Cuckoo

How

did

                                                               I

                get

                                                                                                   here?

Judith looks around an unfamiliar room. The walls are a white blur, the floor a swirl of blue. There are adornments, a plant here, a framed picture there, but they blend into the messy unknown. Meaningless images flicker on an old, square TV perched upon a wood dresser. It feels like someone’s living room.

Who’s

         living

room                                                is this?

A crinkling sound startles her, and she notices someone reclined in a grey easy chair across the room. The person’s feet are crossed out in front of them and a newspaper held open blocking their upper body.

"Where…,” she coughs, clearing her throat. It’s dry and tickles, as if she has a cold.

It’s

                           Not

       winter.

“How…how did I get here?"

The paper drops and a man appears, staring at her. He’s wearing a frayed red flannel shirt and paint-speckled jeans. The man’s unshaven face and disheveled, graying hair makes her nervous.

Who is

                              this                      man?               

A

       vagrant?

“You okay, ma?” The man says with a look of concern on his face.

Judith glares at him. “Who are you? And…well, where the hell am I?”

“Ma, it’s me, your son John...” He raises his arms to motion to the room around him. “…And you’re at home.”

“You don’t look like my little Johnny. Where…where’s my husband? George! George!”

“Hey, ma, it’s okay.” The man gently waves his hands up and down, as if patting the air. “You’re just a little confused right now.”

Judith lets out a frustrated growl. She frantically scans the room, looking for…something, she’s not quite sure what.

George

             where are

you?                Why am                                   I

here alone                            with                                     this man?

The moment overwhelms her, and tears of desperation cloud her eyes. She buries her head in her hands and moans. Feelings of confusion, anger and fear swirl together. Closing her eyes, she has the sensation of spinning, tumbling end over end in the darkness. It recalls memories of regrettable nights from her youth. Or the morning sickness from her pregnancy with Johnny.

         Johnny!

This man, this imposter, is not the sweet boy she suffered for. Memories cycle through her mind of a giggling little boy running around a yard, napping on her lap as she sits on the grass, feeling the warm summer sun on her neck.

A hand gently touching her shoulder pulls her back to the present.

“Ma, let’s put on your favorite show, I bet that’ll get ya feelin better.” The man speaks softly, and tenderly pats her shoulder a few times before walking back to his chair. He grabs a remote off the armrest and grips it using two hands, exaggerating each button press.

“Look, Antiques Roadshow is just starting!”

Upbeat clarinet tones draw her focus towards the TV. A montage of old paintings and ordinate kitchenware dance across the screen as a jazzy melody plays. The music stirs something in her. She feels a sense of relief fall over her, and she relaxes her tensed body. The room comes into focus around her. She realizes that she’s watching her TV. She’s sitting in her chair, in her living room.

I’m home.

Relief washes over her as the show begins. The camera pans to show crowds of eager people lined up inside a large convention center. Quick scenes of interesting but low value items pass by. Judith waits in anticipation for the bigger finds to be shown.

“Are you feeling better?” The man finally asks. She looks away from the screen briefly to see him looking at her intently.

“Yes”, she says, nodding. A sense of control settles into her. She's confident. Confident where she is, and what she is doing...and that this man sitting here, with her, is not her son. She decides to ignore him, for now, while the show is on.

A commercial break ends, and Judith watches a middle-aged man wearing a blue collared shirt tucked into his jeans, standing next to the appraiser, motioning towards a clock sitting on the display table next to him. "This is a wooden clock, a cuckoo clock, I suppose, which my father gave to me as a housewarming gift back in the 1980’s. I believe his mother, my grandmother, had brought it over with her when she emigrated from Germany as a child in the 1930's."

Judith is transfixed. Something about the clock has heightened her senses.

"Well, this is an exquisite clock.” The appraiser begins his monologue. “Cuckoo clocks such as this one date back to the…"

She fixates on the details in the close-up camera shots. The intricate carvings in the dark wooden frame. The colorful flowers and dancing characters painted around the edge of the clock face. Her hand squeezes the cushioned armrest as her pulse quickens.

I know that clock!

