Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 40

Sanford's head throbbed unmercifully. It felt like he had awoken from another session of binge drinking, but he had only passed out in the car.

Passed out or blacked out? It was a question he was terrified to ask himself. But he'd rationalize, it was just the time of year. It was always the holidays when he was at his worst.

Christmas Eve usually fell upon Sanford without warning. This year was different; it steadily crawled up to him. After twenty-five years of struggling, it was almost time to quit. He found himself more and more enthused by the idea. There'd be no more disturbing thoughts and no more voices; no more death.

Well, there'd be one more death.

To think, if he had only done it earlier... the lives he would have saved.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

And how would he do it?

He considered blowing his brains out before, never with much conviction, but nonetheless it was there. Messy, but efficient.

He'd parked the station wagon across the street from Lucy's, where he had slept. As he sat inside of it he watched and prepared his speech. All he wanted to do was say goodbye, and to tell Sadie that none of this was her fault. He'd give her the chance to hear what he had done from his own lips instead of the gossip nightly news and the teasing by kids at school. Also, he wanted to say goodbye to Lucy. He would tell her that after everything they'd been through he'd never once stopped loving her. And he would die doing so.

But only Lucy was home, Sanford could see her stalking in the window, wearing the robe that always seemed to fall open at the appropriate moment. She was smoking a cigarette, shaking fiendishly. Maybe he should go in now, have his words with her before their daughter came home from wherever she was.

Who knows, he thought, maybe those words can turn into something else... for one last time.

As he was about to exit the car his fingers froze on the door handle. He hadn't registered the odd, out-of-place cars on the street—he'd seen this street countless times, with the same cars parked in the same spots. These cars were different. He'd seen enough movies to know what an unmarked police cruiser looked like, and he saw two of them parked on opposite sides. A conventional work van was parked half a block away, facing Lucy's. It was in front of a wooded area instead of a house. Sanford's hand went from the door handle back to the wheel.

He drove around the block to the backside of Lucy's. It seemed simple enough to get around them—the back of the house was separated by a dense cluster of trees connected to a neighbor's yard. The road was empty on the other side. Sanford parked the wagon in front of the house behind Lucy's. His head was on a constant swivel as he parked the car. If they came he would not go quietly. He had his own way out; it was tucked into the back of his waistband. The metal pressed against his bare back was a constant reminder.

He exited the car and moved through the dark as if he was part of it. The snow settled on to his winter coat, which was a dark enough blue to be black at night. He ran around the side of the house and through the backyard. There was a doghouse and a child's playground covered in snow. He entered the woods and moved through the trees with an agility he'd forgotten he possessed, carving out his own path through the untouched woods. Suddenly, it was Christmas Eve in 1969. There Sanford was, moving through the trees, escaping the monsters behind him.

The back of Lucy's house looked quiet, besides a handful of asymmetrical snowmen Sadie had tried to build, standing guard. It made him sad to see. He wished he'd been there to show her how to make them; he wished he'd been there for most of her life.