MEMOIR | CHILDHOOD MEMOIR | BAD PARENTING

The Unusual Way My Parents Disciplined Children

The story of the dead man from the sea

One afternoon, as the boys ran through the house chasing each other, pushing, shoving, and screaming, Mother yelled, “Captain Wynn’s coming!” and pointed out the kitchen window.

I, too, rushed to where she stood and saw a strange-looking man making his way up over the lawn, heading toward our backdoor. He wore an oil suit, rubber boots, and a sou’wester, a fisherman from head to toe, just as the old sea captain had been described.

I raced to find the boys, telling them the captain was returning from the dead.

“Yeah, right.” Troy pushed Keith to the floor and sat on him, pinning his arms down, while Jamie kept hitting Troy in the back of the head.

“You’ll see,” I said and went back to the kitchen.

THUMP

THUMP

The Captain pounded on our door.

THUMP

THUMP

I stood frozen and afraid, unable to believe my mother actually walked to the door to unlock it and allow him in.

The boys took one look and raced toward the stairs, each pushing the other, trying to be first. Kathleen, Nancy, Margaret, and I dove behind the good room sofa. I peeked out and watched as the captain stood at the bottom of the stairs. He groaned, stomped his feet, then turned and walked back out the door.

We came out from our hiding places and stood at the window, watching him go over the lawn, down the bank and back to the sea.

“You better be good,” Mother said. “Or he’ll take you next time.”

I’d heard stories about Captain Wynn and his wife, who’d once owned the house down the road. The house had tin ceilings, carved woodwork, sliding wooden doors, two bathrooms, chandeliers — things our house didn’t have — and ghosts.

Mother said the captain’s wife, though dead, still paced the halls at night, waiting for the captain’s return. But it was a return that never would come, for he had rowed his boat out in the harbour, tied a rope around his neck, attached it to a sack of rocks, and stepped over the side.

I imagined him lifting the heavy sack, the boat swaying as he stood, the plop of the rocks hitting the water, the pull of the rope, his body going down, down, down. Then I could not imagine anymore.

Father told us that months after Captain Wynn disappeared, his body had been found — blackened, swollen, bloated, and headless, held together by his oil gear.

Mother said he now came back from the sea to take bad little children to the bottom of the ocean with him. I pictured their kicking, screaming bodies under the waves, held by a man desperate for company.

Every Saturday, the Captain stumbled over our lawn.

He pounded on our back door, and Mother allowed him in. He was like a relative I didn’t like but had to put up with. He hadn’t as of yet dragged any of us back to the sea, but each time he came to our house, I worried he would.

His large body lumbered up the stairs. He banged on the boys’ bedroom door, walked in, bent over, peered under their bed where they were hiding. He bent over and reached in to grab Troy by the leg. It was always Troy that he’d haul across the floor to the top of the stairs while Troy kicked and screamed, “Get! Get away!”

“Ahhh… oh… Ahhh…” the captain groaned.

Troy struggled and finally broke free, scurrying back under the bed to safety.

Captain Wynn turned, moaned, and stomped from our house.

After the backdoor slammed shut, we kids rushed to the window to watch the captain go down beside our father’s garage and disappear.

My sister Kathleen and I started having nightmares again — this time about the captain. One night, I woke screaming, waking my parents. Mother told me I was foolish to be afraid, that the captain was only after the boys, but her words didn’t make my sister or me sleep any easier.

One afternoon, Dorothy and Mother pulled Kathleen and me aside.

“We’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to tell the others.”

We nodded our agreement.

“Your father pretends to be Captain Wynn,” Dorothy whispered.

Kathleen and I stood, staring, trying to understand.

“He dresses up,” Mother said.

“Like at Halloween,” Dorothy said, staring straight at us, “to scare some sense into those boys.”

“Your father came up with it,” Mother said, looking proud of his idea.

I tried to understand how my thin father could be so huge. “But how — ”

“He collects seaweed from the beach,” Mother said. “That’s the stringy hair.”

“He dresses up in the garage. Goes out the back door,” Dorothy said.

“He walks up the bank from the shore,” Mother continued, “like he’s coming from the water.”

“What about his face?” Kathleen looked confused.

“He wears an old pair of our pantyhose,” Dorothy said. “Isn’t that clever? Just like the robbers on TV.” She pulled a pair out from behind her back and slipped them over her head. Her face became blurred, her nose flattened, and her eyes drooped.

“But Father isn’t fat,” I said.

“Yeah.” Kathleen looked over at me, agreeing.

“He stuffs himself with pillows…” Mother patted her stomach. “…to make himself big like the captain.”

Dorothy pulled the pantyhose off her head. “Now, promise you won’t tell the other kids.”

“And pretend to be scared when he comes,” Mother leaned in closer to us. “Say nothing.” She lifted her finger. “We must keep those boys afraid.”

My sister and I both agreed to go along with their plan.

Our nightmares stopped, and Captain Wynn’s visits continued.

