Seagull Summer

by Shawn Hopkins

  When I left this morning, I’d forgotten to take my cell phone, so as I climb up the porch steps, Samantha and Doug are there waiting for me.

  “Where’ve you been?” Samantha asks, standing.

  I collapse into one of the wicker rocking chairs as thunder booms and makes Doug wrap his arms around Sam’s legs. I begin by telling her about last night, and when I’m done, she’s silent, subconsciously rubbing her head where the seagull had plucked her.

  “You don’t think…”

  I shake my head. “Other than you walking around naked with slippers on your hands last night, you seem perfectly fine to me.”

  She didn’t think that was funny.

  “What do they think it is? Why are they attacking people?”

  I shrug. “No one’s said.”

  “Is the girl gonna be okay?”

  “I think so.”

  She goes silent again, staring across the street. It’s quiet now, the storm keeping everyone indoors. Movies, books, breakfast…

  “The arm…”

  “I don’t know.” I don’t even want to think about it, and I wonder if I should have told her everything. She’s taking the whole thing more seriously than I thought she would.

  “You think we should go home?”

  I blink, shocked by the sincerity of the suggestion.

  “I mean, what if they do have some kind of disease or something?”

  It’s not hard to imagine what’s going through her head. I’ve seen all the same movies. “I think it’ll be okay.” But do I? Why that feeling in my gut last night? And that was even before almost getting shot. Maybe I should Google bird diseases before the CDC comes rolling in and begins quarantining all of Cape May County.

  “Maybe the storm’ll move them out.” I ponder my words, what they could mean. Sam recognizes the implication first.

  “You think it’s a bad batch moving down the coast? A gang of unruly hooligan seabirds just passing through on their way to Miami?”

  “Why Miami?”

  “Who cares? It’s not normal, right?”

  “Birds flying to Miami?”

  “Jeff.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. Seems like it could be normal from what I read last night. Seagulls have been known to attack people.”

  “Killer seagulls.”

  “Sounds like a Syfy original.”

  Douglas has moved away from Samantha and is back to driving Matchbox cars around on the porch, crashing them into each other and having a blast.

  “What do you wanna do today?” I ask her, moving the conversation away from blood and feathers.

  “Just relax.”

  The prospect of doing nothing comes as a wave of relief. It’s been so long since I’ve had a whole day with nothing to do.

  “Movie, order out, a little…” She dances her eyebrows up and down and moves her T-shirt down a little on one shoulder. “…While Doug takes his nap?”

  It’s been forever since we’ve been able to spend a stormy afternoon in bed. The prospect thrills me. “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well, I’m reading this really good mystery novel that takes place in 1975 Cape May.”

  “Oh.”

  “I guess I could put it down for a little bit.”

  “Just a little bit, huh?”

  “How long you think he’ll sleep?” I nod toward our son, who is mumbling to himself while inspecting a miniature school bus.

  “Long enough.”

  I frown. “That’s what they all said.”

  She shakes her head at my immaturity, and I get up to go inside. I never did get to finish my coffee.

  8

  It’s about noon when I climb out of bed and pad across the dark room in my bare feet. “In my bare feet…” Why do people say that? It makes no sense. Anyway, rain is whipping against the windows. I stretch, enjoying the music the weather is making with the old house. Samantha sits up in bed.

  “Wanna bring me a drink and a book?” she asks.

  I pull on a pair of boxers. “Sure. What are you in the mood for?”

  Now she stretches, the sheets slipping away. “See if there’s any Lee Child or John Grisham.”

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “Grab me a Pepsi.”

  “Did we bring Pepsi?”

  “I did.”

  “What about those reports we read about—”

  “We’re on vacation.”

  “Oh.” I forgot that anything goes on vacation, that the universe grants a free pass to all behavior. I go down the stairs, check on Doug, and go to the bookshelf in the living room. Worn paperbacks cram the shelf. Too much Patterson, some Sparks. I don’t see any Child and the three Grisham books that are there I know she’s already read. There’s two Stephen King books, some Koontz and Saul. I spot a Jeremy Robinson book I’ve been eyeing for a while and make plans to read it once I finish A Cape May Diamond. I keep scanning the tattered spines and ultimately pick two. A Lisa Gardner mystery and a Mary Higgins Clark story. Is Mary Jack’s wife? I’m not sure, though I’ve always wondered. I go to grab my e-reader, which I left on the porch in my haste to get to the bedroom once news came that our son was sleeping. I hope it didn’t get wet. Book in hand, I push open the door and step onto the porch.

  And freeze.

  There, perched on the railing, is the biggest seagull I’ve ever seen. It’s staring at me, eyes dark red.

  My heart starts pounding. The way the thing is looking at me, unblinking… Then it opens its scarred beak and roars. Not like a lion’s roar, but whatever the bird equivalent is.

  The noise just pisses me off, though, and I snatch the broom that’s leaning against the blue siding. I take three steps toward the creature, intending on a repeat performance of yesterday’s bird whacking, when three other gulls fly up through the rain and land beside it. Now four seagulls are staring at me. I stop my charge and instead move slowly back to the bag that holds my reader. Without taking my eyes off the birds, I reach down and grab it, holding the broom out like a sword in my other hand, ready to bludgeon whichever bird wants to attack first. But they don’t attack. They just stare.

