Free Opening Belle by Maureen Sherry Page A

preschool. I feel the postholiday euphoria of not having to buy and wrap gifts, write cards, and drink every night. Even though I don’t know what my bonus will be, the numbers are in and I can relax a little. January is my July.
    Brigid is on her scooter, Owen in his stroller, and me in midsized heels, briefcase slung over the stroller handles, walking, not running, to chapel. The sun is shining and I’m the picture of the woman who has it all, all at the same time—the babies, the job, and the body that can still rock, though in dim light.
    We seat ourselves in the back of the chapel room. I silence the electronics, breathe, and consider that all is right with the world. The very fact that we are early is a routine break, and kids like routine. Owen uses this mindful moment to decide he’s done sitting in the back and wants to be closer to the music. I try to distract him with some pathetic bribe, murmuring a ridiculous story about the time that God made Superman. He isn’t swayed in the least.
    â€œWanna sit in front,” he says, and not in his “inside” voice.
    â€œLet’s stay here and wait for your friend Riley,” I say. Riley is always ten minutes late and would be the perfect reason for staying put.
    â€œNo.”
    Brigid likes Owen’s idea. “Yes, we should sit in the front, Mama. We never go sit in front.” She seems to marvel at the fact she has never considered a different spot on the floor. Her brain just trips with the possibilities. “We SHOULD.”
    With no further discussion Owen bolts for the front, and Brigid follows close behind, excited to do something she has never considered. My two assertive children plant themselves squarely behind the happy family of Henry.
    I awkwardly step between tiny hands and crossed legs on high-heeled shoes, excusing my way to the front. Once there, I squat, suit and all, while giving an apologetic shrug to the PA Ladies in back of me. One gives a knowing half smile while the other clearly smirks. She smirks! Henry turns to give me a weirdly cheesy grin. As if to say, Belle you are clearly overstepping the bounds of our agreement—you know, the unspoken truce where I get your motley family into preschool and you do not bond with my family in any way.
    I’ve been really good about keeping this agreement we never made, and so has he. Besides Bruce, nobody at this place knows I even went to college with Henry, never mind lived with him. I’m no longer euphoric. Now my heart is seized with the anxiety of keeping two young children contained for forty minutes.
    The music begins, a banjo riff, followed by a song about sowing seeds, growing a garden . . .
    â€œInch by inch, row by row, gonna make this garden grow.”
    Sitting cross-legged directly in front of Owen and diagonally from me is the Wife. I’ve never had such a close-up chance to examine the woman who dethroned me. I take this Christian moment to do so. She is pretty in the classic sense. She has a very good colorist, and her shoulder-length hair has four varying shades of blond, equally striped. She looks as though she could use a good meal, though her perky, large breasts defy the smallness of the rest of her frame. She wears the obligatory low-riders and a thong peeks out the top of her jeans, perhaps sending a message of hidden vixen to us sitting behind her. I want to make a judgment call here but refrain, as she is, in fact, cross-legged, which does pull one’s pants lower. I have my arm around Owen. Usually he is rapt, hanging on the storyteller’s every word, but today he is engrossed with something else. He has his gaze too low to be paying attention. In fact, it is squarely on Henry’s wife’s ass.
    The song continues, “All it takes is a rake and a hoe, and a piece of fertile ground.”
    Inexplicably, Owen reaches out and begins stroking Wife’s soft, tight sweater. The woman who stole Henry