Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 1

PART ONE: CHILDHOOD'S END

1969

The ordinary man is the man to fear. The man who shows no originality. The man who is so goddamn normal that it's terrifying. Jonathan Crow was that kind of man.

He lived a simple life in the simple town of Sanford, Maine. The simplicity of it was so deeply cherished by him that he named his eldest son after the town.

Jonathan was a postman. While delivering the townsfolk its mail, he'd exchange words and laughs as a staple of the community. He was large, coltish and towering. His surprising height of 6'5, was evident even when driving, with his pointy, flattop hair brushing the mail truck's ceiling. An intimidating man by size, but the horn-rimmed glasses he wore over his dark, marbled eyes, made him innocuous.

It was late August in the summer of 1969. The Crows had taken a family trip to Ogunquit, Maine, a picturesque beach town set in the style of a Norman Rockwell painting. Rock cliffs brushed in the landscape, overlooking the endless Atlantic. The ocean rippled out waves that crashed against the mammoth rocks, creating a tumultuous yet peaceful sound. The tourists and townsfolk alike slept with their porch doors opened to better hear the natural lullaby. The smell of sand and salt hung in the air—when mixed with the heat of the overbearing sun, the town could sometimes foster an aroma of exhumed life.

The residents were as polite as could be, treating the tourists as if they were gods in a new land, grateful to have them visit. During the off season—when winter settled in unmercifully—the few people who lived there year-round hibernated until the vacation season pumped blood back into the community once again.

The Crows had gone for a long weekend, traveling in their wood-paneled station wagon, packed from window to window, mostly with little Eric's toys. Little plastic soldiers littered the backseat alongside stacks of Sanford's detective stories and comics.

Jonathan was the captain of their four-wheeled ship, always at the helm. He never let their mother, Grace, get her hands on the wheel.

"Come on Jon, we're at a rest stop, can I drive the rest of the way?"

"Grace, no."

His smile would arch in cartoonish angles when he said such things. It made Grace cringe, knowing she was getting on his nerves, and she would subsequently tiptoe the whole way.

"Daddy, when will we be there?" Sanford asked from the backseat, his head buried in the tales of Detective Artie Camper, about to solve another murder. They were a little too adult for a nine-year-old, but for his father, the sooner he grew up the better. Sanford, being the eldest, was already spoken to like a teenager.

"We'll be there when we get there," Jonathan said with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping the bottom frame of the opened window as he indignantly stared at a passing couple walking home from the beach. Their bronzing tans and whitened teeth made him sick.

"Does that mean soon? I wanna go to the beach," Sanford whined.

"What did I tell you about patience, boy?"

Sanford's head went down as he tried to remember. "Ummm..."

"Come on now. The two warriors... you know it."

"Oh yeah! The two powerful warriors are patience and time?" Sanford asked, hopeful to be correct.

"The two MOST powerful warriors are patience and time. Tolstoy said that, so it's important you say it right," Jonathan said. He'd always wield such brainy quotes like a weapon, hoping to affect an air of intelligence by repeating what smarter men had said. His own quotes were never quite as elegant, but he always got his point across.