Linda Scacco

Beach Umbrella Girl

He carries a brightly-colored umbrella across the hot sand; slung across his left shoulder, its white metal tip erect and pointing toward the sky. Under his right arm, he holds a surf board. It is sleek and glistens in the sunlight.

He is vainly handsome, hair moussed into stiff spikes on the top of his head. His swimsuit, bold yellow flowers against a black background, matches his black and yellow water shoes.

A woman follows close behind. She is a girl really, her skin whiter than sand, her face framed by soft wispy hair that moves with the wind as she hurries forward. She carries a large plastic beach basket and a little boy. The child is perhaps two and as she rushes to keep up with her handsome husband, she shifts and re-adjusts the child in her arms. The boy whimpers, his arms flailing like a bird readying for flight. She struggles with his jostling, then stops for a moment and releases him onto the sand, shaking him off like a wet dog.

“Walk” she says impatiently, “I can’t carry you anymore.”

The child protests and reaches his chubby arms up toward her, but she moves on. The boy hesitates, wipes his eyes, and then runs lazily to keep up with her as she marches forward behind her husband.

In the distance, she sees that her husband has found a spot. He waves her over. The child is crying more intensely when they arrive. She empties the plastic beach bag of its contents and finds a toy for him. This pleases him and he stops crying. As he plays quietly in the sand, she kneels, smooths the corners of the large blanket, and sits.

The husband removes the plastic covering from the beach umbrella. Grasping the metal pole like a spear, he digs it deep into the soft sand. He places the umbrella into the pole, twisting and turning it until it digs deeper into the earth. The sun is hot and he wipes the perspiration from his forehead before he gives it one last twist to ensure its position.

When the umbrella pole appears upright and intact, he opens it up, the cloth edges flapping in the breeze. He stands back to look, but as he does, the umbrella is over, tossed along the sand like tumbleweed.

He chases after it boldly and tries again, tilting the pole slightly backward, re-adjusting and re-positioning until it seems secure. But once again within a few seconds, the strong breeze lifts the umbrella from its perch and sends it tumbling off.

Several more times he adjusts the pole but is unable to keep the umbrella aloft for more than a few moments.

The girl is quiet as she watches her husband. She sees his frustration with each failed attempt. She picks nervously at the blanket, brushing off sand and smoothing edges that have been ruffled by the breeze. She looks at her child as he plays quietly with his colorful sand toys. She studies his face, his eyes. It is her husband’s face. She looks away.

“Hon,” she says tentatively, almost shyly. She looks up toward him, kneeling now on the blanket and shielding her eyes from the sun,

“Maybe if you tilt it back further into the wind, like this,” she reaches for the umbrella. But her husband moves in her direction, hovering over her, his eyes icy blue.

“If you think you can do a better job, do it yourself,” he shouts.

He reaches for the poles and throws them sharply toward her, scattering sand in every direction. Startled, the child looks up, wiping the sand from his eyes and begins to cry again. The husband stomps, then turns away. He picks up his surfboard and heads for the water.

The girl turns to see another family sitting nearby, three children and a woman. Their blanket is decorated with brightly-colored fish. The woman, her eyes warm and moist, looks as if she knows her. The girl lowers her eyes and looks away.

The girl watches as her husband enters the water, the surfboard like an odd sort of crown held high above his head.

Standing, she picks up the umbrella. She positions the pole into place, tilts the back of the umbrella sharply into the wind, and steps back. Then she quietly gathers their belongings, folding the blanket neatly into the plastic beach basket.

She bends down beside the crying child, runs her finger through his soft curly hair. She looks into his eyes and brushes the sand from his lashes.

“Let’s go, honey,” she says softly. “We’re going home.

“Daddy come?” he asks.

“No, daddy’s not coming,” she answers simply.                                                          

Her husband’s black t-shirt lies on the sand. She takes the car keys from the shirt pocket and picks up the child. They re-trace their journey back upward through the soft dunes toward the parking lot. As they climb, she turns and looks down to the water. Her husband is riding a wave, triumph blazing in his eyes. In that moment, he sees her and tumbles, tossed into the frothy surf.

Her hands have stopped shaking by the time she puts the key into the car door. She smiles and looks again toward the water. The beach umbrella, still upright and flapping in the wind, shields her husband’s shirt from the hot sun.

END

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Linda Scacco is a semi-retired psychologist who loves to write, read, swim and make soup. Her previously published works include a book for children entitled "Always My Grandpa: A Story for Children Dealing with Alzheimer's Disease" (Magination Press 2005), as well as several poems and non-fiction pieces related to gender, the media and parenting.