THE
CUCKOO
CLOCK
BY WESLEY BAREFOOT
You know a murderer preys on your household—liveswith you—depends on you—and you have no defence!
Death wore the seeming of abattered Chevrolet.
The child's scream and thescreech of rubber on concreteknifed through two seconds oftime before snapping, like a celerystalk of sound, into aching silence.The silence of limbo, called intobeing for the space of a slowheartbeat. Then the thud of runningfeet, the rising hubbub ofmany voices.
"Give her air!"
"Keep back. Don't try to moveher."
"Somebody call an ambulance."
"Yeah, and somebody call acop, too."
"I couldn't help it." It was thedriver of the ramshackle Chevvie."She fell off the curb right infront of me. Honest to God, itwasn't my fault."
"Got to report these thingsright away," said the grey-hairedman beside him. "No cause toworry if you ain't to blame."
"Probably no brakes," said aheavily accented voice, and anotherspoke as if on cue, "Probablyno insurance, neither."
"Let me through! Oh, please—"The woman's voice was on theedge of hysteria. She came throughthe crowd like an automaton, notseeing the people she shoved andelbowed aside.
"D.O.A.," said the womanheavily. Her face was no longertwisted with shock, and she wasalmost pretty again. "D.O.A.Dead on arrival, it means. Oh,Jim, I never knew they said that."Suddenly there were tears in herblue eyes. There had been manytears, now.
"Take it easy, Jean, honey."Jim Blair hoisted his lank six feetout of the old rocker, and crossedthe room, running a nervous handthrough his cornshuck hair. She'sonly thirty, he thought, and I'mthree years older. That's awfullyyoung to have bred three kids andlost them. He took her in his arms."I know how tough it is. It's badenough for me, and probablyworse for you. But at least we'resure they'll never be bomb fodder.And we still have Joanna."
She twisted away from him, hervoice suddenly bitter. "Don'tgive me that Pollyanna stuff, Jim.'Goody, goody, only a broken leg.It might have been your back.'There's no use trying to whitewashit. Our kids, our own kids,all gone. Dead." She began to sob."I wish I were, too."
"Jean, Jean—"
"I don't care. I mean it. Everythingbad has happened sinceJoanna came to live with us."
"Darling, you can't blame thechild for a series of accidents."
"I know." She raised her tear-stainedface. "But after all— Michael,drowned. Then Steve,falling off the water tower. Nowit's Marian." Her fingers grippedhis arm tightly. "Jim, each ofthem was playing alone withJoanna when it happened."
"Accidents, just accidents," hesaid. It wasn't like Jean, this talk.Almost— His mind shied awayfrom the word, and circled back.Almost paranoid. But Jean wasstable, rational, always had been.Still, maybe a little chat withDoctor Holland would be a goodidea. Breakdowns do happen.
They both turned at the slammingof the screen door. Thencame the patter of childish feet onthe kitchen linoleum, and Joannaburst into the room.
"Mommy, I want to play withMarian. Why can't I play withMarian?"
Jean put her arm around thegirl's thin shoulder. "Darling,you won't be able to play withMarian for—quite a while. Youmustn't worry about it now."
"Mommy, she looked just likeshe was asleep,