Dale stromberg

Murmurs in the Moiré

Sarah can’t woolgather all afternoon. When she finishes dusting Abe’s book cabinet, the oriental rug in the living room will be waiting for her to beat it. When that’s done, the sofa covers will be waiting for her to strip off and launder them. When that’s done, the parquet floors will be waiting for her to vacuum and dry-mop.

Her arms are folded, her hip canted against the love seat. No one ever tells her to clean this, clean that. It just needs doing. She stands looking out of the wide living room window. Audacious blue summer sky. Straight-sided lawns. But she can’t woolgather all afternoon.

Garage door opener grumbles. Car engine pulls in, dies. Suspension creaks. One door slams, then another. Door from garage to kitchen humphs open.

“Have fun?” she calls, though she doesn’t know where her husband and son went, doesn’t know what for, didn’t know when they’d be back. “I said, have fun?” 

Abe, silent, walks straight to the den, nudges the door shut with his knee. One of his solemn moods.

“Have fun?” she repeats to Isaac, who comes in after his dad.

Her son shrugs, mopey as ever. “Not really.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” he mopes.

Sarah sets down the dust rag on the arm of the rocker. “What’d you guys do?”

“Nothing. Just sacrificed a ram.” Isaac glides mopily off to his room.

Sarah sighs slowly. Sacrifice—weird thing to say. They must have gone for mutton curry or something. But she can’t woolgather all afternoon. The oriental rug waits for her to beat it.