Chapter 7
The weekend was as quiet as the weekends in the late fall. With the beaches closed, and with the police patrolling them during the daylight hours, Amity was practically deserted.
Hooper cruised up and down the shore in Ben Gardner's boat, but the only signs of life he saw in the water were a few schools of baitfish and one small school of bluefish. By Sunday night, after spending the day off East Hampton the beaches there were crowded, and he thought there might be a chance the shark would appear where people were swim-ruing --he told Brody he was ready to conclude that the fish had gone back to the deep.
"What makes you think so?" Brody had asked.
"There's not a sign of him," said Hooper. "And there are other fish around. If there
was a big white in the neighborhood, everything else would vanish. That's one of the things divers say about whites. When they're around, there's an awful stillness in the water."
"I'm not convinced," said Brody. "At least not enough to open the beaches. Not yet." He knew that after an uneventful weekend there would be pressure --from Vaughan, from other real-estate agents, from merchants --to open the beaches. He almost wished Hooper had seen the fish. That would have been a certainty. Now there was nothing but negative evidence, and to his policeman's mind that was not enough. On Monday afternoon, Brody was sitting in his office when Bixby announced a phone call from Ellen.
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"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but I wanted to check something with you. What would you think about giving a dinner party?"
"What for?"
"Just to have a dinner party. We haven't had one in years. I can't even remember when our last one was."
"No," said Brody. ''Neither can I." But it was a lie, He remembered all too well their last dinner party: three years ago, when Ellen was in the midst of her crusade to reestablish her ties with the summer community. She had asked three summer couples. They were nice enough people, Brody recalled, but the conversations had been stiff, forced, and uncomfortable. Brody and his guests had searched each other for any common interest or experience, and they had failed. So after a while, the guests had fallen
back on talking among themselves, self-consciously polite about including Ellen whenever she said something like, "'Oh, I remember him!" She had been nervous and flighty, and after the guests had left, after she had done the dishes and said twice to Brody, "Wasn't that a nice evening!" she had shut herself in the bathroom and wept.
"Well, what do you think?" said Ellen.
"I don't know. I guess it's all right, if you want to do it. Who are you going to invite?"
"First of all, I think we should have Matt Hooper."
"What for? He eats over at the Abelard, doesn't he? It's all included in the price of
the room."
"That's not the point, Martin. You know that. He's alone in town, and besides, he's
very nice."
"How do you know? I didn't think you knew him."
"Didn't I tell you? I ran into him in Albert Morris's on Friday. I'm sure I mentioned it to you."
"No, but never mind. It doesn't make any difference."
"It turns out he's the brother of the Hooper I used to know. He remembered a lot more about me than I did about him. But he is a lot younger."
"Uh-huh. When are you planning this shindig for?"
"I was thinking about tomorrow night. And it's not going to be a shindig. I simply
thought we could have a nice, small party with a few couples. Maybe six or eight people altogether."
"Do you think you can get people to come on that short notice?"
"Oh yes. Nobody does anything during the week. There are a few bridge parties, but that's about all."
"Oh," said Brody. "You mean summer people."
"That's what I had in mind. Matt would certainly feel at ease with them. What about the Baxters? Would they be fun?"
"I don't think I know them."
"Yes, you do, silly. Clem and Cici Baxter. She was Cici Davenport. They live out on Scotch. He's taking some vacation now. I know because I saw him on the street this morning."
"Okay. Try them if you want."
"Who else?"
"Somebody I can talk to. How about the Meadows?"
"But he already knows Harry."
"He doesn't know Dorothy. She's chatty enough."
"All right," said Ellen. "I guess a little local color won't hurt. And Harry does know everything that goes on around here."
"I wasn't thinking about local color," Brody said sharply. "They're our friends."
"I know. I didn't mean anything."
"If you want local color, all you have to do is look in the other side of your bed."
"I know. I said I was sorry."
"What about a girl?" said Brody. "I think you should try to find some nice young file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (52 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt thing for Hooper."
There was a pause before Ellen said, "If you think so."
"I don't really care. I just thought be might enjoy himself more if he had someone
his own age to talk to."
"He's not that young, Martin. And we're not that old. But all right: I'll see if I can
think of somebody who'd be fun for him."
"I'll see you later," Brody said, and he hung up the phone. He was depressed, for he saw something ominous in this dinner party. He couldn't be sure, but he believed --and the more he thought about it, the stronger the belief became --that Ellen was launching another campaign to re-enter the world he had taken her from, and this time she had a lever with which to jimmy her way in: Hooper.
