Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 4

Thanksgiving came and went. Time seemed to alternately fly and crawl on those days Sanford would search with Eric. They'd rummage through Jonathan's closet and drawers, looking for anything suspicious, knowing there'd be a beating if they were to get caught, if not something worse.

Eric never knew what to look for. Sanford told him as little as possible. When Eric would search he'd mostly come across something insignificant: a switchblade, a razor, or a used handkerchief crusted with snot, which they'd wince at and throw at each other in a sickening game of hot potato.

Then, through pure luck, Eric found something strange underneath the bedside drawer of their father's bed. He hadn't meant to look there. It was the third time he'd checked the drawer, though this time he opened it too fast, and the drawer slid off of its rails. It fell to the ground, spilling its contents of socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs everywhere.

Something shiny caught his eye. The faux gold belonged to a picture frame hidden underneath the rails of the drawer.

"Let me see that!" Sanford exclaimed, grabbing at the frame.

"Hey!" Eric said but didn't fight it.

Inside of it was an old black and white picture of two children, a boy, and a little girl. Their forms were hazy, their faces whitewashed, nearly making them transparent. They wore black clothes. The boy seemed to be a little older than Sanford and looked remarkably like him. He was holding the girl, who looked to be no more than three-years-old.

"What in God's name are you boys doing?" Their mother's voice broke their trance.

They jumped from shock and whirled around to see her standing in the bedroom doorway. She saw the drawer, upside down on the floor. Jonathan's socks were spilled across the carpet.

"Nothing Ma. We were just looking for..." his brain froze.

Then, in an instant, his ears rang. From his jawbone to his eye he felt a hot sting.

His mother had slapped him.

She'd never slapped him that hard before. His head snapped to the right. He looked back at her with tearing eyes, trying to hold in an all-out cry; he could see that there was no anger in her face, only fear.

"Sanford, I'm so sorry!" She reached out to hold him, but he backed away, as did Eric.

"You don't understand. If your father found out you were... I'm so sorry I hit you, but you can never do this again, do you understand?"

Sanford nodded, gripping his face.

"You have to put this drawer back exactly the way it was. Exactly!"

Eric handed her the photo with a look of guilt, "Who is this Mommy?"

She took it, and looked it over for less than a second. Sanford could tell it was a photo she'd been shown hundreds of times.

"This is a picture of Daddy when he was a boy, and your Aunt Claire," she sighed.

"Aunt Claire?" Sanford asked.

"Your daddy's baby sister. She died when she was younger."

The pain from Sanford's face seemed to drop to his stomach.

"How'd she die?" he asked.

"Put the photo back, and don't tell your father about it; he gets very upset when he thinks about her."

"How'd she die?" Sanford repeated, ignoring her request.

"She fell and hit her head. It was a bad accident."

* * *

The winter was one to remember. Record lows and snowfalls encapsulated all of New England, burying it one foot at a time. Power lines and trees tilted from the snow's weight. Christmas was around the corner, but Sanford's mind was too occupied to care.

He'd become obsessed, his mind tangled up in thoughts of his father. Every day he would pursue, his what? His... suspect? He supposed he always knew this is what he wanted to be. All those detective stories he'd read, he'd always fantasized himself as the hero.

Detective Crow, he'd think to himself. It had a nice ring to it.

Here he was on his first case—a doozy. And he needed the right tools for the job. He'd gone through his stack of Dick Tracy comics and developed his own list of what he might need and strategies he'd have to know. He would learn from the master himself.

There was a magnifying glass he'd found buried in the glove box of his father's station wagon, lodged in between the roadmaps. He stole an extra powdering kit from his mother's makeup bag. He tried desperately to find the yellow hat and raincoat but realized the less bright colors he wore, the better. The one tool he knew would help more than all the others was the one tool forbidden. But he knew where it was kept.

In their backyard—thirty yards away from the house—stood Jonathan's toolshed. He had built it for himself a few years earlier, with Sanford handing him screws and nails when needed. It cast long, disproportionate shadows through the yard. It was an eyesore; their mother hated it. Her idea of a backyard was more pristine, with Adirondack chairs, wildflowers, and a garden of her own.

Sanford knew the binoculars were inside. Staring at the shed in front of him, he saw it as a monster. Icicles hung from the roof like fangs. He approached the door warily, as if he might trigger a booby trap. He calmed his breathing and grabbed the cold metal handle. He pulled the door open. The hinges wailed.

When he entered, the smell of gasoline was nauseating. Dust and pollen gathered in clumps and bundles on the floor. The lawnmower hibernated in the corner, waiting for winter's end. The plump pool pump sat next to the pool ladder. A space heater was toppled over in the middle of the room. The floor was covered in mouse droppings. The place was a mess.

The workbench was to his left. It was the only thing cleaned and immaculate. The metal top was polished and gleaming. Tools hung in order from big to small. Nuts and bolts were stored in clearly labeled containers. Everything was organized. It was as if his father was a different man in front of the bench, neat and stable, while everything around it was falling apart.

Underneath the bench was a shelf stacked with boxes. Sanford took a mental picture of what was where so he'd get it right when he'd put it back. He bent low and began moving the boxes.

He searched behind the first row and found a circular leather case, matted with dust. He smiled as he reached for it. It had a leather strap from the lid to the base, which buckled in like a belt. Sanford could smell the leather as he opened it, capturing the essence of vintage.

Bird watching, is what his father supposedly used them for, but his father hated animals, in all shapes and forms. When Sanford was five-years-old, his mother brought home a dog. A golden retriever named Taffy. For the one week they had that dog, Sanford remembered loving it as if he'd had it forever. Then one day, just like that, the dog was gone. He remembered his father telling him that Taffy ran away. But why would Taffy run away when Sanford loved him so much?

He pulled out the binoculars from the case and held them in his hands for the first time. His sweaty skin was never allowed to touch them. In his palms, he could feel their weight, their delicacy, like some forbidden fruit always out of reach, which had finally fallen to the ground.

They were big, too big, meant for an adult. When he put them to his eyes, only one could see through the lens, the other only reached the bridge. A wave of concern washed over him as he stared through; he prayed that his father wouldn't find out that he had them.

But it's winter, and birds fly south for the winter, right?

Despite the weather, Sanford was on a mission, and unlike the birds, he'd be damned if a little snow was going to stop him. Christmas was coming and all Sanford wanted was the truth wrapped neatly in a box with a bow on top. If he was being honest with himself, he wanted more than that: he wanted an explanation, he wanted a reason why his father was the way he was. He wanted to go back, forget what he saw that night on the beach, and once again enjoy his youth. But above all else, what Sanford really wanted for Christmas was simply to be wrong.