Once the guy has tweaked the knobs and plucked a few stretching strings, the band starts up again and he’s playing along with them like he’s been there the whole time.
My musical ignorance aside, I know the guy is good. I’m dazzled by the way his fingers race up and down the instrument’s neck. His face is relaxed, as if what he’s doing is the easiest thing in the world for him—effortless. I don’t think anything in my life comes to me as easy. Well, besides acting like an ass.
I drink beer, sneaking sips of martini along the way, and enjoy the band.
We should talk about something when you get back…
I know what it is. Part of me hoped she’d forgotten, but I knew she wouldn’t. Back around Christmas time, in front of the fireplace, wine glasses in hand (I don’t even like wine), we spoke of bringing another baby into the world while here in Cape May, during this exact vacation. Not the actual birth part, that would be weird, and I’m not sure all the children on the beach would appreciate the beauty of bringing life onto this spinning rock. But we’d imagined conceiving here, and apparently, she hasn’t moved on from the possibility of it like I have.
It’s not that I don’t want another child. I do. But now? I spend the next thirty minutes weighing the pros and cons of inviting sleepless nights to accompany my early mornings.
The band takes a break, and the voices from the tables around me reach my ear. Someone’s talking about seagulls. I cock my head. It’s the table across from me. They’re using hand motions to demonstrate a seagull attack, raising their arms and dipping them toward the table. At first I think they’re talking about my bird incident, about Sam getting plucked in the head.
“You shoulda seen Rachel! She dove to the ground, screaming!”
“They were biting my head!”
“Pecking.”
“Stabbing!”
“The lifeguards had to blow their whistles and wave them off! I thought the damn birds were gonna attack them!”
“Did you see their eyes?”
“The lifeguards’?”
“No, asshole, the birds’!”
“They were red!”
“You guys are crazy.”
“They were! They were red!”
And of course, the conversation turns from the seagull attack to Peter Benchley’s Jaws, which has been said (though I read that Benchley later denied the connection) to have been based on the 1916 rogue Great White that killed four and wounded one between July 1 and 12. There were stupid jokes made funny by alcohol, suggesting Jaws VI could be about a shark with feathers that could fly and other such nonsense.
But I take another sip and lean back, still listening, a renewed interest in my own seagull experience spreading its fingers in my brain.
The band starts back up, but my mind is now with Alfred Hitchcock and his movie about birds. Out of curiosity, I do a quick search on my phone and find that the movie was based on a book. Interesting. I never saw more than a few scenes of the movie—never really interested me. Too old and too young, I guess.
I finish the bottle, drain the glass, and wave for the bill.
* * * *
The moon is out, and my flip-flops are in-hand as I walk the cool sand. There’s something mysterious about the beach at night, as if it holds some primeval secret indecipherable to man. I don’t know. It’s just…grand. Elusive. Alive. My thoughts break apart from there, my mind all over the place, visiting ideas that can’t be expressed by words. Like I said, the beach at night is magic.
By the time I resurface from the ethereal hole I’ve plummeted through, I have no idea how long I’ve been walking, or where I am in relation to street signs, but I know it’s going to take me a while to get back. I hope Samantha isn’t waiting for me—which is a reversal of how I felt before. No missed calls. Maybe she started another movie or fell asleep watching the last one. That’s okay with me. I’m somber now, and I enjoy the solitude while in this state.
A squawk sounds in my ear as something flies overhead. I duck, but I’m struck in the head anyway. Swearing, my heart pounding, I look up and see the shape of a bird painted dark against the moonlight. But there’s an odd extremity dangling from its form, maybe a fish or an eel. But I don’t know if seagulls go for eel. I’ve never heard of it. It was big like an eel, though, whatever it was.
The bird lands just as it was about to disappear against the horizon. I can just make it out in the silver glow. Then a whole flock of birds silently converges on the same spot.
