The Gulls Circle and Squak

a story based on my experiences as an abused child

The gulls in cape cod circle and squawk. The sandy beach is warm and the ocean causes a stirring. I don’t know it yet but it’s being in love with the sea. The salt stings my cheek and my body feels scratchy as the sand and salt dry on my sun burn. On this day my sister and I are in yellow bikinis, ruffled skirt bottoms. The top is a halter top with a checkered polyester pattern. Daisies, mostly white with flecks of brown. My mother lay on her stomach getting a tan. My dad sits next to her in jeans and a t-shirt. This is one of the things my mother makes fun of about my father. “You look like a goddamed idiot Paul , sweating your ass off.” He scowls and pushes his hair to the side across his forehead. This gesture is my dad. His brown hair and side part. That is my father. His dusty blue eyes. His scowl. His smile uncomfortable unless he’s been drinking or when he’s alone with me.

When they aren’t fighting they are talking about God Bless You Mr Rosewater.

I’m sleepy and it’s still warm although afternoon is nearly passed. The ocean rumbles and murmurs and I chew on a piece of hair, tasting the sea salt. I doze off and feel loved by the embrace of the warm beach below, the sand enveloping me. The Atlantic is a heartbeat, it is a loving mother. My mind drifts in and out of consciousness and although usually once I fall asleep I dream my nightmare, every night the same dream: the murderer they call the bird man is just about visible in the shadows…he is pure evil. The city is afraid and so no one goes outside. We walk from house to house, building to building in plywood tunnels. The bird man knows where I am and once I’m in the tunnel he plunges knifes through the wood. I see the blades, sword like. The dream is always the same and it’s been there as long as I can remember. In the dream I’m not the only one who is afraid, the whole world is and no one will leave their house because of the bird man.

I wake on the beach my mother pulling at the wool blanket below me, a scratchy faded red blanket with a silky frayed border. My dad has already started walking up towards the car. The parking lot seems far and it’s too hot. I want my father to carry me on his shoulders so I don’t have to put my sandals on. I’m hot and sunburned and tired.

“Get up” my mother commands. I do but my sunburn hurts and do I start crying. She shakes the blanket and sand lashes my face, gets in my eyes and I start to cry.

“I’ll give you something to cry about”. I know she will. She’ll slap me or make me slap myself. I can’t help it though I start screaming. She picks up her book and beach bag and lifts me up by my arm. It burns like the torture burns we give each othe when my weird cousins come to visit. Twisting the tender skin until it’s red and stings. I have no choice but carry the blanket

“Pick it up” my mother instructs. I do and the wet tears burn my cheeks and the metal buckle of my sandal pinches my ankle. The sensations are too much like when my tights are twisted the wrong way and I scream.

We get to the car and my father sits in the swealtor, his window only half rolled down. My sister writes in the sandy dirt near the side of the road where crabgrass grows. Nobody’s happy. Nobody says anything but my mother does not forget her promise. When we get home she insists my father take me upstairs and spank me. The threat of it causes me to cry all over again. My father is upset with her for insisting but he agrees. When we get upstairs I remove my bathing suit bottoms. I am begging him not to hit me. Instead he has an idea, a trick. He will clap his hands really hard and I will scream. She’ll think he is spanking me. So that’s what we do.