Chapter 8
Brody awoke with a start, jolted by a signal that told him something was wrong. He threw his arm across the bed to touch Ellen. She wasn't there. He sat and saw her sitting in the
chair by the window. Rain splashed against the windowpanes, and he heard the wind whipping through the trees.
"Lousy day, huh?" he said. She didn't answer, continuing to stare fixedly at the drops sliding down the glass. "How come you're up so early?"
"I couldn't sleep."
Brody yawned. "I sure didn't have any trouble."
"I'm not surprised."
"Oh boy. Are we starting in again?"
Ellen shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything." She seemed subdued, sad.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Whatever you say." Brody got out of bed and went into the bathroom. When he had shaved and dressed, he went down to the kitchen. The boys were finishing their breakfast, and Ellen was frying an egg for him. "What are you guys gonna do on this crummy day?" he said.
"Clean lawnmowers," said Billy, who worked during the summer for a local gardener. "Boy, do I hate rainy days."
"And what about you two?" Brody said to Martin and Sean.
"Martin's going to the Boys' Club," said Ellen, "and Sean's spending the day at the
Santos's."
"And you?"
"I've got a full day at the hospital. Which reminds me: I won't be home for file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (63 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt lunch.
Can you get something downtown?"
"Sure. I didn't know you worked a full day Wednesdays."
"I don't, usually. But one of the other girls is sick, and I said I'd fill in."
"Oh."
"I'll be back by suppertime."
"Fine."
"Do you think you could drop Sean and Martin off on your way to work? I want to do a little shopping on my way to the hospital."
"No problem."
"I'll pick them up on my way home."
Brody and the two younger children left first. Then Billy, wrapped from head to foot in foul-weather gear, bicycled off to work.
Ellen looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was a few minutes to eight. Too early? Maybe. But better to catch him now, before he went off somewhere and the chance was lost. She held her right hand out in front of her and tried to steady the fingers, but
they quivered uncontrollably. She smiled at her nervousness and whispered to herself,
"Some swinger you'd make." She went upstairs to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and picked up the green phone book. She found the number for the Abelard Arms Inn, put her hand on the phone, hesitated for a moment, then picked up the receiver and dialed the number.
"Abelard Arms."
"Mr. Hooper's room, please. Matt Hooper."
"Just a minute, please. Hooper. Here it is. Four-oh-five. I'll ring it for you." Ellen heard the phone ring once, then again. She could hear her heart beating, and
she saw the pulse throb in her right wrist. Hang up, she told herself. Hang up. There's time.
"Hello?" said Hooper's voice.
"Oh." She thought, Good God, suppose he's got Daisy Wicker in the room with him.
"Hello?"
Ellen swallowed and said, "Hi. It's me... I mean it's Ellen."
"Oh, hi."
"I hope I didn't wake you."
"No. I was just getting ready to go downstairs and have some breakfast."
"Good. It's not a very nice day, is it?"
"No, but I don't really mind. It's a luxury for me to be able to sleep this late."
"Can you... will you be able to work today?"
"I don't know. I was just trying to figure that out. I sure can't go out in the boat
and hope to get anything done."
"Oh." She paused, fighting the dizziness that was creeping up on her. Go ahead, she told herself. Ask the question. "I was wondering..." No, be careful; ease into it. "I wanted to thank you for the beautiful charm."
"You're welcome. I'm glad you like it. But I should be thanking you. I had a good time last night."
"I did... we did, too. I'm glad you came."
"Yes."
"It was like old times."
"Yes."
Now, she said to herself. Do it. The words spilled from her mouth. "I was wondering, if you can't do any work today, I mean if you can't go out in the boat or anything, I was wondering if... if there was any chance you'd like to... if you're free for
lunch."
"Lunch?"
"Yes. You know, if you have nothing else to do, I thought we might have some lunch."
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"We? You mean you and the chief and me?"
"No, just you and I. Martin usually has lunch at his desk. I don't want to interfere
with your plans or anything. I mean, if you've got a lot of work to do..."
"No, no. That's okay. Heck, why not? Sure. What did you have in mind?"
"There's a wonderful place up in Sag Harbor. Banner's. Do you know it?" She hoped he didn't. She didn't know it, either, which meant that no one there would know her. But she had heard that it was good and quiet and dark.
"No, I've never been there," said Hooper. "But Sag Harbor. That's quite a hike for
lunch."
"It's not bad, really, only about fifteen or twenty minutes. I could meet you there
whenever you like."
"Any time's all right with me."
"Around twelve-thirty, then?"
"Twelve-thirty it is. See you then."