The next evening, Brody arrived home a little after five. Ellen was setting the dinner table in the dining room. Brody kissed her on the cheek and said, "Boy, it's been a
long time since I've seen that silver." It was Ellen's wedding silver, a gift from her parents.
"I know. It took me hours to polish it."
"And will you look at this?" Brody picked up a tulip wine glass. "Where did you get these?"
"I bought them at the Lure."
"How much?" Brody set the glass down on the table.
"Not much," she said, folding a napkin and placing it neatly beneath a dinner fork
and salad fork.
"How much?"
"Twenty dollars. But that was for a whole dozen."
"You don't kid around when you throw a party."
"We didn't have any decent wine glasses," she said defensively. "The last of our old ones broke months ago, when Sean tipped over the sideboard." Brody counted the places set around the table. "Only six?" he said. "What happened?"
"The Baxters couldn't make it. Cici called. Clem had to go into town on some business, and she thought she'd go with him. They're spending the night." There was a fragile lilt to her voice, a false insouciance.
"Oh," said Brody. "Too bad." He dared not show that he was pleased. "Who'd you get for Hooper, some nice young chick?"
"Daisy Wicker. She works for Gibby at the Bibelot. She's a nice girl."
"What time are people coming?"
"The Meadows and Daisy at seven-thirty. I asked Matthew for seven."
"I thought his name was Matt."
"Oh, that's just an old joke he reminded me of. Apparently, I used to call him Matthew when he was young. The reason I wanted him to come early was so the kids would have a chance to get to know him. I think they'll be fascinated." Brody looked at his watch. "If people aren't coming till seven-thirty, that means we won't be eating till eight-thirty or nine. I'll probably starve to death before then. I
think I'll grab a sandwich." He started for the kitchen.
"Don't stuff yourself," said Ellen. "I've got a delicious dinner coming." Brody sniffed the kitchen aromas, eyed the clutter of pots and packages, and said, "What are you
cooking?"
"It's called butterfly lamb," she said. "I hope I don't do something stupid and botch it."
"Smells good," said Brody. "What's this stuff by the sink? Should I throw it out and wash the pot?"
From the living room Ellen said, "What stuff?"
"This stuff in the pot."
"What --omigod!" she said, and she hurried into the kitchen. "Don't you dare throw it out." She saw the smile on Brody's face. "Oh, you rat." She slapped him on the file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (53 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt rear. "That's gazpacho. Soup."
"Are you sure it's still okay?" he teased. "It looks all slimy."
"That's what it's supposed to look like, you clot." Brody shook his head. "Old Hooper's going to wish he ate at the Abelard."
"You're a beast," she said. "Wait till you taste it. You'll change your tune."
"Maybe. If I live long enough." He laughed and went to the refrigerator. He rummaged around and found some bologna and cheese for a sandwich. He opened a beer and started for the living room. "I think I'll watch the news for a while and then go shower and change," he said.
"I put clean clothes out for you on the bed. You might shave, too. You have a hideous five o'clock shadow."
"Good God, who's coming to dinner --Prince Philip and Jackie Onassis?"
"I just want you to look nice, that's all." At 7:05, the door bell rang, and Brody answered it. He was wearing a blue madras shirt, blue uniform slacks, and black cordovans. He felt crisp and clean. Spiffy, Ellen had
said. But when he opened the door for Hooper, he felt, if not rumpled, at least outclassed.
Hooper wore bell-bottom blue jeans, Weejun loafers with no socks, and a red Lacoste shirt with an alligator on the breast. It was the uniform of the young and rich in Amity.
"Hi," said Brody. "Come in."
"Hi," said Hooper. He extended his hand, and Brody shook it. Ellen came out of the kitchen. She was wearing a long batik skirt, slippers, and a
blue silk blouse. She wore the string of cultured pearls Brody had given her as a wedding present. "Matthew," she said. "I'm glad you could come."
"I'm glad you asked me," Hooper said, shaking Ellen's hand. "I'm sorry I don't look more respectable, but I didn't bring anything down with me but working clothes. All I can say for them is that they're clean."
"Don't be silly," said Ellen. "You look wonderful The red goes beautifully with your tan and your hair."
Hooper laughed. He turned and said to Brody, "Do you mind if I give Ellen something?"
"What do you mean?" Brody said. He thought to himself, Give her what? A kiss?
A box of chocolates? A punch in the nose?
"A present. It's nothing, really. Just something I picked up."
"No, I don't mind," said Brody, still perplexed that the question should have been
asked.
