The Cat Sitter's Cradle

29

I was wandering up and down the aisles at Walmart. Ethan was coming over later, and for once I was planning on cooking dinner with my own two hands in my own apartment with my own pans. I had stopped by to pick up a few basic things. Like a cookbook. And some pans.

I filled the cart up with all kinds of goodies. Some long tapered beeswax candles, a box of wineglasses, some cornflower blue place mats with matching napkins, a couple of nice kitchen knives, and some wooden salad bowls. In the clothing section, I threw in a bag of white ankle socks and a couple of pairs of fresh white Keds. My supply was getting a little low.

I wondered if I might run into the young girl that had helped me pick out all the baby things that day I’d found Corina. I kind of hoped not. I had liked her right away, but I knew she’d ask me how it had worked out with the pediatrician she recommended and how the baby was doing. I imagined myself saying, Oh, I don’t really know. I think that baby’s in Guatemala now, but I’m not really sure. I think she already thought I was a complete kook, and I didn’t want to make things worse.

In the pharmacy, I grabbed some toothpaste, a bottle of lavender-scented hand cream, and a couple of tubes of lip balm. There was an older couple standing at the end of what they call the “family planning” aisle, and they were staring at the vast collection of condoms in every shape, size, and color of the rainbow with bewildered looks on their faces. As I rolled up to them, the woman stepped to the side.

She said, “Harry, move over.”

The man jumped a little when he saw me and then shuffled over next to her.

I said, “Pardon me, just rolling through.”

They both smiled pleasantly as I went by, and just as I turned the corner I reached out and grabbed a little purple and white box with bold black lettering. It read EARLY PREGNANCY TEST. As if it was the most normal thing in the world to buy, I tossed it into the basket with a flick of the wrist and headed for the registers.

* * *

On my way home, I pulled into the pavilion at Siesta Key Beach and walked across the gravelly parking lot to one of the weathered plank boardwalks that hover over the dunes. As usual, next to the steps at the end of the walkway were about two dozen pairs of sneakers, flip-flops, and sandals that people had slipped off before they went down to the beach. It’s kind of a tradition.

Whenever anyone asks me why I live here, I talk about the beautiful weather, all the birds, the pure white sand, the wonderful people. In my head, though, I think of all these shoes lined up in rows in the dunes, some of the shoes sitting next to the shoes of their friends and family—whoever they came to the beach with—and some of them just sitting next to perfect strangers’ shoes, just hanging out. People have been leaving their shoes like this for as long as I can remember. I always think, I live here because nobody wants to steal your shoes. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

There was a group of people playing an impromptu game of beach volleyball. I kicked off my Keds and placed them in the sand next to all the other shoes and walked down to the water to watch for a while. A flock of sandpipers was zipping up and down with the waves, picking through the foamy sand for fish eggs and bits of seaweed. I sat down and tilted my face toward the warm sun.

I thought to myself, This is what it’s all about, just to be able to breathe in the fresh ocean air and dig my toes in the cool sand. All we have in this world is time, and we should be grateful for every single bit of it.

Life is good.