Free Interference by Michelle Berry

Get. In. The. Bath. The cats fight in the dead of night and howl in the spring. The man in the house beside Tom and Maria hammers, working on his attic, until midnight. Even the new woman, Dayton, has recently begun knocking on Trish’s door, ever since they have started playing hockey together. She taps lightly, as if afraid Trish’s glass door will break, and she is quiet and nervous, as if she doesn’t want to bother Trish. It’s nice, this neighbourhood. Trish is the last person to complain about the friendliness between neighbours. But not in the morning. Not when she needs time to decompress.
    Last night Charlie, who is only eight, pulled Trish’s face down close to his mouth while she was kissing him goodnight and said, “Will I ever be as old as you and Dad?” Trish suppressed the urge to hit him, to laugh, to cry. Instead she said, “I hope so, honey,” and he looked disappointed and miserable. For a brief second Trish hoped she had given him nightmares.
    Except that he always climbs into their bed when he has nightmares.
    She’s forty-eight years old. How did that happen?
    The knock again. Trish is hiding behind the sofa in the living room. If she wants to get up the stairs to her sewing room she has to pass the window in the front door and whoever is knocking will see her. Maybe she shouldn’t have opened the curtains? Trish could always wave and continue on up the stairs. She could hold up a small sign, created just for this purpose, that says, “I’m working, go away.” She could give the person the middle finger or just walk past as if she’s blind and deaf. The last idea is the most tempting, and Trish would probably do that if she had a white cane for support. In high school Trish played the part of Helen Keller in the end-of-year play. She kept her eyes open and unfocused every night for three shows. Tapping with a white cane. She rarely stumbled. An impressive performance. One of the highlights of Trish’s life.
    Behind the sofa, down here, Trish begins to notice the lint on the rug, the crumbs from where Rachel was eating her cereal and her stale muffin, feeding chunks of it to the dog. The dog will eat large things — muffin chunks — but not crumbs. He won’t touch a crumb. As if it’s not worth his time. He won’t vacuum the carpet for Trish and that is why she got him in the first place. In fact, other than making her feel guilty for not taking him for a walk, her dog does very little but get in the way. And the cats. The goldfish. Don’t get her started.
    When Trish was small all she wanted was to be an actress. She wanted to take Broadway by storm. She wanted to be admired. What kid doesn’t? The high school drama teacher actually told Trish that she had potential. Sure, some years she just sewed costumes, but sometimes she got a good role, like Helen Keller. Or she was a background actor and would walk across the stage in a crowd scene for
West Side Story
or caw as a crow in
The Wizard of Oz
. And Trish has used what she learned sewing costumes for her business, so joining the drama club wasn’t a waste of time, no matter what her mother said. Now Trish owns a small (she’s the only employee) business making bears. The Bear Company. Specialty bears. In her sewing room. Upstairs. Past the glass front door. Past the person still hovering on her porch. She’s not an actress. And, according to her eight-year-old son, she’s very old. Plus, she may be sued by Build-Your-Bear™.
    â€œKnock knock.”
    Trish can’t believe the person at the door actually says that. “Knock knock.” As if the physical knock on the door isn’t enough. She wonders if she should say, “Ding dong,” when she goes over to Dayton’s house and rings her doorbell, or shout, “Tinkle tinkle,” when she enters the corner store and the bell goes off. Or “tinkle tinkle” when she