Hooper dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small package wrapped in tissue. He handed it to Ellen. "For the hostess," he said, "to make up for my grubby clothes." Ellen tittered and carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside was what seemed to be a charm, or perhaps a necklace pendant, an inch or so across. "It's lovely," she said.
"What is it?"
"It's a shark tooth," said Hooper. "A tiger-shark tooth, to be more specific. The casing's silver."
"Where did you get it?"
"In Macao. I passed through there a couple of years ago on a project. There was a little back-street store, where an even littler Chinese man spent his whole life polishing
shark teeth and molding the silver caps to hold the rings. I couldn't resist them."
"Macao," said Ellen. "I don't think I could place Macao on a map if I had to. It must have been fascinating."
Brody said, "It's near Hong Kong."
"Right," said Hooper. "In any event, there's supposed to be a superstition about these things, that if you keep it with you you'll be safe from shark bite. Under the present
circumstances, I thought it would be appropriate."
"Completely," said Ellen. "Do you have one?"
"I have one," said Hooper, "but I don't know how to carry it. I don't like to file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (54 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
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things around my neck, and if you carry a shark tooth in your pants pocket, I've found you run two real risks. One is that you'll get stabbed in the leg, and the other is that you'll
end up with a gash in your pants. It's like carrying an open-blade knife around in your pocket. So in my case, practicality takes precedence over superstition, at least while I'm
on dry land."
Ellen laughed and said to Brody, "Martin, could I ask a huge favor? Would you run upstairs and get that thin silver chain out of my jewelry box? I'll put Matthew's shark
tooth on right now." She turned to Hooper and said, "You never know when you might meet a shark at dinner."
Brody started up the stairs, and Ellen said, "Oh, and Martin, tell the boys to come
down."
As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, Brody heard Ellen say, "It is such
fun to see you again."
Brody walked into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath and clenched and unclenched his right fist. He was fighting anger and confusion, and he was losing. He felt threatened, as if an intruder had come into his home, possessing subtle, intangible weapons he could not cope with: looks and youth and sophistication and, above all, a communion with Ellen born in a time which, Brody knew, Ellen wished had never ended. Where previously he had felt Ellen was trying to use Hooper to impress other summer people, now he felt she was trying to impress Hooper herself. He didn't know why. Maybe he was wrong. After all, Ellen and Hooper had known each other long ago. Perhaps he was making too much of two friends simply trying to get to know one another again. Friends? Christ, Hooper had to be ten years younger than Ellen, or almost. What kind of friends could they have been?
Acquaintances. Barely. So why was she putting on her supersophisticated act? It demeaned her, Brody thought; and it demeaned Brody that she should try, by posturing, to deny her life with him.
"Fuck it," he said aloud. He stood up, opened a dresser drawer, and rooted through it until he found Ellen's jewelry box. He took out the silver chain, closed the drawer, and walked into the hall. He poked his head into the boys' rooms and said, "Let's go, troops," and then he walked downstairs.
Ellen and Hooper were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, and as Brody walked into the living room, he heard Ellen say, "Would you rather that I not call you Matthew?" Hooper laughed and said, "I don't mind. It does sort of bring back memories, and despite what I said the other day, there's nothing wrong with that." The other day? Brody thought. In the hardware store? That must have been some conversation. "Here," he said to Ellen, handing her the chain.
"Thank you," she said. She unclasped the pearls and tossed them onto the coffee table. "Now, Matthew, show me how this should go." Brody picked the string of pearls off the table and put them in his pocket.
The boys came downstairs single file, all dressed neatly in sport shirts and slacks.
Ellen snapped the silver chain around her neck, smiled at Hooper, and said, "Come here, boys. Come meet Mr. Hooper. This is Billy Brody. Billy's fourteen." Billy shook hands with Hooper. "And this is Martin Junior. He's twelve. And this is Sean. He's nine... almost nine. Mr. Hooper is an oceanographer."
"An ichthyologist, actually," said Hooper.
"What's that?" said Martin Junior.
"A zoologist who specializes in fish life."
"What's a zoologist?" asked Sean.
"I know that," said Billy. "That's a guy who studies animals."
"Right," said Hooper. "Good for you."
"Are you going to catch the shark?" asked Martin.
"I'm going to try to find him," said Hooper. "But I don't know. He may have gone away already."
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"Have you ever caught a shark?"
"Yes, but not one as big as this."
Sean said, "Do sharks lay eggs?"
"That, young man," said Hooper, "is a good question, and a very complicated one. Not like a chicken, if that's what you mean. But yes, some sharks do have eggs." Ellen said, "Give Mr. Hooper a chance, boys." She turned to Brody. "Martin, could you make us a drink?"
