Free Interference by Michelle Berry Page A

pees, which is more appropriate, “growl growl,” when she’s hungry. “Moan” in bed with Frank. Trish grimaces. Tries to snicker. It’s too early in the morning to make herself laugh. She just can’t do it.
    Here she is, on the floor, crouching, feeling sorry for herself. Surrounded by her family’s mess and her pets, wanting only to
get to work, knowing her time is limited, and her business may soon be limited, and the kids will be home by 3 : 15 p.m. She is stressing about it. While next door Dayton and Carrie have nothing but each other. And a cat. They left everyone they knew in California and came here to start afresh. Trish feels for her sometimes. Even though she has lovely blond hair and a slim figure. Sometimes Trish envies her. Dayton only has to pick up after one person, a baby. How hard is that? Plus she left everyone behind. Sometimes the idea of that appeals to Trish more than it should. Sometimes her daydreams consist of seeing herself gone, away from home, watching everything collapse without her there, watching her family say, “Wow, Mom did do a lot around here. We miss her.” Sometimes she conjures this kind of dream when she’s having sex with Frank. Lying there, helping him a bit, he’s working hard above her, she sees herself turn at the front door, wave, and disappear. Gone.
    â€œI can see you in there,” the voice says.
    Is it start fresh, or start afresh? Trish wonders. What is afresh? More than fresh? Fresh again, she supposes.
    â€œDamn.” She begins to stand. What more can she do? Trish puts her hands on her large hips. Isn’t the fact that she’s hiding enough? Can’t he get the hint?
    â€œJust a minute of your time?”
    Trish sees his shape at the door but can’t see his features. The light is dim, the shadows fall around him. Maybe he’s delivering bear parts: button eyes; little bow ties; shiny, sparkling shoes and dresses? But no. Trish filled out her newest order online only yesterday. It takes at least a week for delivery. Maybe he’s serving her with those cease and desist orders from Build-Your-Bear™?
    â€œIt’s about your children,” the man says, and Trish pulls herself straight into standing. Her legs have fallen asleep. No matter how much they drive her crazy, no matter how much she sometimes wishes they would just grow up and leave home, no matter how much she often wishes she could leave everyone behind, her children are her blood, her soul, her heart. Anyone mentions them and Trish melts a little into her shoes. Her legs give out. She limps to the door and flings it open.
    â€œYes? What?”
    He is a little man. Bald at the top of his head, hair in a ring, as if he’s one of those monks from the old days. He reminds Trish of someone. She feels she should know him, that she does know him, but she can’t place it. His brown suit aids that monkish look. If he had a rope belt Trish wouldn’t be surprised. She thinks about creating a Monk Bear. That might be fun. Build-Your-Bear™ couldn’t claim she stole that idea from them. Could they?
    And then she remembers that man Tom told her about, the one with a scar down the middle of his face, and she is glad that this man is small and brown-suited and monkish. Not large and split in half. She still shivers when she thinks about what Tom said, about how he didn’t take money for his work, about how he watched the children play basketball.
    â€œWhat about my children? What’s wrong?”
    â€œWhy were you hiding?”
    â€œExcuse me,” Trish says, “what about my children?”
    â€œNot
your
children in particular,” the man says. He clears his throat as Trish stares straight at him. She’s a big woman, not fine-boned in any way, and he’s a small, bald man. He pushes his glasses up on his nose with his middle finger. One push right between the eyebrows. He squinches his eyes