Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 2

Jonathan's eyes peered through the binoculars. The look on his face belonged to that of a man in a forbidden place, secreted away in others' private moments.

Jonathan loved the beach. He told Sanford how he loved to watch the people, describing to him how interesting it is to watch life go on and to be a part of some stranger's world for a brief moment.

"You see that one, son?" He pointed and held the binoculars over Sanford's eyes, without letting him touch them; he never let anybody touch his things.

"The fat man?"

"Yes, the fat man," Jonathan laughed. "You see how engorged he is? Sitting in that chair on the verge of breaking it, shoving another hot dog in his mouth? What do you think his life is like at home, outside of this beach?"

"I don't know."

"Guess."

"I... I can't."

"Sure you can, it's easy. Watch. You see those tan lines on his calf? It's white next to red; he's burned. Meaning he doesn't get out in the sun much. Also, he's likely of Irish or English descent. My guess though, is that he doesn't get out because he doesn't want to. He's under that umbrella, blocking the sun because it scares him."

"Why does it scare him?"

"Aren't you the one who wants to be a detective?" Jonathan asked.

"Yeah, but—"

"It's because the world's too big for him. He prefers his own world; the little one he calls his apartment. Where he watches television, paws through his dirty magazines, and eats his endless junk food. He most likely got dragged here on vacation by his parents, so they can get him out of his cave and pretend their son isn't as pathetic as they know he is. So he sits there, staring at the ocean, seeing how big it is, and retreating into himself. It's a reminder to him that no matter how fat he gets, he's still a small turd in the grand scheme of things."

Sanford watched the fat man eat. Through his mind's eye, he saw the man sitting on his couch at home, devouring fistfuls of candy. He saw him alone, he saw him sad. In a small way, he felt his pain

"What about them?" Sanford said, pointing over to the parents of some boys he was playing with earlier.

The mother was tall and lean, with a body that a mother of three had no business carrying. Her hair was long and blond, running in waves down to her waist, revealing her curves every time the wind blew. To Sanford it meant nothing, but he saw his father's eyes widen. Unexplainable guilt rattled Sanford's spine.

The husband was built like a Greek myth. Muscles protruded at every angle. Jonathan's own body was soft and doughy, though this was obscured by his height. His teeth tightened, grinding at a volume heard over the splashing waves. Even the children seemed to be plucked from a postcard. Blond hair and blue eyes—the definition of 60's Americana perfection.

Sanford could feel his father staring through the binoculars at the family, into their lives, becoming part of it. It made him uncomfortable.

"Them?" he said, pointing ominously. "Nothing's wrong with them... they're perfect."

* * *

A cool night's wind moaned through the screen door. The boys slept outside on the porch in their sleeping bags. There was only one bed in the room, which their parents claimed. Sleeping under the stars suited the boys just fine. And on that night the sky was as full and bright as any they'd ever seen.

Sanford lay on his back. He felt the breeze and listened to the sounds of waves exploding off the rocky shoreline with his hands behind his head. His eyes were glued to the night sky. Sleep never came easy to him. It was as if his brain went into overdrive when the world became dark and quiet.