Interference (6 page)

The worst thing that ever happened to Dayton was when John came home from work and told her. After all she had put up with. Weeks they'd been fighting. Years, it sometimes seemed. Before their rushed marriage, before they told anyone Dayton was pregnant, they fought about everything and anything. Any little thing. What kind of toothbrush to buy, where to shop for curtains, whether to even get curtains or get blinds. Everything. They both knew they shouldn't have married, of course they shouldn't have. But they did. Because they thought it was the right thing to do. Because John was transferred from Toronto to California and Dayton needed a reason to follow him. But then he came home one day and everything was still and quiet, Carrie was sleeping, and he came right out with it. For no reason other than the sudden quiet of their home. They weren't arguing. Or talking. They didn't even say hello first. He laughed. Dayton knew, of course she knew. John was John. Sometimes home, sometimes not home, always distant. Mostly angry. Shouting. Mostly selfish. Mostly self-absorbed. Dayton thought, later, that if he hadn't said anything, if he hadn't said, “I'm seeing someone else,” she would have gone on with life the way it was and she probably wouldn't have changed anything. Carrie was brand new, California was new. Life was new and John could have done exactly what he wanted, like he always did, if he just hadn't told her. Most of the time Dayton is mad at him not for having the affair, but for telling her about it. For making it come out in the open, making her feel more ashamed than she already did. If he had only kept his big damn mouth shut.

And Dayton knows that when she thinks this way she sounds exactly like her mother. Ignore the obvious. Push your problems away. Get on with life no matter what. The sick thing is that Dayton grew up watching her mother make mistakes and promising herself she wouldn't make the same ones. Here she is, though, now in the same position as her mother.

Buxom. Implants? Really, John, really?

Maybe men can't surprise us, but we sure can surprise them.

He never, for a moment, saw it coming. That fact Dayton is sure of.

Stepping out of the bench and onto the ice, Dayton sails towards the puck, towards the net. She takes her stick back as far as she can without hitting anyone and she whacks at that little black thing and suddenly her team is roaring. She hit the puck. She actually hit the puck and it slid wildly, out of control, straight into the net.

Later on, in the change room, Trish says, “Hey, Dayton, it doesn't matter that it went into our net, it just matters that you hit the damn puck. You really hit it.” And everyone laughs. Someone has brought beer and they all sit there on the change-room benches half in and half out of their equipment, and some of them drink a beer. Just one. Someone starts talking about the weather and Dayton quickly realizes that she has no idea of the winter that is to come even if she grew up in Toronto, that she can't predict the future any more than she can justify stealing Carrie away from John and leaving California.

He'll find her someday soon. Losing is for losers. John does not think he is a loser. Someday John will show up on her front doorstep. He'll look at that big honking tree in front of her house reaching out to grab him and eat him, and he'll take Carrie back with him and things will never be the same. He always does this kind of thing. He surprises her with his predictability and Dayton is sure that his next surprise will be huge, and destructive.

But, for now, it's Dayton
1
, John
0
. Dayton scored a goal. Who cares, she thinks, if it was in the wrong net?

Build-Your-Bear™

Your way is the right way . . .

Come Build, Come Play, Come Love.

Your Bear.

Dear Ms. Patricia Birk,

We are writing to inform you that we are considering serving you with a Cease and Desist order regarding your line of specialty bears. Here at Build-Your-Bear™ we take pride in our uniqueness. Your “The Bear Company” has trod all over our brand. Are you even trademarked? The variety of clothes you offer — everything from tutus to three-piece, pin-striped business suits — the custom-made Career Bears, including Astronaut Bear and Plumber Bear, even the line of Sports Bears, were all original creations of Build-Your-Bear™. We are aware, of course, that you cannot possibly be operating on the scale of our company, but it has come to our attention that there are several similarities with your bears that are simply too close for us to ignore. How many other people have thought to make a Lady Gaga Bear, for example? Or a Dick Cheney Bear? We can understand your Obama Bear, but a bear based on Richard Nixon seems unlikely to be an original idea without the backing of the major advertisers that we have.

At the moment we will not serve you with papers. However, if you do not prove to us that your ideas are original AND cease making these bears, we will be forced to take legal action.

Build-Your-Bear™ goes back many years. We were founded in 1997. We are proud of creating original bears for young girls and boys that, when combined with certain clothes and accessories, make each bear someone highly recognizable. Besides, we had to pay for permission to create look-alikes of the famous celebrities. Why shouldn't you?

Sincerely,

Maisy Crank

CEO and Head Bear of Build-Your-Bear™

Madison, Wisconsin

4

Is it any wonder, Trish thinks, that I'm always yelling? This morning, for example, the candy bar wrapper on the front-hall bench, the rotting apple in the lunch bag, the gym clothes on the kitchen table. And Rachel's basketball rolling at her feet. Every morning she trips on the damn thing. Plus the dog. He's underfoot all the time. Trish finds herself leaning over him to fill up the kettle in the sink. It's easier to bend over him, as he lies there on the floor like he thinks he's the kitchen rug, than to tell him to “move it” every fifteen seconds. Trish gets tired of saying the same thing over and over. He slinks back. That's the problem: he leaves — at least he listens to her at first — but suddenly he is there again, always underfoot. She didn't want the dog but she's the one who has to deal with him. And he latched onto her as if she were his long lost mother. Everyone else gives him love, walks him, feeds him, Trish does nothing, but the damn dog is always following her around, sticking to her like glue.

