The door chain was four inches of trust. You turned the lock and you opened the door and the chain caught and you had four inches to see who it was. Four inches was enough. You saw a face and you decided. Friend or stranger. Delivery or danger. The chain was the democracy of the threshold. Everybody got four inches. Nobody got more until you said so.

My mother answered the door on the chain. Always. Every time. The superintendent. The mailman. The neighbor's kid. Everybody got the chain first. She was not afraid. She was careful. Careful is not afraid. Afraid is not opening the door. Careful is opening it four inches and looking.

The chain was brass. The chain was five links. Five links between your apartment and the hallway. The screws went into the doorframe and the slide plate went into the door and the whole thing cost two dollars at the hardware store and it was the most effective security system in the building. The deadbolt kept people out. The chain let you look before you let them in. The deadbolt was a wall. The chain was a conversation.

A man could break the chain. Everybody knew that. One hard push and the screws came out of the frame and the chain was on the floor. The chain was not strong. The chain was symbolic. The chain said I am here and I am deciding. The chain turned the door into a decision instead of an event. Without the chain the door is binary. Open or closed. With the chain the door has a middle position. The middle position is where civilization lives.

They have peepholes now. Cameras. Video intercoms. You can see who is at the door from your phone while you are not even home. The technology is better. The information is better. But the chain had something the camera does not have. The chain had four inches of real air between you and the person. You could smell them. You could hear them breathe. You could see their eyes. The camera gives you an image. The chain gave you a meeting.

See also: Door Knocker, The Door