A terrifying and ungodly sound that doesn’t seem at all “birdlike” to me erupts through the night, replacing the soothing notes of lapping waves with a shrill savagery that makes my hair stand on end. I get closer, and indeed, there’s a dozen or so seagulls pecking away at something. Not sure what I’m thinking, I run toward them, waving my flips-flops and hollering like a lunatic. Rather than eating me, however, they take off, unhappy but submissive. I expect to see a fish or a crab, maybe some kid’s funnel cake or pizza, but as I kneel down the shape, my stomach lurches.
It’s an arm—fingers to shoulder, it’s a human arm. The fingers look to have been chewed off, whatever phalanges remain have been stripped bare of flesh. It looks like a child’s arm. Maybe Doug’s age.
I’m struck with the sudden urge to be back with my family, to make sure they’re okay. It’s an irrational feeling, but real nonetheless. I know severed arms found on the beach don’t necessarily mean that my wife and child are in some kind of danger, but still…
I take out my phone and call Sam. She doesn’t answer, so I hang up and call 911 instead.
6
The police officer stands with one hand on his hip, lighting up the severed arm with a flashlight. It’s too dark to make out his features, but I think he’s younger than I am. His yellow shirt that says POLICE across the back seems tight on him. His bike is leaning against the boardwalk. More police are on the way, but for now the scene is his—as am I.
“Shark attack?” I ask, thinking of that beginning scene in Jaws where Chief Brody is introduced to the mangled remains of the skinny dipper.
“Don’t think so. Doesn’t look like it was in the water.”
I grunt. CSI Miami, CSI New York, CSI Nebraska (or whatever the latest spinoff is) aren’t my shows. “Where’s the rest of him?” I don’t know for certain that the arm belongs to a boy, and I hope I don’t give the cop reason to think I’m involved somehow.
He waves the light down the beach. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Then he examines the shoulder area, again trying to guess what could have detached it. “You said a seagull was carrying it?”
“Yeah. Smacked me in the head.” I realize too late how ridiculous it sounds, and I wonder if the cop is setting me up as the number one suspect.
“Lot of weight for a gull to be flying around with.”
I don’t say anything. He’s right.
“Seagull’s have been goin’ a little crazy today.”
I nod. “I know.” I tell him about Samantha and the conversation I overheard at the martini bar.
“Dog was actually killed.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant a dog or if there was a person named “Dog.” “What?”
“They went into a frenzy, poking and clawing. Bled to death before people could chase the birds away.”
“The dog?”
“Yup.”
I’m slightly relieved that a guy named Dog wasn’t killed by seagulls. “They ever do that before?”
“Not that I ever heard.”
We stand in silence.
“Mind if I go check up on my family,” I ask, still not able to shake the feeling—whatever it is.
“I think we need to take a statement first.”
“Here?”
“At the station.”
“How long’s that gonna take?”
He shrugs. He doesn’t care.
“Great.” I try dialing Samantha’s phone again. No answer.
* * * *
When I finally get back to the house, it’s past midnight. Sam’s passed out on the couch, some movie with Keanu Reeves flashing light throughout the room. I don’t bother turning it off, and my mind is too preoccupied to find it distracting. I go check on Doug. He’s sleeping soundly, curled up in a ball, his blanket kicked down to the footboard. Both arms are accounted for. I stretch the blanket over him and return to Keanu and my wife.
Pulling out my phone, I sit down on the couch, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve typed “seagull attacks” into the search bar. The results stun me.