  I back into the house and close the door, shivers raking my flesh. I don’t think they’ll try coming through the windows, so I go grab a Pepsi from the fridge and return to the bedroom. The house is not only cozy now, but suddenly has the reassuring feeling of a fortress.

  I give Sam her choices and climb back in bed beside her. Before she makes a decision on which author to commit to, however, she asks me a question.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Should we?”

  “Should we what?”

  “Have another baby?” And the sheet is down again.

  What the hell. I roll on top of her. But as I kiss her, I can’t take my eyes off the windows, sure that red eyes are watching.

  9

  The next day greets me with blinding sunlight, and I stumble to the window, moving the curtain aside and searching the skies. No clouds anywhere. People are already streaming down the sidewalks, heading toward the beach. I check the clock. It’s past 8. After Doug went to bed last night, we watched two movies and ate way too much food. But, after falling asleep at his normal time, I find it hard to believe that our son is still sleeping. So I leave Samantha to go check on him and discover that sleeping he is not. He’s sitting in the center of his room and staring up at the TV. It’s true, my two-and-a-half-year-old son can work a television, DVD player, a smart phone, his Leap Pad, and a digital camera. I’m not sure if I’m proud of these early feats or not. In any case, he’s managed to find a cartoon I don’t recognize.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” he answers without looking.

  “How long have you been up?”

  “You and Mommy sleeping.”

  “Yeah, have you been awake for a long time?”

  He nods, and right now I don’t care if he’s watching
Showgirls. I’m just relieved he isn’t lying in an intersection somewhere.

  “What are you watching?”

  “Shark.”

  “Shark?” I don’t see any shark.

  “I hunngy.”

  “Okay. You want some cereal?” I realize at this moment that perhaps I should be teaching my son how to speak proper English, but after imagining myself doing so, I decide that we’re just not that family. My apologies to every English teacher I ever had, and to all the ones Douglas will have.

  He nods.

  “Okay, then turn off the TV, and let’s get some Cheerios.”

  He’s up at my side instantly, the TV off.

  I ruffle his hair. “You are hungry, huh?”

  “Supa, supa, supa hunngy!”

  I sweep him into my arms and fly him into the kitchen.

  When we’re done eating, bowls in the sink, I ask him, “Wanna go to the beach?”

  He jumps and throws his fist into the air. “Yeah!”

  “Okay, come on. Let’s get you in your bathing suit.”

  When we’re in his room, I offer three different pairs of trunks before he settles on a camouflage one.

  “Put them on while I go check on Mommy, okay?”

  He nods.

  I walk into the bedroom, and the shades are down, the room darker than when I left it.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “You okay?”

  “That sandwich was bad,” she moans.

  “Which one?” She had eaten a cheese steak, twenty wings, and the rest of Doug’s parmesan sandwich. I hadn’t seen her eat that much since she was pregnant.

  A hand with an extended finger rises forth from the mountain of sheets.

  Laughing, I wish her well, offer her a trash can, and tell her we’ll be at the beach. She’s miserable and doesn’t seem to care if I take Doug to the beach or North Korea. “I have my cell. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I feel bad for leaving her, but I know she just wants to be left alone. I finish getting what I need from the room and head out.

  “Hey,” she says before I finish closing the door behind me.

  “Yeah?” I answer through the crack.

  “I could be pregnant, you know.”

  * * * *

  After kicking a ball around for half an hour, Doug is content to sit still and pile sand over my feet. I ask him random questions as he does this. What do you want to be when you grow up? What’s your favorite color? Where would you want to live if you could live anywhere? His answers are funny and some even make sense. Finally, I bring up the sibling scenario.

  “Hey, bud, what would you think about having a new brother or sister?”

  He throws sand over his shoulder. “Yeah!”

  I stare at him, wondering if he understands everything such an addition would entail. No, of course he doesn’t. He sees a new friend to play with, nothing else.

  “If you had a sister, what should we name her?”

  “Poo-poo Head!”

  “Right. Silly question.” Unbelievable. His obsession with crap is amazing. “What about a brother?”

  “Weck-it Walph!”

  I was thinking Zoro, myself. I ask him a series of other questions, enjoying the attention it earns me. I don’t get much alone time with him. This is nice. I begin to wonder what the coming years will be like. School, junior high… Will we be close, or will he think I’m a dork?

  A shadow falls across my face, interrupting my thoughts. I look up from my chair to see the mobster from yesterday hovering over me—handprints still visible on his belly. The arm candy is missing, though.

  “Hey, you that guy was attacked by them birds, right?”

  “Well, my wife, actually.” He looks around for her, and I can detect a trace of worry seeping into his eyes.

  “She okay?”

  “She’s not feeling good.”

  He kneels, leaning forward and putting the weight of his girth onto one knee. He looks troubled about something. I’m suspicious and wonder where in the world this is going. Am I about to get whacked? He seems to have left his Tommy-gun with his girlfriends today, but there’s a conspiratorial aura that he’s emitting that has me curious.

  “She sick?”

