The Cuckoo

 

The television was far too loud, making the room echo to the distorted bass tone of the actor's voices.  The television dominated the room, not only because of the excessive volume but also as the sole source of light. The garish glare briefly illuminated the small room, bringing into stark focus the faded wallpaper flecked with mould like a lepers skin and the small man sitting on the old sofa.  Just as quickly the light muted and retreated back into the TV, as if embarrassed at what it had discovered.

 

If anyone had been there to observe the scene they would have wondered at how still the man sat, his hands folded neatly over a photo frame in his lap, eyes reflecting but not reacting to the flash and flicker of the TV.   An observer might have seen too the tears that rolled, fat and slow down the man's cheeks and wondered at how they were so at odds with the comic antics on the screen before him. 

 

An observer may have seen these things but of course there was no one there.  Frank was alone as ever.

 

Frank knew the TV was too loud, could feel the noise breaking over him like a wave.  He knew it was too loud, but he lacked the courage to turn it down.  Anyway he had gotten used to having the volume up so high, gotten used to sitting alone staring at programs that he never really saw. 

 

Frank didn't realize he was crying until he felt the soft wetness on his hands.  His gaze lowered, following the track of his tears, until it rested on the picture in the frame, gripped within his white knuckled fingers.  His tears had blurred the image and his hand shook as he carefully wiped the picture dry with his worn sleeve.  His tender persistence succeeded in revealing the smiling face of a middle aged woman.  Oh Vera he thought, why did you leave me? 

 

As his tears slowly fell on the picture of his wife, Frank's mind drifted back to happier times, back to when life was good and he and Vera had shared hope and belief in their future together.  They had had dreams, a good home, the joy of children, and then, the long peace of growing old together.  But somewhere it had all gone wrong. The breaks had never come.  The dreams of a better home than the council two up had dried up like Frank's work at the factory.  They could have lived with that for it is the people that make a house a home, not the bricks and mortar, but the children too never came.  Frank could still remember the day that the doctors had told them he was infertile: how Vera had cried for weeks after. 

 

He had tried. He truly knew that.  He had tried to make things right with Vera, to treat her nice, to full the hole that was left in their lives, but it was an impossible task.  Things changed, Vera changed.  Her faith in him was replaced by doubt, praise by ridicule, love by indifference.  Their relationship lost its way and, like the house around them, had grown stale with neglect.  But still Frank had hoped.  He had never stopped loving her, even as her love for him had turned cold and hard still his had burned deep within his breast, hot enough to melt the ice of her scorn.  He never stopped loving her.

 

But he was tied now. Weary of love without hope of return. And the TV was too loud too often. 

 

Carefully, almost reverently, Frank laid the picture of his wife on the sofa beside him and got unsteadily to his feet.  He stood for a moment, bathed in the TV's harsh light, his body unwilling to do his mind's bidding, then with a deep sigh like a sob he made his way into the kitchen. 

 

He heard it of course.  Heard it the moment he left the comfort of the TV's blare. The sound unmanned him, mocked him, but he closed his mind to it and crossed to the cutlery drawer.  He paused, his grip white on the drawer handle, then with a whispered hiss he pulled it open and reached inside.  Just his fingers closing around the heavy handle made Frank feel like a man again, a man with choices and control over his own destiny.  As he lifted the long carving knife from the drawer the light from the TV in the other room glittered and danced along the length of the blade and Frank felt a thrill in the way that the razor sharp edge seemed alive.  

 

It ends now, he thought, no more.  I am strong enough, I am a man still.  But without the protection of the TV he could no longer close his ears, his mind, to the sounds upstairs.  He could no longer pretend that he did not hear the rhythmic pounding, the woman's cries.  Try as he might he could not stop her words from reaching him, the words that accompanied the frenzied conclusion - Oh yes, Oh God yes. 

 

The words froze him, rooted him to the spot in the dimly lit kitchen, his hand gripped tightly around the knife's handle.  The pounding upstairs slowed, stopped, was replaced by gentler movements and soft laughter.  Still Frank could not move and remained frozen while he listened to the sound of clothes being zipped, the deeper rumble of a man's voice and then footsteps on the stairs.  He gripped the knife harder as he waited for the man to enter the kitchen.  Frank found he was shaking in anticipation of the moment the man would see him there with his knife.  But the footsteps faded down the hall, and he heard the front door open and close. 

 

‘Frank!' his wife's harsh voice brought him back to himself.  ‘He's gone now, make yourself useful and bring me up a cup of tea' 

 

The shaking had taken over his whole body and he could feel the cold steel of the knife rapping against his leg.

 

‘Frank!

 

He raised the knife in front of him, caressed it's flowing lines with his eyes.  How simple it would all be, he thought, how simple to make you mine again.

 

‘Frank! I'm not kidding get up here right now or next time you're gonna be waiting outside.'

 

Slowly Frank put the knife down on the kitchen bench, the blade clattering in his shaking hand, his courage as impotent as his body.

 

‘Frank?'

 

‘Sorry love. I'm coming. Just putting the kettle on now' 

 

Frank quickly got his wife's favorite cup, sweeping the knife back into the cutlery drawer as he grabbed a teaspoon.  Once the kettle had boiled he soaked the tea and added just the right amount of milk that he knew his wife liked.  God help me, he thought as he carried the cup carefully upstairs. But I do still love her so.