Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 8

meet you, Sanford." he said out loud in his bed as he lay there, restlessly, his hand still pressed against his cheek. Reality washed over him as the memory evaporated.

It was still dark when he rose from bed and blindly waddled across the room. The shape of Eric under his blankets moved up and down along with his little snores. Sanford opened the door and walked down the hall to the bathroom. His parents' bedroom was to his left. His mother breathed evenly as she slept, as if she were trained to do so. His father had a deep snore, rising from his chest with a roar. It made Sanford cringe.

In the bathroom, he stood in front of the toilet to relieve himself and looked out the window above it. Snow was falling steadily. It was Christmas Eve and it would be a white Christmas. Normally this was a thought that would give him joy. This was the time of year he loved the most. Christmas cheer usually ran through his veins, but this year the whole holiday was shadowed by his suspicions. When he looked out the window, the snow only seemed confining.

He'd had enough. Detective work was hard work; he could only imagine how much harder it would be as an adult. Sanford needed his case to be closed. He needed a verdict, and he still begged for it to be not guilty.

He heard his father wrestling in his sheets, moaning awake and rising to life. Despite the weather and the holiday, the mail must be delivered. Sanford knew what he had to do. He knew it since that night he saw his father in the shed.

He tip-toed out of the bathroom and past his parents' bedroom. The bedsprings squeaked as Jonathan got out of bed.

Sanford hurried his pace.

Once he got into his room he slowly closed the door, hoping the hinges wouldn't whine. He left the doorknob turned in his hand and quietly let it latch when the door shut. Jonathan stepped out into the hall right as Sanford did so.

Sanford exhaled in a long sigh, realizing he was holding his breath the whole time.

He climbed back into bed and waited.

The engine to the station wagon fired at 6:30 a.m. It croaked to life with a smoker's cough. Exhaust shot out of the tailpipe and filled the early morning sky.

Sanford looked out the window and watched Jonathan vigorously scrape the windshield with his ice scraper.

The second he leaves... he thought to himself, peering out to his father.

Jonathan stopped clearing the windshield and looked up towards his son's bedroom window. It was as if he could feel Sanford's hatred. It was too dark inside for him to see, but Sanford aired on the side of caution and stepped to the corner of the window.

The car reversed. By the time Sanford looked outside again, the station wagon was already on the road, a trail of exhaust behind it.

He threw on his winter coat like a cape, seeing it in bold cartoon colors as he zipped it up, the word "ZIP!" projected in squiggly yellow letters across the comic panel in his mind.

The bedroom door creaked as he slowly opened it, trying to be silent not to wake his mother. He gingerly stepped down the hallway. He was quiet and stealthy, until one floorboard creaked. It was loud, wailing like a ghost. He froze.

Nothing.

He carried on. For he was the hero in his story, and heroes aren't afraid.

Downstairs, he strapped on his boots and walked through the garage, where the light from the outside was shining in. He stood at the door, looking out of its window to the frozen tundra awaiting. He breathed in deep, trying to settle the nervous buzz in his body, and opened the door. The wind shot, throwing the door open and slamming it against the garage wall. The sound was explosive. He waited for the voice of his mother.