Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 7

The day Sanford met Ava was one he would never forget. It was the last day of school, and summer started the second the bell rang, regardless of what the calendar said. Locker doors slammed as other doors opened, and adolescents blazed into the sunshine as if they'd never felt it before.

Sanford followed suit and barged out of the school, hopping on his Schwinn, which was chained to a pole on the side of the school. Its frame was matte black. Sanford had spray painted it in the spring as a project, covering up all indication of what brand it was, making it look like he had built it himself. He pedaled fast to get home to rid himself of the book-bag strapped to his back.

Racing down narrow streets, cutting through alleys and paths in town, made the ride quick. The town itself was condensed to a few blocks. Mom-and-pop stores, the deli, the bakery, a movie theater, all staples holding the tiny town together. He passed the pharmacy on his right. New comic books were displayed in the window, which Sanford was desperate to buy, but he only had pennies in his pocket. He kept riding.

Up ahead, standing on its own and connected to nothing else, was the post office. His father's workplace. He slowly rolled by the window, hoping to see his father inside. Sometimes he would, and sometimes his father would come out, ask how school was, what he learned, and if he got in any trouble. And sometimes, only sometimes, he would flip him a quarter to buy a comic book. But no luck today. He must've still been on his route.

The police station was after that on the right, a stodgy rectangular brick building. Officers were gathering outside of it, cordially laughing and talking with a man in plain clothes. From a distance, Sanford noticed a girl with the man, his daughter most likely, shaking hands and making introductions. He couldn't see much of her through the mass of bulking bodies, but he saw the vibrancy of her red hair, shining through the cops like a spotlight. He was too far away to see much of anything else.

He kept riding.

Through the town and out, he was on his street, Bleecker, where every house looked the same. Sanford pedaled harder, seeing his house up ahead.

He tore into the driveway, as pebbles kicked up in a cloud of dust. He'd barely applied the brakes before he jumped off the bike and let it crash into the side of the garage. He peeled off his book-bag like a scab and tossed it next to his bike with little regard. Then he started his trek through the backyard, past his father's tool shed, and into the forest, where adventures awaited.

Exploring the woods was a passion of his. To discover new terrain untarnished by concrete, and unclaimed from the ever-expanding developers. Pure and simple. In fact, it was the purest place he knew.

The quiet is what he loved the most. Winds rustled through the leaves, water from the stream babbled, birds sang and insects droned. Out there, there were no car horns. There was no yelling, no arguing. There was sound, but there was also the absence of noise.

Sometimes he would take Eric or his friends and show them the things he'd discovered: the little handmade bridge over the stream, the rotted outhouse with that half-moon carved into its door, the graves. But more than anything else he enjoyed exploring alone.

As he walked the path, he could hear the water rushing into Greenwood Lake. He followed the sound.

The water was cold. All water was cold in Maine. He stuck his fingers in the stream and watched as the water cascaded around them. He'd observed how the stream never looked the same. New rocks would appear, as old ones would wash away, changing its landscape and flow of the water. The depth would increase and decrease as storms would come and go.

Sanford had gotten pretty decent at skipping rocks. He picked the smoothest and flattest of them at this feet and flung it with a sidearm whip, watching as the rock bounced off the water one... two... three times.