by John Cargile

Created on: July 24, 2008

The Cry of the Cuckoos Chapter One
He was in thick woods with grass taller than his four-foot-two body. He wanted to race away as fast as his legs could carry him. The burning wood crackled and lit up the cloudy night sky, illuminating the white sheeted figures that circled a cross and chanted. A plea for help from a black man sliced through the ritual of the men in white. A long rope hung over a tall tree limb. The noose meant death to the nigger.

"Noooo...Dad!"

He awakened from the dream in a cold sweat from the shrill ringing of the telephone next to his bed.
"Donald, come quick," his mother's voice exploded through the telephone line. "I think your father is dead."

He rolled over on his pillow and glanced at the clock radio. It was 5:32 in the morning. He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain still somewhere in dreamland.

"Stay calm. I'll be there in a few minutes," he told her. The old son-of-a-bitch has finally croaked.
"What's the matter?" his wife, Anne, asked as he threw back the bed covers and hung up the telephone receiver.

"It's Dad," he said, nearly falling onto the floor when his right foot tangled up with the bed sheet. He unsnapped his pajamas and grabbed his blue jeans. "Mother thinks he is dead."

"Really," Anne said, sitting up in bed. "Do you want me to go with you?"
"No, honey," he told her. "I'll call you if I need you."

Donald reached into the closet, grabbed an old XX-large green plaid shirt with button-down collar and his sports jacket. His keys and wallet were in his jeans. He pulled on ankle top boots and raced out of breath into the garage and climbed into the Jeep. He opened the garage door with the remote device clipped to the sun visor. As soon as the engine kicked in, he reversed out of the driveway.

Donald yanked the gear shift into drive and heard the back tires squeal. He was normally a safe driver, but today he was not in the mood to obey stop signs or red lights. He turned on his emergency flashers just in case he ran into a cop in the five blocks to his parents' home. It was six days before Christmas and the houses in the small city he raced past were decorated with colorful lights. The lawns lit up the dark morning with sparkling scenes of the manger, plastic reindeer, Santa Clauses and snowmen. White-bulbs glowing, outlining Christian crosses.

Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Goodwill toward men was not his father's best characteristic.

Rose Marie Drummond stood on the porch with the door half-open.

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