The antique appraiser continues. "Home furnishings from this era, and this region in Germany, in particular, have been going up in value recently. There were originally only 15 made of this particular style clock. Once they gained in popularity, a local workshop started making larger batches, starting with the engraved serial number 016. This is labeled 021, so it’s not an original batch, but still a very early production run. In it's present condition, for auction, I would put it's value at between 10,000 and 15,000 dollars."

In her mind, Judith picture’s a summer day. Her father polishing the wood frame. Then, its being boxed up, and taken…taken…here!

Taken here! She remembers!

I have one of those clocks here!

“If this were numbered between 001 to 015, I'd say…” The appraiser pauses for dramatic effect. “…it might fetch somewhere between 50 and 75 thousand dollars at an auction.”

"Oh…wow," the blue-shirted man on the TV says, stunned. "I…I had no idea…"

The show moves on to the next person’s item, but Judith’s mind lingers on the clock.

“Holy shit…” she mutters. The man sitting across the room hears and looks at her wide eyed.

“Ma! What’s with the language!”

She ignores him at looks down at the creases in her bony hands, trying to focus.

Where did I put that clock?

A few minutes pass, and Judith loses herself in thought. Instead of clues to the clock’s location, her mind flashes random memories from her and George’s wedding, and the first dingy little house they rented while they saved their money to buy their home. She looks out the window and watches snow gently falling, her mind losing focus with each flake she follows on its path downward.

It’s          not

winter                                  I                need            to

                          find…

        to find…

A loud ringing noise startles Judith. Her mind snaps back to focus.

The clock! It’s here, somewhere!

She moves quickly, too quickly, pushing up on the armrest to stand. Her knees pop, and she yelps at the pain shooting up her leg.

“Jesus ma! Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” The man grunts as he pushes himself up and out of the chair.

He can’t have it!

“No!” Judith snaps. She gathers herself for a moment, the pain residing enough for her to focus.

“Okay ma, okay,” he raises his hands in a surrender gesture, “just remember, the phones on the counter. It’s probably just a telemarketer. If they try to sell you anything, let me talk to them.”

The       phone?

She feels foolish. In slow, shuffling movements, she grabs her walker from beside the chair and makes her way into the kitchen. The ringing continues, and the sound confuses her as she struggles to pinpoint its origin. A few frustrating moments later, she spots a yellow corded object with a big label that says ‘PHONE’ next to it.

“Hello?”, Judith says, shakily holding the receiver to her ear.

“Hey mom, how are you doing?”

Hearing her daughters voice surprises and comforts her.

“Oh, Emily! It’s so nice to hear from you. Where are you, dear?”

“I’m at home, on the other side of town.” Emily recounts her location and recent events in detail. Judith listens intently, absorbing the information, trying to piece together the current state of things.

As the conversation winds down, the clock springs back into her memory.

“Oh, I have great news!” Judith catches herself and lowers her voice to a whisper. “But I can’t say it now, there’s a man here that I don’t trust. He says he’s your brother Johnny, but I think he’s a vagrant.”

“Oh, Johnny’s there?” Emily responds. “I didn’t think he was getting back from his work trip until tomorrow. Anyways, I hope you’re letting him help you. I know you may not recognize him, but can you please let him take care of you?”

“Okay honey,” Judith says, crossing the fingers of her empty hand. “Thank you for calling.”

Emily is too trusting.

Judith hangs up the phone and lingers in the kitchen. She thinks of Emily, and how much she could use the money that the clock would bring. An urgent motivation grips Judith, to find the clock, for her daughter.

Don’t forget, don’t forget…

An idea springs into her mind, something from her childhood. She scans the kitchen drawers, which someone has labeled. She opens the one labeled ‘STATIONARY’ and pulls out a black pen. Fighting her hand tremors, she scribbles C-U-C-K-O-O on her palm. She finishes and inspects the markings, hoping they’re safe from the prying eyes of her unwelcome house guest.

She shuffles back into the living room and plops down into her chair.

The man is still reading the paper. Her paper, she assumes.

Cheapskate imposter.