There’s an article from The Guardian about mail being halted to certain streets due to seagulls attacking postmen. The report documents hospitalizations, dogs bleeding to death, heart attacks… There’s another BBC article about a woman who tore her Achilles tendon while trying to escape a gull attack in Great Yarmouth. “Seagull Attacks a Soaring Problem in England” is the title of a few articles that have responded to my search. There’s even a story about a woman who’s forced to wear a colander on her head as a helmet of protection against the attacking birds. Some other poor woman was held up in her house for four days because of these things invading. YouTube videos show up in my search results. I watch a few. Nothing interesting. Bunch of drunk college kids throwing Cheetos on their sleeping friends. Bored of that particular time of life, and all the links to videos of spring breakers in wet T-shirts, I exit YouTube and continue scrolling. Tapping on another link, I begin reading about seagull talons, their razor-sharp, two-inch beaks, and their 65 kph diving speed. The site is European, and my dumb American mind can’t do the calculation. I know it’s fast, though. As I read through a series of preventatives that have been used to repel seagulls, I also learn that it’s illegal to kill the birds without a permit. Oops. I’ll have to plead self-defense.
The website says that there’s a “gag call” that gulls use to tell people to “go away.” If the request isn’t honored—or understood—they then perform a “low pass.” And if the person still doesn’t get the hint, well, then it’s crap and vomit followed by talons to the back of the head.
Sheesh. I had no idea seagulls could be so vicious, and my view of them has been forever altered by this new knowledge. However, there’s no sign of the sort of behavior I witnessed today. Scavenger carnivores, yes. But a zombie’s frenzy over fresh meat? I do see that certain gulls prey on other gulls, as hawks prey on seagulls, but that doesn’t satisfy the feeling that there might be some kind of…I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it.
The child’s arm is the last thing on my mind as I fall away on the couch and into a world that would make Hitchcock proud.
7
I wake up early, though not as early as usual. Douglas is still sleeping, as unbelievable as it is, and I should probably take the opportunity to go back to sleep. I have no idea if and when Doug will ever sleep this late again. But I can’t. I’m antsy. So I ease off the couch and whisper in Sam’s ear, “I’m goin’ for a walk. I’ll bring back breakfast. You’re on.”
You’re on. It’s the command designated for Doug detail. I’m out, so our boy is now under your watch. I wash my hands of his wellbeing for the next hour or so. Though, I guess in all honesty, I can’t really be sure her grunt was affirmation of this responsibility or not. Oh well.
I’m still in my clothes from last night, but I don’t care. I unlock the door, not even having to use the bathroom, and head down the sidewalk.
The sky is overcast, gray. The air is cool. It feels nice, and I want a coffee.
I step out of the shop with a cardboard cup in hand and make my way toward the beach. There are joggers on the boardwalk that remind me it’s been far too long since I’ve been in shape. Soon, I tell myself. It’s what I always tell myself. I savor my first sip of coffee. Irish cream and sugar. Perfect.
The sand is still cool on my flip-flopped feet, and I walk halfway to the water before I sit down. Dolphins are playing.
A few drops of rain spot the sand. A minute later, thunder rolls across the sky, faint and faraway but coming.
A girl is jogging down by the water, coming toward me, blond ponytail wagging, really short, tight shorts, and a hot pink sports bra. I try to keep my eyes off her, but I can’t. And then something else does catch my eye. A seagull—no, two seagulls—circling above the beach, their black-tipped wings outstretched. Is it strange that a beautiful, half-naked girl is running past me, and I can’t take my eyes off the birds? But there’s something about them that seems…different. Probably because of my dreams last night. I don’t like them anymore.
I watch as one suddenly goes into a dive, and at first, I assume it’s aiming for something in the water, a fish or something. But it never alters its course.
I try to call out to the girl, to warn her, but it happens too fast.
The gull soars down, its sharp beak a javelin lined up with the back of her neck.
The girl never sees it coming, and the earbuds that are pumping motivation into her head drowns out the loud squawk that sounds just before impact.
The bird’s beak plunges into the base of her neck like a folded pair of scissors. The girl pitches forward, stumbles, falls. The bird wrestles its face out of her neck while she screams, trying to reach behind her head and discover the source of her pain. The bird stands on her back, oblivious to the girl’s flailing, and blinks. Blood drips from the curved tip of its beak.
I get to my feet, and I’m only two strides closer to her when the other bird dives.