"Sure," said Brody. "What'll it be?"
"A gin and tonic would be fine for me," said Hooper.
"What about you, Ellen?"
"Let's see. What would be good. I think I'll just have some vermouth on the rocks."
"Hey, Mom," said Billy, "what's that around your neck?"
"A shark tooth, dear. Mr. Hooper gave it to me."
"Hey, that's really cool. Can I look?"
Brody went into the kitchen. The liquor was kept in a cabinet over the sink. The door was stuck. He tugged at the metal handle, and it came off in his hand. Without thinking, he pegged it into the garbage pail. From a drawer he took a screwdriver and pried open the cabinet door. Vermouth. What the hell was the color of the bottle? Nobody ever drank vermouth on the rocks. Ellen's drink when she drank, and that was rarely, was rye and ginger. Green. There it was, way in the back. Brody grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap, and sniffed. It smelled like one of those cheap, fruity wines the winos bought
for sixty-nine a pint. Brody made the two drinks, then fashioned a rye and ginger for himself. By habit, he began to measure the rye with a shot glass, but then he changed his mind and poured until the glass was a third full. He topped it off with ginger ale, dropped
in a few ice cubes, and reached for the two other glasses. The only convenient way to carry them in one hand was to grip one with the thumb and last three fingers of his hand and then support the other against the first by sticking his index finger down the inside of
the glass. He took a slug of his own drink and went back into the living room. Billy and Martin had crowded onto the couch with Ellen and Hooper. Sean was sitting on the floor. Brody heard Hooper say something about a pig, and Martin said,
"Wow!"
"Here," said Brody, handing the forward glass --the one with his finger in it -to Ellen.
"No tip for you, my man," she said. "It's a good thing you decided against a career
as a waiter."
Brody looked at her, considered a series of rude remarks, and settled for,
"Forgive
me, Duchess." He handed the other glass to Hooper and said, "I guess this is what you had in mind."
"That's great. Thanks."
"Matt was just telling us about a shark he caught," said Ellen. "It had almost a whole pig in it."
"No kidding," said Brody, sitting in a chair opposite the couch.
"And that's not all, Dad," said Martin. "There was a roll of tar paper, too."
"And a human bone," said Sean.
"I said it looked like a human bone," said Hooper.
"There was no way to be sure at the time. It might have been a beef rib." Brody said, "I thought you scientists could tell those things right on the spot."
"Not always," said Hooper. "Especially when it's only a piece of a bone like a rib."
Brody took a long swallow of his drink and said, "Oh."
"Hey, Dad," said Billy. "You know how a porpoise kills a shark?"
"With a gun?"
"No, man. It butts him to death. That's what Mr. Hooper says."
"Terrific," said Brody, and he drained his glass. "I'm going to have another file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (56 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt drink.
Anybody else ready?"
"On a week night?" said Ellen. "My."
"Why not? It's not every night we throw a no-kidding, go-to-hell dinner party." Brody started for the kitchen but was stopped by the ringing of the doorbell. He opened the door and saw Dorothy Meadows, short and slight, dressed, as usual, in a dark blue dress and a single strand of pearls. Behind her was a girl Brody assumed was Daisy Wicker --a tall, slim girl with long, straight hair. She wore slacks and sandals and no makeup. Behind her was the unmistakable bulk of Harry Meadows.
"Hello, there," said Brody. "Come on in."
"Good evening, Martin," said Dorothy Meadows. "We met Miss Wicker as we came into the driveway."
"I walked," said Daisy Wicker. "It was nice."
"Good, good. Come on in. I'm Martin Brody."
"I know. I've seen you driving your car. You must have an interesting job." Brody laughed. "I'd tell you all about it, except it would probably put you to sleep."
Brody led them into the living room and turned them over to Ellen for introduction to Hooper. He took drink orders --Bourbon on the rocks for Harry, club soda with a twist of lemon for Dorothy, and a gin and tonic for Daisy Wicker. But before he fixed their drinks, he made a fresh one for himself, and he sipped it as he prepared the
others. By the time he was ready to return to the living room, he had finished about half his drink, so he poured in a generous splash of rye and a dash more ginger ale. He took Dorothy's and Daisy's drinks first, and returned to the kitchen for Meadows' and his own. He was taking one last swallow before rejoining the company, when Ellen came into the kitchen.
"Don't you think you better slow down?" she said.
"I'm fine," he said. "Don't worry about me."
"You're not being exactly gracious."
"I'm not? I thought I was being charming."
"Hardly."