Judith isn’t sure how long he’ll be there, but she assumes she just has to wait him out. As she waits, she loses herself in thought again. Her mind drifts to memories from high school, of school dances and rides in nice cars, the piney smell of men’s perfume. She watches the snow, falling faster now, the flakes careening downward and pulling her focus with them.

It was

          just summer                                            yesterday?

She is aware she’s losing a grip on something, something important. What was it? She looks down and sees smudged writing on her hand.

What

did                   it say?

I'm

                  trapped           by

this              failing

mind.

The chiming of the clock makes her jump. She looks up at the wall and sees…it!

Of course! It’s been hanging there since we moved in!

It’s beautiful, more than she’d remembered. The intricately carved, dark wooden frame, the colorfully painted clock face. A yellow bird pops out of the center and a "cuckoo!" noise chirps from deep within the clocks frame.

“Huh…” The man says, pulling Judith’s gaze towards him. “You know ma, I’ve never really paid much attention to that clock before, but…it looks an awful lot like the one that was on the show, don’t it?” The man is staring intently at the clock.

Judith is stunned. The thought of this man taking away the money that could go to her sweet Emily, it fills her with rage.

“It doesn’t look anything like that one from the show!” She snaps at him, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, desperate to convince him.

The man looks at her, confused, then looks back at the clock. “Well, why don’t we at least take a look at it to see if–”

“No! Leave it be!” She snaps again.

“Okay, okay, sheesh.” The man says as he stands, grunting and rearranging himself.

“What are you doing?” Judith demands.

He looks at her, confused again. “Just going to the bathroom…you sure you’re feeling okay now, ma?”

She swats away the question and turns her head. She watches from the corner of her eye as the man walks across the room, pausing to look at the clock. He shrugs his shoulders and then continues out of the room, followed by the sound of a door closing.

I must hide it!

She knows she can’t reach the clock without standing on something. She closes her eyes, urgently trying to remember where the step stool is. It’s of no use. She scans the room for something else to use instead. She spots a box labeled “Old Newspapers” sitting on the dining table.

She shuffles to the table and carefully slides the box off it and onto her walker tray. Turning around, she tries to move quickly, forcing her partially numb feet forward with each awkward step. She keeps glancing at the entryway, hoping the man will be gone long enough for her to hide the clock. After shuffling across the room, she carefully scoots the box off the walker tray, dropping it to the floor with a ‘plunk!’. She re-positions herself and pushes the box with her walker until it’s up against the wall, underneath the clock. With one hand on her walker, she places her shaking left foot onto the box. Taking a deep breath, she presses off the floor to step up with her other foot. Pain shoots through her knee. The room spins and she nearly falls before steadying herself against the wall. The threat of a fall feels real and immediate, but she thinks of Emily and regains her composure. Reaching up, the clock is heavy. She struggles to lift it off its mounting nail and can barely hold it up.

“Jesus, ma! What are you doing?” The man rushes over towards her.

 "Never mind, leave me be!" She hisses.

“Ma, you’re going to hurt yourself. Just hand that to me!”

"You can't have it!"

"Ma! Let me take it so you can get down safely!" He grabs at the clock.

"No!"

The clock slips from her grip, catching him by surprise and knocking him off balance. He falls back and the clock follows, smashing into his head as he hits the floor. The clock flies apart with a cacophony of clanging gears and splitting wood.

“Ahhh!” Judith wails, a deep, guttural sound.

 What

What                            is 

                                                                            happening?

She looks down and freezes in fear. She feels dizzy. She leans against the wall, arms splayed apart, her heart banging against her chest.

   What

             am I

                                                               doing

up

                                   here?

Judith looks down at the scene below.

“Who…who is that under there! What have you done!”

She shakily steps down and grabs her walker. She shuffles towards a random direction, dazed, before turning back towards the pile of debris that used to be a clock. She shakily reaches down and plucks the largest intact piece from the debris. She doesn’t recognize the uncovered, bloody face beneath it.

She flips the piece over, and there are numbers inscribed in the wood.

006.

She puzzles over it, then tosses it back onto the pile of bloodied debris.

“George!” She shouts, “did you make this mess?”