It falls like a missile, straight down, and sticks right into her back. The suddenness of it, the impact and the sound it makes, stuns me. I think the bird, if not the girl, must be dead from a broken neck or smashed skull. But no, the bird plants its claws into her flesh and rips its beak out of her back. She cries out, flailing, as both gulls peck at her sweaty skin, shredding her sports bra to pieces. The girl rolls onto her back, but the birds are just as content to attack the front of her body. She’s waving her hands at them, kicking and screaming, her eyes closed tight.
I’m throwing my own hands in the air, screaming and shouting like a lunatic. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the coffee. I could’ve scalded them with it. The white seagulls stop their pecking for a second and look up at me, blood staining their feathered chests. It isn’t until I’m five feet away that they finally take off into the air. “Shoo! Shoo!” just doesn’t cut it, and I’m swearing up a storm as if a certain combination of expletives might cause them to explode right out of the sky. But they fly away without even a look back.
I grab the girl’s wrists and wrestle them down by her side, trying to get her to calm down. She’s even prettier up close, and I hope the few red lines across her face don’t leave her with scars. “It’s okay. They’re gone.”
She doesn’t relax, but she manages to open her eyes.
“You were attacked by seagulls,” I tell her, realizing that she never saw them. It sounds terrible, and I can tell from her eyes that she doesn’t believe me.
Uh oh.
“Get away from me!” she screams. Then she looks up the beach. “Help! Help!”
“Hey…”
“Help!” She’s crying, blood everywhere.
“Shhh… They flew away. They’re gone.”
“Get away!”
“I’m trying to help you…”
“Help!”
I see someone sprinting to the boardwalk, waving their hands to a police officer who just happens to be passing by. It’ll be good for this poor girl. Not gonna be so good for me.
The cop comes charging down the beach at us, gun drawn.
“Get away from her!” he orders, aiming at me.
I’ve never had a gun aimed at me before, and I must say that it is very unsettling. Especially when I’ve done nothing wrong—quite the opposite, actually. But when there’s a gun pointed at you, you’ll do just about anything. I put my hands up and step away from her, shouting, “She was attacked by seagulls!” It does
n’t sound any better the second time, but as the officer slows down to a trot, now just a handful of feet away, I can tell he’s scanning the beach around us. Looking for a knife, I guess. Or a hook, or a sharp piece of driftwood… Some kind of weapon consistent with the wounds covering her body.
“Sit down on your hands,” he says to me, but his face is concentrated on the girl. She’s stopped crying now and has become very still. There’s so much blood. The cop checks her pulse.
My stomach twists like a wet rag. “She’s not…” I can’t even say it.
“No.” He raises a radio to his lips and calls for an ambulance.
Lightning strikes the liquid horizon.
* * * *
I can’t believe this. I’ve been to Cape May at least one week a year for my entire life and never once have I been to the police station. Now I’ve been here two times in half a dozen hours.
Once it was established that I hadn’t run down the girl with a Rambo knife that no one could find, they let me go after another statement. Now, as I try to find my way out to the sidewalk, still not exactly sure where I am and not getting any offer from the men in uniform to transport me back to the scene of my awesome heroism, I see a couple other people nursing bloody wounds in the waiting room. An old man cradling a metal detector is holding a handkerchief to his scalp and muttering something about a “damn bird.” A mother is holding her toddler, rocking the child back and forth, a large bandage wrapped around a tiny forearm.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask an officer in passing.
He stops, scans the room. “Seagulls.”
* * * *
By the time I make it back to the house, it’s raining pretty hard, and I’m thoroughly soaked. I’m not feeling all that chipper toward the men and women that are paid to serve and protect me. Not after having a gun pointed at me, being dragged to the station, and then being forced to walk all the way back in the driving rain, all because I saved a jogger from killer seagulls. You’d think they’d give me a medal or something. Oh well, guess they’re too busy protecting someone else’s constitutional rights to worry about mine.
Seagull Summer Page 3