Kathleen and I put on our best act and screamed extra loud when the captain stomped through our house. We were like actresses in a movie.

But it all took another dark turn the morning Dorothy rushed into the kitchen breathless, leaving the backdoor open behind her. In her hand, she held a bloody piece of wood. “Who did this? Which one of you?”

I stood in the doorway, staring, trying to figure out what had happened.

“My God, Dorothy.” Mother came from the pantry into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

Still catching her breath, Dorothy said, “I went in… in the barn… like always… to feed the hens. What a sight! My God, I thought a fox, or a weasel, or some animal… but oh,” she sighed, “our rooster. Our rooster’s dead… mangled. And then I found this.” She held up the bloody piece of wood, waving it back and forth. My eyes followed like being hypnotized. Her voice got louder. “No animal did this! This was done by someone on two legs, by something worse than an animal. Someone in this house killed our rooster.”

By now, everyone in our house had gathered in the kitchen.

“I know Barbara Ann and Kathleen had nothing to do with it,” Mother said, her eyes going immediately to Troy and Keith, who stood in the corner of the room, side-by-side.

“It wasn’t me,” Troy said, showing no fear.

“Me neither.” Keith looked scared.

“Someone here did it.” Dorothy looked around the room.

Mother stared from Nancy to her brother little Ray, then back to Troy and Keith. Keith stepped back, put his hands up. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it, I swear.”

“Told you.” Troy shrugged like it was no big deal. “Wasn’t me.”

“Oh yeah, let’s pretend you’re all innocent.” Dorothy banged the stick on the edge of the table. “I’ll tell you one thing.” She banged the stick again. “That rooster didn’t kill itself.”

“She’s right,” Mother nodded. “Someone here knows something.”

“Who did this?” Dorothy demanded. “Come forward. We are going to find out. No sense hiding.”

Dorothy and Mother both started to talk at once. I wasn’t sure whose voice said what, it began to all sound the same: “Admit it. No sense trying to hide. Come clean. Admit it, admit it. I know one of you did this. Own up. Tell the truth for once in your lives.”

Nobody said anything. Dorothy threw the stick in the woodstove and Mother told us to go outside to play.

Troy suggested we go see the dead rooster. We headed to the manure pile behind the barn. With my nose pinched shut, I scanned the heap. The twisted body of the rooster lay on top with flies buzzing around.

“It was me,” Troy said. “I did it.” He swung his arms like holding a bat. “I hit him like this.” He held his hands above his head and brought them down fast. “I hit him again and again.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. But I was too shocked to question him further.

“You all better keep quiet.” He pointed his finger at each of us. “If Dorothy finds out, she’ll beat me. And if she beats me, I’ll beat whoever tells.”

I thought of the bloody stick, the bloody rooster. I didn’t want to make him angry.

“And I’m going to kill that stupid old Captain Wynn, too,” he said.

I looked over at Kathleen and saw she was about to cry.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “no one’s gonna tell.”

Troy practiced getting stronger by lifting heavier rocks and putting up more of a struggle when Dorothy strapped him. Often, she had to drag him, kicking, punching, and screaming up the stairs, where she locked him in his room for hours.

Troy’s plan to kill the captain created a new fear in Kathleen and me. We didn’t want our father hurt. We couldn’t break our promise to Mother and Dorothy and tell them about Troy’s plan because we’d have to reveal that Troy killed the rooster, and we didn’t want him mad at us.

A heavy weight sat on my chest. I found it hard to breathe.

I didn’t know what to do. I could only talk to Kathleen, and every time I tried, she cried and made me stop.

I began having nightmares about my father dying, but both Kathleen and I kept our promise and said nothing, and when Saturday afternoon came, and the captain returned, Troy hid in his bedroom closet, as he’d planned.

Captain Wynn/our father, not knowing any different, walked into the boys’ room as usual and bent over and peered under the bed. Kathleen and I followed behind Mother and Dorothy up the stairs. I kept my fingers crossed, hoping everything would turn out okay.

Before the Captain stood, Troy jumped out, swinging the bat.

WHAM

He smashed Captain Wynn/our father in the back. The captain/our father struggled to his feet while Troy kept swinging the bat.

WHAM

WHAM

The captain/our father cursed. Stumbled toward the door.

“I’ll kill you,” Troy yelled. “I’ll kill you!” He hauled back, swung again, hitting the captain/our father in the leg, making him almost lose his balance. Dorothy and Mother screamed for Troy to stop. Dorothy got behind Troy and locked her arms around him, squeezing tight like a boa constrictor around its prey.

Troy kicked her in the shins and tried to break free. Captain Wynn/our father, staggered from our house, pulling off his seaweed hair, as he hurried across the lawn and the dirt road and into the main door of the garage, no longer pretending he was the dead sea captain and Troy was now in big trouble for attacking our father, and I began to think that it wasn’t the dead we had to fear, but the living.

This story is a chapter in my memoir Floating in Saltwater.

Barbara Carter — Artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life.