Interference by Michelle Berry Page A

one “ha.” And his laugh is like a shot. It rings into the living room and startles the dog from his nap on the floor. The cat, slinking by, takes off like her tail is on fire. Trish shivers.
    The phone rings.
    She doesn’t move to answer it.
    â€œAren’t you going to get that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut —” the man stops talking and looks at her, curiously.
    The answering machine kicks in. “Trish? Hi, it’s Mary, from the school. Your Christmas wreaths are in. Give me a call and we can arrange a time to pick them up. Or Rachel can bring them home. If she can carry them. I’d give them to Charlie but, well, you know how he is. Anyway, call me when you get a chance. It’s Mary.”
    â€œBeep,” the man says. He says it in time with the beep on the machine.
    Trish almost expected him to do that.
    â€œAt least I’m not the only one you ignore.” He laughs again. That bark. “Ha.” Trish, her pets, they all jump slightly and then settle themselves quickly.
    That’s when Trish looks down at the pamphlet. That’s when she sees what she has in front of her, what she’s holding in her hands. And she almost drops it. She gasps.
    â€œGet out of my house.” Standing now. The man looks up at Trish and smiles. Trish can feel her heart beat in her neck.
    â€œSeriously, you really have to stop being so difficult. People will turn from you. People will turn their backs on you and walk away. These boots,” he says, pointing to his shiny shoes, “are made for walking.”
    Trish moves fast towards the kitchen, meaning to pick up the phone. She waves his pamphlet in the air. Furious. “I will call the police. I really will.”
    â€œBut think of the children. Laugh, laugh.”
    â€œGet out.”
    Her dog barks. Once. A squirrel outside.
    The man stands from the sofa and follows Trish into the kitchen. His shiny shoes tap-tapping on her floor.
    â€œI thought you meant my children. And then I thought you meant children in general. Like poor children or sad children or starving children or children who don’t get Christmas.”
    â€œI meant all those things. Children.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Trish’s hand is on the phone. “What do you mean?” Shrill now. “This,” she throws the pamphlet down on the floor as if it has burned her, “this is disgusting.”
    The man bends to pick up the pamphlet. “Sigh,” he says again. And he begins to cry. Little tears squeeze out from the corners of his eyes. He’s working hard at it.
    â€œYou’re crazy. I’m calling the police. I’m phoning 9 - 1 - 1 .”
    He turns and begins to walk quickly out of Trish’s house. Down the hall, past the dog, past the cat rolling on the floor, digging her claws in the hall carpet, and out the front door.
    â€œWait. You can’t leave.” Trish’s hand is on the phone. Her heart in her throat. “You can’t pretend this doesn’t exist.”
    â€œYou never think about the children,” he says. He turns and says this to her. “Bang,” he says, as the door slams shuts behind him. “Clip clop,” he says as he starts down the wooden steps. “Whoosh,” he shouts as he starts to run up the street. Trish is on the front porch now, watching him rush away. A little bald man who looks like a monk in a brown suit. She doesn’t even have one of his pamphlets anymore. He took it with him. If she phones the police she has no proof he even exists. Now Trish understands Tom’s dilemma about the scar-faced man, his hesitancy to call the police. Tom didn’t have anything to go on but the man’s horrific face. And the fact that the man spent all day raking his leaves for free. That wouldn’t have impressed the police. But Tom didn’t see what Trish has seen. There were things in that pamphlet, in the second it took Trish to