They all look at Trish as if she's crazy. Her daughter, Rachel, rolls her eyes. Her husband, Frank, ducks out of the house quickly, desperate to go to work. Charlie, her youngest, ignores her. They rush around, creating chaos, and then they leave to school, to work. And they create chaos at work and school. Charlie with the hermit crabs last year. Rachel knocking the boy flat on the playground: “I learned how to punch from my father,” she said. Trish was beside herself. Looking at everything from beside herself. A siamese twin. One Trish loud and confident and in control, the other squirming and terrified, huddled up like the crabs Charlie released that got into the electrical system. Who knew hermit crabs could move so fast? Who knew it was ice cream day? Who knew one hundred boxes of the stuff had been delivered to the school, put in the freezers, waiting for recess? Who knew soggy ice cream could go bad that quickly? And most of all, who could possibly have known the kids would eat it? Trish separates herself most days and is left to clean it all up, to try to get her life, her house, back together. Trish needs order to get any work done. And she can't have order when everyone is home. That's the thing about her, she has to touch everything, even it all out, move it around, in order to make it hers again. This, Trish knows, takes about an hour. An hour to feel that her family are truly gone and she is safe from their wildness, so silent she can hear the house creak, and alone. It's not the house that's hers, she tries to tell Frank, it's the freedom to hear that quiet creak in the stair, the feeling that once again she is something besides mother and wife and problem-solver. She is herself again.

Frank always sighs when she complains. She knows he doesn't understand, she knows he doesn't care. It's not that he doesn't love her and treat her well and respect her — although sometimes Trish wonders if it's more like he puts up with her — but she knows that deep inside he thinks, Women
.
Just that. Women
.
With a little internal
phew
, or even
pfft
, attached to it. That says it all for Frank, Trish is sure of it. “Women.” Deep inside he's a bit sexist. He got it from his dad, nothing he could do about it. Trish's father-in-law is all blistering machoness. Even at age eighty-two. “Get me my cane, girl,” he shouts. “What's for dinner?”

So this morning, when the knock on the front door comes, Trish does the only thing she knows how to do, she ignores it and hides. There is no other option. Her hour of getting herself together is already up. She has done her straightening, she has re-wiped the kitchen counters, she has put the hair clips on the hall table, ready to be carried upstairs — by her, of course, who else? Trish has opened the curtains and wiped the dog's nose prints off the back glass door. The morning is hers again — the world is hers — and she's not letting anyone destroy this peace she has made. Trish refuses even to answer the phone during the day. Instead, she listens to the answering machine and picks up only if she feels the need.

The neighbours often call. Maria, across the street, panicking about whose turn it is to drive the girls to band Tuesday mornings, or Tom, Maria's husband, wanting Frank to help him carry something from his car into the house, something heavy that Maria can't help him with because of her back problems. Their daughter, Becky, comes over every morning to pick Rachel up for school or to drop off the eggs her mother borrowed or to give back the sweater Rachel lent her. In fact, this neighbourhood is a constant flow of back and forth, everyone walking across the street many times a day, dogs rambling around together in back or front yards, phones ringing, people calling out for their kids to come home, get ready for bed, get in the bath now. Now. 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™.

“Knock 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 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.

“I 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.

“Damn.” 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?

“Just 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™?

“It'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.

“Yes? 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.

“What about my children? What's wrong?”

“Why were you hiding?”

“Excuse me,” Trish says, “what about my children?”

“Not
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 and purses his lips. Trish notes his lips are dry, cracked, scaly. White spittle stuck in the corners. She recoils slightly.

“You don't have to be rude.”

“Me?” Trish shouts this a little. She can't help herself. “I'm obviously busy —”

“Busy hiding?”

“I am obviously not wanting to be disturbed —”

“Yes, but —”

“And you come pounding at my door —”

“I knocked politely. I even said, ‘Knock knock.'”

“Talking about my children —”

“Not
your
children, just children in general. You see, they aren't safe —”

“Excuse me? Excuse me?” Trish is shrill. But this is what you get when you disturb someone after she has finally had her hour, put her mind back together, formed herself afresh. Frank often says not to mess with her before she's had her coffee, but this, this is even worse. Trish tries to shut the door but the little man has his shiny shoe stuck in the doorway and no matter how many times she jams it with the door, he doesn't move. In fact, he shouts, “Ouch, ouch,” but doesn't pull his foot back. He's a sucker for punishment.

“Get your foot out of my door.”

“But I have to tell you about the children.” The little man looks down at his foot as if he's checking to see if it's still there. “I don't like Mondays,” he says, as an aside.

“But it's Tuesday.” Trish pushes a little more at the door, at his foot, but it's wedged inside tight. He's not moving it.

“Here, just take this.” A pamphlet comes towards her. She takes it. A natural thing, she thinks later, when going over this scene in her mind. Her hand reaches out automatically. Trish figures she can take the pamphlet and shut the door and go upstairs to her sewing room and make her bears. But first she will need to give herself another hour — perhaps drink another coffee, fiddle with the curtains, maybe have some dark chocolate — in order to put her world back in order. The man looks sad, crestfallen. He looks like he's going to cry. Trish is a sucker for criers, but this man is not melting her heart.