What is one supposed to do for one’s fellow men? What is one supposed to be? I confess I know no more now than I did before.
We bought the place on the beach and have now set-tied in there more or less permanently. I don’t think we will ever move again. It’s curious to think of buying a house in which you know you will someday undoubtedly die. To have come at last to your final address in life, far from being disturbing, is a curiously comforting thought.
One day, a stray cat wandered into our yard and decided to stay. For three days he crouched under a tree at a distance of twenty-five feet or so, just watching us come and go about our business. Then one day he accepted food and entered our house.
Since that time he’s become a great comfort to me. At night I lie in bed with Alice sleeping at my side and feel the cat, in bed, too, warm and heavy against my leg. Outside the wind whines over the sand gnashing its teeth against the branches of the plum tree just beside the window. If you listen, you can hear the low, ceaseless rolling of the ocean tumbling gently down on the shore.
These I count the best hours. It’s oddly comforting to feel the cat warm and heavy against my leg and Alice, far, far away, sleeping deeply at my side. Sometimes I can feel the cat’s heartbeat through the mattress, or feel him purring in his dreams. It’s a peaceful sound, and from it I gather that he takes as much comfort from the warmth and nearness of my body as I take from his. On those long, sleepless nights it’s nice to know as you lie there waiting for dawn that you’re not the last living creature on earth; that you’re united with the other sleepers and dreamers and those who are simply waiting.
I think that is really all there is here—just a handful of creatures huddling together on a wild plain in the chill, dark hours before the morning, taking succor from one another while waiting for a dawn that scarcely even promises to come.
Crawlspace Page 30