He smiled at her and said, "Tough shit," and as he spoke, he realized she was right: he had better slow down. He walked into the living room. The children had gone upstairs. Dorothy Meadows sat on the couch next to Hooper and was chatting with him about his work at Woods Hole. Meadows, in the chair opposite the couch, listened quietly. Daisy Wicker was standing alone, on the other side of the room, by the fireplace, gazing about with a subdued smile on her face. Brody handed Meadows his drink and strolled over next to Daisy.
"You're smiling," he said.
"Am I? I didn't notice."
"Thinking of something funny?"
"No. I guess I was just interested. I've never been in a policeman's house before."
"What did you expect? Bars on the windows? A guard at the door?"
"No, nothing. I was just curious."
"And what have you decided? It looks just like a normal person's house, doesn't it?"
"I guess so. Sort of."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing."
"Oh."
She took a sip of her drink and said, "Do you like being a policeman?" Brody couldn't tell whether or not there was hostility in the question. "Yes," he said. "It's a good
job, and it has a purpose to it."
"What's the purpose?"
"What do you think?" he said, slightly irritated. "To uphold the law."
"Don't you feel alienated?"
"Why the hell should I feel alienated? Alienated from what?"
"From the people. I mean, the only thing that justifies your existence is telling file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (57 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt people what not to do. Doesn't that make you feel freaky?" For a moment, Brody thought he was being put on, but the girl never smiled or smirked or shifted her eyes from his. "No, I don't feel freaky," he said. "I don't see why I
should feel any more freaky than you do, working at the whatchamacallit."
"The Bibelot."
"Yeah. What do you sell there anyway?"
"We sell people their past. It gives them comfort."
"What do you mean, their past?"
"Antiques. They're bought by people who hate their present and need the security of their past. Or if not theirs, someone else's. Once they buy it, it becomes theirs. I bet
that's important to you, too."
"What, the past?"
"No, security. Isn't that supposed to be one of the heavy things about being a cop?"
Brody glanced across the room and noticed that Meadows' glass was empty.
"Excuse me," he said. "I have to tend to the other guests."
"Sure. Nice talking to you."
Brody took Meadows' glass and his own into the kitchen. Ellen was filling a bowl with Tortilla chips.
"Where the hell did you find that girl?" he said. "Under a rock?"
"Who? Daisy? I told you, she works at the Bibelot."
"Have you ever talked to her?"
"A little. She seems very nice and bright."
"She's a spook. She's just like some of the kids we bust who start smart-mouthing us in the station." He made a drink for Meadows, then poured another for himself. He looked up and saw Ellen staring at him.
"What's the matter with you?" she said.
"I guess I don't like strange people coming into my house and insulting me."
"Honestly, Martin. I'm sure there was no insult intended. She was probably just being frank. Frankness is in these days, you know."
"Well, if she gets any franker with me, she's gonna be out, I'll tell you that." He
picked up the two drinks and started for the door.
Ellen said, "Martin . . ." and he stopped. "For my sake... please."
"Don't worry about a thing. Everything'll be fine. Like they say in the commercials, calm down."
He refilled Hooper's drink and Daisy Wicker's without refilling his own. Then he sat down and nursed his drink through a long story Meadows was telling Daisy. Brody felt all right --pretty good, in fact --and he knew that if he didn't have anything more to
drink before dinner, he'd be fine.
At 8:30, Ellen brought the soup plates out from the kitchen and set them around the table. "Martin," she said, "would you open the wine for me while I get everyone seated?"
"Wine?"
"There are three bottles in the kitchen. A white in the icebox and two reds on the
counter. You may as well open them all. The reds will need time to breathe."
"Of course they will," Brody said as he stood up. "Who doesn't?"
"Oh, and the tire-bouchin is on the counter next to the red."
"The what?"
Daisy Wicker said, "It's tire-bouchon. The corkscrew." Brody took vengeful pleasure in seeing Ellen blush, for it relieved him of some of
his own embarrassment. He found the corkscrew and went to work on the two bottles of red wine. He pulled one cork cleanly, but the other crumbled as he was withdrawing it, and pieces slipped into the bottle. He took the bottle of white out of the refrigerator, and
as he uncorked it he tangled his tongue trying to pronounce the name of the wine: file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (58 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt Montrachet. He arrived at what seemed to him an acceptable pronunciation, wiped the bottle dry with a dish-towel, and took it into the dining room. Ellen was seated at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Hooper was at her left,
Meadows at her right. Next to Meadows, Daisy Wicker, then an empty space for Brody at the far end of the table, and, opposite Daisy, Dorothy Meadows Brody put his left hand behind his back and, standing over Ellen's right shoulder, poured her a glass of wine. "A glass of Mount Ratchet," he said. "Very good year, 1970. I remember it well."