  “She doesn’t feel good. Why?”

  He looks around, not wanting to meet my eyes. His hair is slicked back, his chain partially concealed beneath the hairy mat on his chest. “I heard someone else talkin’ this mornin’ ’bout stuff. I been thinkin’ bout yous since.”

  That spikes my interest, and I tilt my head slightly, letting him know that he has my attention.

  He continues, “I was walkin’ the beach, ya’ know, tryin’ to jog a bit down by the water like I seen everyone do here. I come up on these two girls walkin’ in front of me. The sun was in front, so they couldn’t see my shadow, ya’ know?”

  Yeah, I know. Mobster. Hitman. Assassin.

  “They was talkin’, and the wind was carryin’ their conversation. I followed them, listening.”

  “Kind of creepy.”

  “Like I said, they had no idea I was there.” He takes a breath, not used to talking this fast, and I almost expect that this is just a ploy to get me to drop my guard so that he can pull a switchblade from the back of his trunks and plunge it into my jugular. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he continues to tell me about the story he overheard while stalking the two girls, and such a mental image might have been funny if not for the seriousness on his face.

  “Okay…”

  “They was talkin’ about a friend of theirs, said they was all on the beach down near Madison, and a bunch of seagulls attacked ’em. This friend had her top ripped off and was runnin’ around with arms flailing and all. Made quite a scene from what they was saying.”

  “I bet.”

  “Had to get fifteen stitches on her head and shoulders.”

  “Crap.”

  “Yeah, well, she ain’t walkin’ the beach with ’em this mornin’ ’cause she’s sick. Fever or somethin.’ At first, ya know, I didn’t think nothin’ of it. Just picturin’ this topless girl runnin’ around the beach with seagulls chasin’ her. But then this mornin’, after my jog, I go to get coffee and overhear another group of people talkin’ about a seagull attack that happened last night.”

  “You must have good ears.” He ignored my comment.

  “One of ’em hit the bird with a bat, knocked it down. Killed it. Said it had red eyes. Said there was a metal tag on its leg.”

  “A metal tag?”

  “Yeah, like one of those trackin’ chips scientists put on animals.”

  “Okay.”

  “Weird, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So then I remember the girl with the stitches, and I start to think about all yous.”

  This guy is not helping Doug’s future English teachers at all.

  He goes on, “I wonder if they’re the same birds that attacked your wife, ya know? Maybe they flew from here, went and landed on them down there. Anyway, I’m sittin’ here lookin’ around and spot you and your boy but ain’t no sign of your wife. And I start thinkin’, what if she’s sick, too? And what would it mean if she was.”

  “What do you mean, ‘what it would mean’?” I lean forward, dreading where I know this is going. My heart rate is climbing. I look at Doug. He’s not listening. He’s busy making what I hope are supposed to be pinecones in the sand.

  “The lifeguard asked—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t think it’s anything like that, mister.”

  He’s silent. He knows I’m not as sure as I’d like to be.

  Finally, I ask, “So in all your ponderings, have you come up with a theory or something?” I’m not ready to tell him about the kid’s arm or the girl I was accused of trying to stab.

  “Not really. But you got a flock of seagulls hurtin’ people, right? Two of the people they hurt are sick today, and someone sees a metal tag on one of the birds. Somethin’s goin’ on, don’t ya th
ink?”

  I don’t know what I think. I want to go check on Samantha.

  “I really hope she’s okay,” he says.

  I’m getting to my feet when suddenly a scream cuts through the normal sounds of frolicking beachers. We turn our heads to the left and see a crowd of people a hundred yards away, on the other side of the lifeguard, screaming and swatting at half a dozen seagulls that are hovering just out of their reach.

  The lifeguard, I can’t tell if it’s the same guy from yesterday or not, starts blowing his whistle. He’s running toward the crowd, waving his red life preserver thing over his head. I don’t actually know what it’s called, but David Hasselhoff and Pamela Anderson running with such red buoys in-hand have been cemented in my mind from all the years of watching Baywatch. That’s right, and the earlier cast—Billy Warlock and Erika Eleniak—were the better episodes of the series.

  As the lifeguard runs toward the commotion, everyone else just stares in disbelief.

  Another lifeguard goes sprinting past us from the stand on our right, and I can see another two coming from further up the beach.

  Something is wrong. Six pesky seagulls shouldn’t have every lifeguard between Grant and Ocean converging with whistles blowing.

  The birds don’t respond like they did yesterday. Instead, one of them attacks the charging lifeguard. Even from this distance I can hear the plastic thunk the board makes when it strikes one of the birds out of the sky.

  Now the other three guards are ducking from diving gulls, and people are beginning to collect their belongings.

  “What the hell,” the voice says beside me.

  I look back at Tony. Is that really his name, or did I just make that up? I can tell he isn’t watching the action down the beach like everyone else is. His eyes are locked out over the water. I follow his gaze.

  And freeze.

  “Holy…”

  I feel Tony step back away from me. Soon, someone else sees it and stands up. People are starting to point, attention shifting away from the five birds on our left and to the sky above the seas. People in the water wonder what everyone on the beach is looking at and turn to look up in the sky behind them.