Chains Around the Grass by Naomi Ragen Read Free Book Online Page B

interest in following up the little details which transforms motherly love from an emotion to the rock-bed of a small child’s whole existence. Boiling noodles to exactly the right consistency. Keeping track of undershirts and little socks so that there are always clean ones, always dry ones, no matter how many times a day it is necessary to change them; keeping track of who did what to whom and meting out educational justice. Knowing when to let a child express himself by arranging cornflakes on the couch pillows and when to insist on keeping some semblance of order and cleanliness in a home.
    At all these kinds of things, Ruth knew she was a dismal failure. She hated the oppressive, daily grind of the small, thankless tasks which keep a home from falling apart. It was not the work; she wasn’t lazy or spoiled. She just hated the constant feeling of doing it all so badly.
    In her mind’s eye, she held guilty, secret rituals, exorcising herself of all responsibility, the equivalent of sneaking down to sit quietly on an empty beach during perfectly good working hours. And in these rituals, she was alone in deep silent waters, looking neither right nor left for weaker swimmers drowning, but taking slow, anarchistic strokes—joyously bereft of goals. And sometimes, in the early morning when everyone was still blessedly asleep, comfortable and well in their beds, she had the amazing vision of herself in a tailored blue wool suit, hair and nails shining, sitting behind the bright, clean surface of an oiled desk with a typewriter, telephone and dictation pad set out with simple orderliness before her.
    “Come Saraleh. Come, I’ll dress you. We’ll go visit the nice people,” she said without enthusiasm, catching Sara’s arm as she danced around the room, finding herself dragged along, dancing behind her. What a kid! Ruth couldn’t help smiling. She couldn’t walk—she danced everywhere, pirouetting, banging into walls, scraping her knees, rubbing her elbows raw…
    “Knock, knock,” the child said suddenly, standing perfectly still.
    “OK, come on now.”
    “Knock, knock!” she repeated insistently.
    “Who’s there?” Ruth said wearily. “Boo.”
    “Boo-who?” Ruth said dutifully, “Now…” “Boo-who-who?”
    “Boo-who-who-who,” Ruth gave in. “Now Sara…!” “Boo-who-who-who-who?” Sara continued, delighted. “SARA!!!!!”
    “Please, Mommy! Just once more, please!!”
    Ruth took a deep breath and closed her eyes: “Boo-who-who-who-who-who-who!!” she said slowly, with effort.
    “Why, Mommy? Why are you crying?” Sara asked with great innocence.
    “You little witch!” Ruth laughed. “Who taught you that one?” “Daddy. Daddy knows lots of jokes.”
    “Your Daddy loves to laugh,” Ruth told her, getting her dressed. When she was ready, Ruth checked on her sleeping baby, then held her daughter’s squirming hand and walked rapidly down the long hall.
    She felt better taking Sara along. Armed. There would be two against…she shrugged, feeling foolish. Against what? She knocked timidly, hoping not to be heard.
    “Who is it?” a woman’s voice demanded.
    Ruth hesitated. The fear and suspicion in the tone put her off balance, so clearly did it mirror her own misgivings. And yet, it created a certain kinship too. “It’s Mrs. Markowitz. From down the hall.”
    She was a very thin young woman with badly chapped, redknuckled hands which she wiped nervously on a clean, but faded cotton housedress.
    “Oh, Mrs. Markowitz. I’m sorry. I didn’t… Please, please, come in,” the woman said graciously. “Excuse this place,” her hand swept in a wide arc, including in its apology the airless, sour smell, the threadbare rug and chipped wooden coffee table. But the table was dustless and the frayed couch pillows neatly arranged, Ruth noticed with respect.
    From the depths of the dark hall a child’s short, choking sobs wafted down to them. The woman turned toward it, her fingers becoming