I don't believe her. She's frowning, but it's cute the way she wrinkles up her nose at being encased in yellow fur. So I just laugh and grab the big head of the bear, then set it on her shoulders.

“Can you breathe in there? Can you see?” I ask her.

“Yes, it's okay. Just as well I don't get claustrophobia.”

I grab the bag of props.

The headmistress, Mrs. Porter, laughs when she sees us. “The kids are going to love you today. Not that they don't love a visit from a fireman anyway.”

“They're always disappointed when we don't bring the fire engine so this will help make up for it,” I say.

“Miss Brunson has been teaching them about crossing the road safely, wearing seat belts and not distracting their parents when they're driving this week. Anything you do to teach them road safety will be excellent reinforcement,” Mrs. Porter says.

I knock on the classroom door and the teacher (presumably Miss Brunson) tells us to come in. Hannah holds me back with her arm and pokes her head around the door. Then she waves to the children. The classroom erupts.

“Do come in, Teddy,” the teacher says.

“This is Traffic Teddy. And my name is Fireman Kieran,” I say to the class. “Would you like to shake Traffic Teddy's paw?”

There's a chorus of “yes.”

“Once you shake Teddy's paw, take a card and read it out nice and loud.”

We've brought a pile of road safety tips on big, colorful cards. The kids are six or seven years old. I'm not sure if they’ll remember the tips, but I hope they do.

The bolder kids are first in line to meet Teddy. Hannah gives each of them a high five after they read a safety tip, helped by Miss Brunson. She seems happy enough with the lesson.

When the children who lined up have had a turn, I notice a few are hanging back, not quite sure. But Hannah has noticed too. She approaches the shy children who missed out and holds out a paw to each of them, one after another, so they all get a turn.

Then we have a quiz. I ask the children what they should do when they want to cross the road. Hannah delights the children by acting out what not to do and starts running across the classroom.

“No, Teddy, don't run. What should Teddy do?”

And after that part is over, the kids get to ask questions.

After forty minutes or so, we leave Miss Brunson to teach in peace and I drive around the corner, at Hannah's insistence, in case any of the children see her getting out of her bear costume.

“You were fantastic. Thanks for being a good sport in there. You can see how much duller it would have been without Traffic Teddy.”

“Forty minutes was enough. It was getting hot in there.” She lifts the head off. Her cheeks are flushed, but she's smiling. “Despite how well that went down, I'm not sure I understand any more than I did before what it will take to get them to go to the open house.”

“Maybe Traffic Teddy should put in an appearance.”

“Maybe he should.” She laughs. “I didn't think I'd enjoy that, but it was fun.”

I can think of things to do with her that are more fun than her dressing up as a big yellow teddy bear. As she peels off the costume, the hem of her blouse is caught up in it, and I catch a glimpse of her bare stomach, smooth and golden. I want to plant a kiss right there and feel her soft skin under my lips.

If only she would just carry on peeling off layers of clothing, I could sit and watch forever. But we are on the side of the road in a suburban street, so that's not going to happen.

“So, dinner...” I say.

“Yes.”

“I'll pick you up at your place at eight.”