"Enough," said Ellen, tipping the mouth of the bottle up. "Don't fill the glass all
the way."
"Sorry," said Brody, and he filled Meadows' glass next. When he had finished pouring the wine, Brody sat down. He looked at the soup in front of him. Then he glanced furtively around the table and saw that the others were actually eating it: it wasn't a joke. So he took a spoonful. It was cold, and it didn't taste
anything like soup, but it wasn't bad.
"I love gazpacho," said Daisy, "but it's such a pain to make that I don't have it very often."
"Mmmm," said Brody, spooning another mouthful of soup.
"Do you have it very often?"
"No," he said. "Not too often."
"Have you ever tried a G and G?"
"Can't say as I have."
"You ought to try one. Of course, you might not enjoy it since it's breaking the law."
"You mean eating this thing is breaking the law? How? What is it?"
"Grass and gazpacho. Instead of herbs, you sprinkle a little grass over the top. Then you smoke a little, eat a little, smoke a little, eat a little. It's really wild." It was a moment before Brody realized what she was saying, and even when he understood, he didn't answer right away. He tipped his soup bowl toward himself, scooped out the last little bit of soup, drained his wine glass in one draft, and wiped his
mouth with his napkin. He looked at Daisy, who was smiling sweetly at him, and at Ellen, who was smiling at something Hooper was saying.
"It really is," said Daisy.
Brody decided to be low-keyed --avuncular and nonetheless annoyed, but lowkeyed, so as not to upset Ellen. "You know," he said, "I don't find..."
"I bet Matt's tried one."
"Maybe he has. I don't see what that..."
Daisy raised her voice and said, "Matt, excuse me." The conversation at the other end of the table stopped. "I was just curious. Have you ever tried a G and G? By the way, Mrs. Brody, this is terrific gazpacho."
"Thank you," said Ellen. "But what's a G and G?"
"I tried one once," said Hooper. "But I was never really into that."
"You must tell me," Ellen said. "What is it?"
"Matt'll tell you," said Daisy, and just as Brody turned to say something to her, she leaned over to Meadows and said, "Tell me more about the water table." Brody stood up and began to clear away the soup bowls. As he walked into the kitchen, he felt a slight rush of nausea and dizziness, and his forehead was sweating. But
by the time he put the bowls into the sink, the feeling had passed. Ellen followed him into the kitchen and tied an apron around her waist. "I'll need
some help carving," she said.
"Okeydoke," said Brody, and he searched through a drawer for a carving knife and fork. "What did you think of that?"
"Of what?"
"That G and G business. Did Hooper tell you what it is?"
"Yes. That was pretty funny, wasn't it? I must say, it sounds tasty." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (59 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
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"How would you know?"
"You never know what we ladies do when we get together over at the hospital. Here, carve." With a two-tine serving fork, she hefted the lamb onto the carving board.
"Slices about three quarters of an inch thick, if you can, the way you'd slice a steak." That Wicker bitch was right about one thing, Brody thought as he slashed the meat: I sure as shit feel alienated right now. A slab of meat fell away, and Brody said,
"Hey, I thought you said this was lamb."
"It is."
"It isn't even done. Look at that." He held up the piece he had sliced. It was pink
and, toward the middle, almost red.
"That's the way it's supposed to be."
"Not if it's lamb, it isn't. Lamb's supposed to be cooked through, well done."
"Martin, believe me. It's all right to cook a butterfly lamb sort of medium. I promise you."
Brody raised his voice. "I'm not gonna eat raw lamb!"
"Ssshhh! For God's sake. Can't you keep your voice down?" Brody said in a hoarse whisper, "Then put the goddam thing back till it's done."
"It's done!" said Ellen. "If you don't want to eat it, don't eat it, but that's the way
I'm going to serve it."
"Then cut it yourself." Brody dropped the knife and fork on the carving board, picked up the two bottles of red wine, and left the kitchen.
"There'll be a slight delay," he said as he approached the table, "while the cook kills our dinner. She tried to serve it as it was, but it bit her on the leg." He raised a bottle
of wine over one of the clean glasses and said, "I wonder why you're not allowed to serve red wine in the same glass the white wine was."
"The tastes," said Meadows, "don't complement each other."
"What you're saying is, it'll give you gas." Brody flied the six glasses and sat down. He took a sip of wine, said, "Good," then took another sip and another. He refilled his glass.
