Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 5

The car door slammed, and Sanford heard the grunt of his father's voice through his bedroom window. It was just past two in the morning, and it was three days before Christmas.

Sanford lay in bed and listened, waiting for the jingling of keys, drunkenly opening the door. Instead, there was the sound of boots crunching in the snow as they made their way through the backyard and towards the toolshed.

Now, Sanford thought, now's the time.

He jumped out of bed and got dressed, his clothes waited in a heap next to him. Eric kicked around in his sheets and stirred awake.

"Where are you going?" he asked, half asleep.

"I have to check on something," Sanford responded. "Another clue."

"Can I come?"

"No, it's past midnight. Get some sleep, I'll tell you about it in the morning, deal?"

"Deal," he said, and fell right back to sleep as if he was shot with a tranquilizer. Sanford smiled at him through their dark bedroom. Before leaving, he reached under his bed and grabbed the binoculars. It would be hard to see anything in the dark, but it would be better to try this way than to get too close.

He crept down the hall, careful not to wake his mother. The floorboards moaned, suggesting he stay put, go back to bed, and dream of a pleasant world. But he ignored these thoughts and descended the staircase, the binoculars dangling around his neck.

Winter gear hung from a coat hanger at the bottom of the stairs. Sanford strapped on his boots and zipped up his jacket. His nerves danced and his fingers fidgeted. They were doused in sweat and made the simple task of zippering up a test of patience. On the fourth try, he got it.

The garage was impossibly cold. It was a one-car garage, tight with clutter. The smell of dust, oil, and garbage conjured up memories of the times Sanford helped his father to clean out the garage, work on the car, and bring down the trash. 

He tiptoed across the oil-stained floor, dodging trashcans and bicycles like land mines. The door to the outside was to the right of the garage door. Frost obscured its window. Sanford could only see a blur of black and gray.

He turned the knob and opened the door.

His fingers and toes went numb at once, like a light switch in his body had just been turned off. But he ignored it all. His attention was drawn to the first thing he saw: blood gleaming in the white snow. The moon seemed to make it glow.

Doubt nagged at him, so close to the truth. He wasn't a real detective; he wasn't even a patrolman. He was a ten-year-old boy afraid of his dad. The feeling grew with every step he took towards the shed.

He stopped in the middle of the yard, hunkered down behind a tree, and gazed through the binoculars. It was hard to see much of anything in the dark. The light was on in the shed, and through the window Sanford could see a shadow. His father's silhouette looked bigger, bulkier—a more threatening version of his regular self. But that was all he could see.

Sanford inched closer, realizing how loud the crunch of snow could be. But then, the sound of music filled the air, covering his steps. His father had the record player on, and he was singing along with an old Hank Williams song. It was a song about a cold, cold heart.

The languid melody would play as a backdrop in Sanford's nightmares for years to come. He was outside of the shed now and looked through the window. It was his father. Naked. Again. He wasn't dancing or howling at the moon this time. Instead, he was holding a picture frame in one hand, his penis in the other. His left arm had what appeared to be a gash on it, and blood seeped through a recently applied bandage.