Chains Around the Grass by Naomi Ragen Read Free Book Online

in all the booths—big and little teddy bears, a kewpie doll, sunglasses. It seemed as if he didn’t know how to lose. His extravagance bowled her over, it was so unlike anything she’d ever experienced. And he was so confident; so sure he would win everything he had his heart set on. This time. Or the next time. And all it took was another penny, or nickel, or quarter or dollar…
    “You should save your money, Dave,” she told him. “I already have more than I can carry.”
    “Don’t worry, Ruthie,” he had smiled at her. “I’ll help you carry the rest.” And he had.
    She smiled now, pushing the tormenting hair, once again, out of her eyes, scanning the still unopened boxes. For all she knew, the bears and dolls and plastic trophies were still in there, somewhere. All precious. All useless. Boxes, she thought. Full of things most of which we would never miss. How ironic it was that all the really important things in life, the things that really gave you lasting happiness, were never the things you struggled so hard to get. They were gifts: days without sickness or accidents or encounters with bad people. Days without misunderstandings or petty crimes—by you or against you, among the people you loved. And so what meaning did all these boxes have? And what was the point of accumulating even more things that would need still more boxes?
    She was often philosophical. Her problem was that while the questions occurred to her easily and frequently, the answers never did. Of course, one needed things. But the vital things, the things that you couldn’t get on without were mostly too boring and inexpensive to warrant longing: sewing needles, potato mashers, underwear, safety pins. And the things you longed for, the big, important things that brought you romance and excitement, most of the time, didn’t last: pretty dresses got stained and faded, shiny new cars got dented and scratched, furniture buckled and sagged, and even a dream house, she imagined, must wind up feeling small and tacky after a few years, no matter how much you fixed it up.
    How could longing and struggling for things that didn’t last bring a lasting happiness? She often pondered this. The only conclusion she had ever come to was that the seeking, the longing, the struggle and that first moment of attainment sometimes made you happy. For a while, at least. Perhaps that’s all there really was, she thought, those rare moments in-between all the rest. And the boxes and their contents were, in the final analysis just souvenirs really, reminders that you had once arrived and had a wonderful time. She kissed her fingertips, touching them to the old picture, thinking of Dave and regretting the anger of the morning.
    Why, why, couldn’t he just let things be?
    What business was it of his, anyway, if she had friends or didn’t have friends?
    But he never let up. He had tried being funny and casual about it. He had tried cajoling, pleading, nagging. And now he had found a new tactic: sitting down by her side at breakfast, he had pushed away his cereal.
    “I have no appetite. A small thing I ask you… What did I say—to murder somebody? To commit armed robbery? Ruth, I beg of you, go into the neighbors’ already. At least thank them for the help on moving day. Ruth…” and then he had done it, that final coup de grace which had left her without means of resistance. He had lowered his eyes and whispered: “I’m ashamed already to look them in the face. They’ll think we’re on a high horse. That we’re better than everybody else.”
    That was the one argument that held any water for her, and that would never in a million years have occurred to her. That anyone might think that she, Ruth Markowitz, was a snob. That she held herself higher than someone—anyone—else.
    It had been the same in Jersey. “Go into them. Make some friends,” Dave had exhorted her until she had gone against her own instincts. Of course, disaster had followed.
    Oh,