Ellen came in from the kitchen carrying the carving board. She set it on the sideboard next to a stack of plates. She returned to the kitchen and came back, carrying two vegetable dishes. "I hope it's good," she said. "I haven't tried it before."
"What is it?" asked Dorothy Meadows. "It smells delicious."
"Butterfly lamb. Marinated."
"Really? What's in the marinade?"
"Ginger, soy sauce, a whole bunch of things." She put a thick slice of lamb, some asparagus and summer squash on each plate, and passed the plates to Meadows, who sent them down and around the table.
When everyone had been served and Ellen had sat down, Hooper raised his glass and said, "A toast to the chef."
The others raised their glasses, and Brody said, "Good luck." Meadows took a bite of meat, chewed it, savored it, and said, "Fantastic. It's like
the tenderest of sirloins, only better. What a splendid flavor."
"Coming from you, Harry," said Ellen, "that's a special compliment."
"It's delicious," said Dorothy. "Will you promise to give me the recipe? Harry will
never forgive me if I don't give this to him at least once a week."
"He better rob a bank," said Brody.
"But it is delicious, Martin, don't you think?" Brody didn't answer. He had started to chew a piece of meat when another wave of nausea hit him. Once again sweat popped out on his forehead. He felt detached, as if his body were controlled by someone else. He sensed panic at the loss of motor control. His fork felt heavy, and for a moment he feared it might slip from his fingers and clatter
onto the table. He gripped it with his fist and held on. He was sure his tongue wouldn't behave if he tried to speak. It was the wine. It had to be the wine. With greatly exaggerated precision, he reached forward to push his wine glass away from him. He slid file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (60 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt his fingers along the tablecloth to minimize the chances of knocking over the glass. He sat back and took a deep breath. His vision blurred. He tried to focus his eyes on a painting above Ellen's head, but he was distracted by the image of Ellen talking to Hooper. Every time she spoke she touched Hooper's arm --lightly, but, Brody thought, intimately, as if they were sharing secrets. He didn't hear what anyone was saying. The last thing he remembered hearing was, "Don't you think?" How long ago was that? Who had said it? He didn't know. He looked at Meadows, who was talking to Daisy. Then he looked at Dorothy and said thickly, "Yes."
"What did you say, Martin?" She looked up at him, "Did you say something?" He couldn't speak. He wanted to stand and walk out to the kitchen, but he didn't trust his legs. He'd never make it without holding on to something. Just sit still, he told
himself. It'll pass.
And it did. His head began to clear. Ellen was touching Hooper again. Talk and touch, talk and touch. "Boy, it's hot," he said. He stood up and walked, carefully but steadily, to a window and tugged it open. He leaned on the sill and pressed his face against the screen. "Nice night," he said. He straightened up. "I think I'll get a glass of
water." He walked into the kitchen and shook his head. He turned on the cold-water tap and rubbed some water on his brow. He filled a glass and drank it down, then refilled it and drank that down. He took a few deep breaths, went back into the dining room, and sat down. He looked at the food on his plate. Then he suppressed a shiver and smiled at Dorothy.
"Any more, anybody?" said Ellen. "There's plenty here."
"Indeed," said Meadows. "But you'd better serve the others first. Left to my own devices, I'd eat the whole thing."
"And you know what you'd be saying tomorrow," said Brody.
"What's that?"
Brody lowered his voice and said gravely, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing."
Meadows and Dorothy laughed, and Hooper said, in a high falsetto whine, "No, Ralph, I ate it." Then even Ellen laughed. It was going to be all right. By the time dessert was served --coffee ice cream in a pool of creme de cacao --Brody was feeling well. He had two helpings of ice cream, and he chatted amiably with Dorothy. He smiled when Daisy told him a story about lacing the stuffing at last Thanksgiving's turkey with marijuana.
"My only worry," said Daisy, "was that my maiden aunt called Thanksgiving morning and asked if she could come for dinner. The turkey was already made and stuffed."
"So what happened?" said Brody.
"I tried to sneak her some turkey without stuffing, but she made a point of asking
for it, so I said what the heck and gave her a big spoonful."
"And?"
"By the end of the meal she was giggling like a little girl. She even wanted to dance. To Hair yet."
"It's a good thing I wasn't there," said Brody. "I would have arrested you for corrupting the morals of a maiden."
They had coffee in the living room, and Brody offered drinks, but only Meadows accepted. "A tiny brandy, if you have it," he said. Brody looked at Ellen, as if to ask, Do we have any? "In the cupboard, I think," she said.
