Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 13

The roadwork had started very early. Drills plummeted through concrete, sending tiny tremors through the whole house. The brutish voices of the road workers bellowed in the background.

As Frank lay there, hearing those voices carry through his bedroom window, he watched the clock flash—4:48—and groaned, sandwiching his head between his pillow, but he couldn't drown them out.

"Hey, Billy! I got one for ya'. What tastes good on pizza but not on pussy?"

Frank could imagine many things not tasting great on it. Pretty much every topping that normally goes on pizza he'd prefer not to be on a pussy.

So let's see... It's a joke, so pepperoni, sausage, onions, peppers, out. What? Cheese? Sure, that would be pretty disgusting, but no, not good enough.

"I don't know, what?" number two asked.

He concentrated, the answer floating on the periphery of his mind, and sharpening his focus, cutting through the morning fog. His lips formed a smile as he lay in the dark bedroom. He had a way of silencing the world when he needed. It's what made him the successful detective he was, with the most solved cases in the district.

"Crust," he whispered to himself and chuckled.

"What, hon?" Nancy said, waking.

"Crust!" the first man shouted, and the rest of the crew laughed.

"Nothing, Nance. Go back to sleep," Frank said with half a smile. And just like that, she was snoring again.

Morning routines were the same every day. He'd wake up, tell Nancy to go back to sleep (because it's not like she had anything to wake up for), pull his feet out of the blankets, and plant them in the slippers he had set up perfectly perpendicular to the bed. It was his days in the military that instilled such monotony. He had weeded out most of the habits, but his mornings were filled with robotic motions like his waking mind was on autopilot. Grind the coffee beans, brew the pot, take your medication, make the eggs, eat the eggs, sip the coffee, read the paper, take a shower, brush your teeth, etc.

Frank Waters had become a bore. He knew it and his wife knew it more. Predictable as the rising sun. He supposed he'd lost something along the way, losing the biggest piece of himself when he lost her. But she had been dead for thirty years now, and that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now he had Nancy, and he did love her, sure, but not enough to try.

The house they lived in was built in the twenties. It stood on an angle, as if it had one drink too many. The exterior paint would peal, leaving black sickly patches underneath. Every time the wind blew, flakes of carnal white blew through the sky like dead skin. Frank had no desire to repaint it.

His favorite room was the bathroom. Mostly because of the window, which was inside the shower.

The shower was his domain. For him, it was a time of self-reflection. Warm water washed over him; the suds would cling to his short, stocky body and near-paunch. The military gave him many deep-rooted habits, but exercise was not one he maintained. Boot camp had left that foul taste in his mouth. It was then that he'd have his morning cigarette, leaning out of the shower window, which gazed out to his small backyard and beyond, where the Hudson River flowed between the mountains. Even then, in the winter, he'd have that window open. Cold air rushed through as hot water rained over him.

It was his one of three cigarettes a day (on a good day). The first was always in the shower, more ingrained than a cup of coffee. The second would be on the job; if he'd stumbled into a new case or had to revisit an old. Sometimes it woke him up to some new detail, or took his mind in a new direction on a stale case. His third and final cigarette (on a good day) always came in the car ride home, in quiet contemplation of what the human animal is capable of.

Deer grazed in the backyard as he puffed away. Normally, the sight of deer meant nothing to Frank, especially in that part of New York where they could amass like a plague. One of the deer felt Frank staring and turned around. Its unblinking eyes peered into his like black, polished pebbles. Frank kept his eyes fixed on the creature, wanting to win the game.

"Frank!" Nancy called out from behind the bathroom door. He jumped from the interruption and his cigarette fell into the stream of water. The deer scurried off.

"What?"

"Phone call, it's the station."

"Be right out."

"Uh-huh."

He stepped out of the shower, dripping wet, and put the towel around his waist. Nancy waited on the other side of the door, holding the phone with its extra long cord that stretched from the kitchen to the bathroom.

Frank opened the door and grabbed it.

"Yeah?" he said into the phone and listened.

Nancy watched her husband, soggy and dripping water all over the bathroom floor, which she'd no doubt have to clean. His chest hair was wet and curling, his gut protruded and swam into his love handles, his bald spot shone from the overhead light.

"My god," he said. "I'm on my way." He handed the phone back to Nancy and shut the door.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Work," he responded.

"Come on, Frank, you can tell me more than that."

"Jesus, Nance."

"Please..."

"Fine, but I don't like telling you this stuff. It's not healthy."

Frank took a deep breath.

"A family was murdered, okay?"

"A family?" she said, shocked, but wanting more.

"Yeah, looks like the father did it, but they need me to come in and confirm."

He waited for Nancy's follow-up question. He didn't like how curious she was about such things. To him, it screamed of desperation. For most of the day, all she did was watch television and eat. It was one talk show after the next, with white trash, would-be fathers, baby-mama drama, and cheating spouses caught on camera. Occasionally she would clean and then eat, or go shopping... then eat. Frank knew it was hypocritical to judge, his weight was starting to get out of control, but she still held the belt in the heavyweight division; at least he got some exercise on the job.

"Wow, how could someone kill their own family?"

"I don't know."

He listened as she walked away, and thought about how untrue that was. He did know; he'd felt how cold some hearts could be.