Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 3

The Crows' house was ranch style. There were ten others on Bleecker Street just like that of the Crows. If it weren't for the subtle differences in landscaping and paint colors, they would be indistinguishable; a carbon copy of a carbon copy. It was the way Jonathan Crow wanted it: nothing distinct, nothing discernible.

Camouflage was a word Sanford found himself coming back to. They're clothes worn to hide from your enemy, right? But when you see the world as your enemy, what would you wear? Every morning Jonathan would shower and shave, and dress in his uniform. He would zip up in the skin of an ordinary human and affix a smile to his face. He would surround himself with orderly things: a house, a car, a job, a family—all part of his camouflage, all part of the deception.

At first, Sanford put the thoughts of Ogunquit in the back of his mind. He lived life in Sanford, Maine like a normal nine-year-old. He'd go to school, avoid all girls but the girl next door, play stickball with friends, have sleep-overs, and never dare to be the first to fall asleep.

He and Eric would build forts outside. Large sticks over rocks and logs forming a teepee. In their minds, it was impenetrable, though a sturdy wind could easily blow it down. He'd collect bugs as he explored the woods. He'd laugh without a care in the world.

Soon enough, the calendar approached October 30th—Sanford's birthday.

It was the last he'd ever celebrate.

* * *

"Happy birthday, kiddo!" Jonathan said as he walked into the dining room, gingerly gripping an ice-cream cake with its ten candles illuminating his face somewhat menacingly. The fire swayed in his glasses.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sanford, happy birthday to you!" they all ceremoniously sang.

Sanford froze. His family, surrounding him, waited for the candles to be blown out.

"Come on, sweetheart, make a wish!" his mother cheerily said.

Eric sat next to him, he felt him hammering him on his shoulder, eager for Sanford's wish so he could help blow. He saw nothing but innocence in his brother.

The cake beneath him was round and basic, smothered in vanilla icing and whip cream. Written in blue frosting, "Happy Birthday Sanford Maine!" It almost brought a smile to Sanford's face, thinking of the confusion it must have caused at the bakery. With that, he gathered up all the air his lungs could hold. Just don't let it be true he wished to himself and blew.

The candles went out and the room went dark. All he could hear was clapping; all he could feel were the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

When the lights went on, the first thing he saw was his father's eyes. They were unemotional, dead; his whole expression seemed carved out of wood. But he held his smile firm.

After cake, he and Eric retreated to their room and to their comics. Sanford's present was a new stack of them, which he added to the stash he kept in the chest at the foot of his bed. It contained heaps of colorful adventures that he and Eric would get lost in. He needed to get lost now.

Sanford tossed Eric the new Superman issue. Eric stared at the cover then flipped through the pages, excited by each frame. Never reading the dialogue, he'd put in his own, filtering it through the fantasies of his own mind. It would always make Sanford laugh.

Usually, Sanford would read his detective stories. He was always thrilled when a new one came out. He took it as a challenge to solve the crime before the fictional gumshoe. Instead, today, he decided to read the new X-men. The premise intrigued him. A society at war with itself. Mutants persecuted and forced to be identified.

"Eric?"

"Yeah?"

Sanford laid back in his bed and put the comic down on his chest. He stared at the ceiling. "Do you ever wonder about Dad?"

"Huh?"

"Do you believe he's... normal?"

"Normal? I don't know, he's Dad."

It felt impossible to explain. He wanted to show Eric what he thought, what he felt, what he somehow knew, but he barely understood it himself.

"I think... he lies," Sanford said, for a lack of better phrasing.

"Daddy doesn't lie! You're lying!"

"Shhh, I'm not lying to you, Eric. I never will. I'm telling you, I think something's wrong with him."

"Stop it, Sanny, this isn't funny. I'm gonna tell Dad."

"Shhh, Eric, no! Please, you can't do that. We have to watch out for each other. Look, I saw something on vacation, something that made me think differently." He furrowed his brow, digging for the right words.

"I think he's dangerous, I think he hurts people."

"...I don't understand." Blood seemed to have flushed out of Eric's face.

"I know you don't. Neither do I, but that's okay. I just needed to tell someone, and I don't trust anyone more than you. There's some things I need to do, but I'll need help. I need you on my side. Okay?"

"To do what?"

That he didn't know. He had avoided the memory of Ogunquit like it was nothing more than a bad dream. But now he would toss and turn at night. Some nights he would just lay there, awake, not knowing why. He needed to know more. He needed to find out; otherwise, sleep would be a thing of the past.

"To find the truth."