Brody poured Meadows' drink and thought briefly of pouring one for himself. But he resisted, telling himself, Don't press your luck.
At a little after ten, Meadows yawned and said, "Dorothy, I think we had best take
our leave. I find it hard to fulfill the public trust if I stay up too late."
"I should go, too," said Daisy. "I have to be at work at eight. Not that we're selling
very much these days."
"You're not alone, my dear," said Meadows. file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (61 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
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"I know. But when you work on commission, you really feel it."
"Well, let's hope the worst is over. From what I gather from our expert here, there's a good chance the leviathan has left." Meadows stood up.
"A chance," said Hooper. "I hope so." He rose to go. "I should be on my way, too."
"Oh, don't go!" Ellen said to Hooper. The words came out much stronger than she had intended. Instead of a pleasant request, they sounded a shrill plea. She was embarrassed, and she added quickly, "I mean, the night is young. It's only ten."
"I know," said Hooper. "But if the weather's any good tomorrow, I want to get up early and get into the water. Besides, I have a car and I can drop Daisy off on my way home."
Daisy said, "That would be fun." Her voice, as usual, was without tone or color, suggesting nothing.
"The Meadows can drop her," Ellen said.
"True," said Hooper, "but I really should go so I can get up early. But thanks for
the thought."
They said their good-bys at the front door --perfunctory compliments, redundant thanks. Hooper was the last to leave, and when he extended his hand to Ellen, she took it in both of hers and said, "Thank you so much for my shark tooth."
"You're welcome. I'm glad you like it."
"And thank you for being so nice to the children. They were fascinated to meet you."
"So was I. It was a little weird, though. I must have been about Sean's age when I
knew you before. You haven't changed much at all."
"Well, you've certainly changed."
"I hope so. I'd hate to be nine all of my life."
"We'll see you again before you go?"
"Count on it."
"Wonderful." She released his hand. He said a quick good night to Brody and walked to his ear.
Ellen waited at the door until the last of the ears had pulled out of the driveway,
then she turned off the outside light. Without a word, she began to pick up the glasses, coffee cups, and ashtrays from the living room.
Brody carried a stack of dessert dishes into the kitchen, set them on the sink, and
said, "Well, that was all right." He meant nothing by the remark, and sought nothing more than rote agreement.
"No thanks to you," said Ellen.
"What?"
"You were awful."
"I was?" He was genuinely surprised at the ferocity of her attack. "I know I got a
little queasy there for a minute, but I didn't think --"
"All evening, from start to finish, you were awful."
"That's a lot of crap!"
"You'll wake the children."
"I don't give a damn. I'm not going to let you stand there and work out your own hang-ups by telling me I'm a shit."
Ellen smiled bitterly. "You see? There you go again."
"Where do I go again? What are you talking about?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Just like that. You don't want to talk about it. Look... okay, I was wrong about the goddam meat. I shouldn't have blown my stack. I'm sorry. Now..."
"I said I don't want to talk about it!"
Brody was ready for a fight, but he backed off, sober enough to realize that his only weapons were cruelty and innuendo, and that Ellen was close to tears. And tears, whether shed in orgasm or in anger, disconcerted him. So he said only, "Well, I'm sorry about that." He walked out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs. In the bedroom, as he was undressing, the thought occurred to him that the cause file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (62 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt of all the unpleasantness, the source of the whole mess, was a fish: a mindless beast that
he had never seen. The ludicrousness of the thought made him smile. He crawled into bed and, almost simultaneous with the touch of his head to the pillow, fell into a dreamless sleep.
A boy and his date sat drinking beer at one end of the long mahogany bar in the Randy Bear. The boy was eighteen, the son of the pharmacist at the Amity Pharmacy.
"You'll have to tell him sometime," said the girl.
"I know. And when I do, he's gonna go bullshit."
"It wasn't your fault."
"You know what he'll say? It must have been my fault. I must have done something, or else they would have kept me and canned somebody else."
"But they fired a lot of kids."
"They kept a lot, too."
"How did they decide who to keep?"
"They didn't say. They just said they weren't getting enough guests to justify a big
staff, so they were letting some of us go. Boy, my old man is gonna go right through the roof."
"Can't he call them? He must know somebody there. I mean, if he says you really need the money for college..."
"He wouldn't do it. That'd be begging." The boy finished his beer. "There's only one thing I can do. Deal."
"Oh, Michael, don't do that. It's too dangerous. You could go to jail."
"That's quite a choice, isn't it?" the boy said acidly. "College or jail."
"What would you tell your father?"
"I don't know. Maybe I'll tell him I'm selling belts."