Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 30

The monitor was inches from his face. Frank pulled his eyes back and rubbed the blur away. Reading glasses were one of those things he was stubborn about. His vision was failing much like his body. Getting old was irreversible, but denial could last forever.

He'd been at it for the past two hours, rummaging through the microfiche, watching one newspaper article after the next whiz by in a dizzying flash. Mrs. Applebaum, the librarian, was a stout and quiet lady. She was at least as old as Frank, but she colored her perm jet black above a withering face. Nonetheless, she kept the coffee coming, and Frank was beyond grateful.

He'd made it to the summer of 1969, scrolling through the headlines from Maine and the greater New England area. The backlight from the monitor was not easy on his eyes, nor was the flashing black ink that would blur into faded lines as he'd discard another useless article.

Man Found Dead on Train Tracks, he read.

"No." He hit the button and the article vanished.

Patty's Diner: The New Diner of Maine.

"No."

A Nursing Home Fit For Queens.

"No."

Mother of Two Drives Her Family Off of Cliff.

"Fucking, no."

He looked at his watch, a bit loose around his wrist and dangling to the side, like it was bored to tears and had fallen asleep. He laughed at the thought with delirium.

"1:55," he said out loud to himself, in a poor attempt to kick his mind into gear. He thought about his wife laying in bed, with his side beckoning him to come home. She'd be snoring, loud and unpleasantly. But it wouldn't matter. The blankets would wrap around him like a cocoon, swaddling him to sleep.

His head dropped again, then popped back up as quickly as it fell.

A fresh cup of coffee was placed in front of him on cue, almost as if Mrs. Applebaum could read his mind.

Why is she here this late anyway?

* * *

Sanford had left almost an hour earlier, but he left behind the photo of her. He had told her about his brother and his apparent release from the hospital. Little Eric Crow; she remembered him as he was as a child, cute and harmless.

Her dog, Rambo, lay with her in bed. Having a Bullmastiff with her was the equivalent to a loaded gun. She hated feeling fear and all its attributes: the quickening pulse, the feel of being watched, the constant darting of her eyes across a dark room. Objects in her bedroom took on different, threatening forms. She put her arm around Rambo, and let her hand rest on his side. Calmness began to set in, with her hand feeling the air move in and out of his lungs.

This is stupid, she thought. Why should I be scared?

What happened to me? I used to be strong.

She picked up a cigarette and lit it. She lifted the picture Sanford had left her and kept the lighter lit to see it in her dark bedroom. It was of her brother's graduation. Her mother, father, and her, gathered around him with smiles. She looked into her youthful eyes.

If only she could jump into that photo and warn herself, she wondered where her life would be right now. But she couldn't.

She ripped the picture in half and began to cry.

Her thoughts raced, running laps around each other. She thought about the first day she'd met Sanford, skipping rocks. She thought about that Christmas morning when he showed up covered in blood. She thought about tonight. Then it started over, trailing back to skipping rocks with Sanford in the stream.