Ellen hung up the phone. Her hands were still shaking, but she felt elated, excited.
Her senses seemed alive and incredibly keen. Every time she drew a breath she savored the smells around her. Her ears jingled with a symphony of tiny house sounds --creaks and rustles and thumps. She felt more intensely feminine than she had in years --a warm, wet feeling both delicious and uncomfortable.
She went into the bathroom and took a shower. She shaved her legs and under her arms. She wished she had bought one of those feminine hygiene deodorants she had seen advertised, but, lacking that, she powdered herself and daubed cologne behind her ears, inside her elbows, behind her knees, on her nipples, and on her genitals. There was a full-length mirror in the bedroom, and she stood before it, examining herself. Were the goods good enough? Would the offering be accepted? She had worked to keep in shape, to preserve the smoothness and sinuousness of youth. She could not bear the thought of rejection.
The goods were good. The lines in her neck were few and barely noticeable. Her face was unblemished and unscarred. There were no droops or sags or pouches. She stood straight and admired the contours of her breasts. Her waist was slim, her belly flat -the reward for endless hours of exercise after each child. The only problem, as she assessed her body critically, was her hips. By no stretch of anyone's imagination were they girlish.
They signaled motherhood. They were, as Brody once said, breeder's hips. The recollection brought a quick flash of remorse, but excitement quickly nudged it aside. Her
legs were long and --below the pad of fat on her rear --slender. Her ankles were delicate,
and her feet --with the toenails nearly pruned --were perfect enough to suit any pediphile.
She dressed in her hospital clothes. From the back of her closet she took a plastic
shopping bag into which she put a pair of bikini underpants, a bra, a neatly folded lavender summer dress, a pair of low-heeled pumps, a can of spray deodorant, a plastic bottle of bath powder, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. She carried the bag to the garage, tossed it into the back seat of her Volkswagen beetle, backed out of the driveway,
and drove to the Southampton Hospital.
The dull drive increased the fatigue she had been feeling for hours. She had not slept all night. She had first lain in bed, then sat by the window, struggling with all the
twistings of emotion and conscience, desire and regret, longing and recrimination. She didn't know exactly when she had decided on this manifestly rash, dangerous plan. She had been thinking about it --and trying not to think about it --since the day she first met
Hooper. She had weighed the risks and, somehow, calculated that they were worth file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (65 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt taking, though she was not entirely sure what she could gain from the adventure. She knew she wanted change, almost any change. She wanted to be assured and reassured that she was desirable --not just to her husband, for she had grown complacent about that, but
to the people she saw as her real peers, the people among whom she still numbered herself. She felt that without some remedy, the part of herself that she most cherished would die. Perhaps the past could never be revived. But perhaps it could be recalled physically as well as mentally. She wanted an injection, a transfusion of the essence of her past, and she saw Matt Hooper as the only possible donor. The thought of love never entered her mind. Nor did she want or anticipate a relationship either profound or enduring. She sought only to be serviced, restored.
She was grateful that the work assigned her when she arrived at the hospital demanded concentration and conversation, for it prevented her from thinking. She and another volunteer changed the bedding of the elderly patients for whom the hospital community was a surrogate --and, in some cases, final --home. She had to remember the names of children in distant cities, had to fashion new excuses for why they hadn't written. She had to feign recollection of the plots of television shows and speculate on why such-and-such a character had left his wife for a woman who was patently an adventuress.
At 11:45, Ellen told the supervisor of volunteers that she didn't feel well. Her thyroid was acting up again, she said, and she was getting her period. She thought she'd go lie down for a while in the staff lounge. And if a nap didn't help, she said, she'd probably go home. In fact, if she wasn't back on the job by 1:30 or so, the supervisor could assume she had gone home. It was an explanation that she hoped was vague enough to discourage anyone from actively looking for her.
She went into the lounge, counted to twenty, and opened the door a crack to see if
the corridor was empty. It was; most of the staff were in, or on their way to, the cafeteria
on the other side of the building. She stepped into the corridor, closed the door softly behind her, and hurried around a corner and out a side door of the hospital that led to the
staff parking lot.
She drove most of the way to Sag Harbor, then stopped at a gas station. When the tank was full and the gas paid for, she asked to use the ladies' room. The attendant gave her the key, and she pulled her car around to the side of the station, next to the ladies'
room door. She opened the door, but before going into the ladies' room she returned the key to the attendant. She walked to her car, removed the plastic bag from the back seat, entered the ladies' room, and pushed the button that locked the door. She stripped, and standing on the cold floor in her bare feet, looking at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she felt a thrill of risk. She sprayed deodorant under her arms and on her feet. She took the clean underpants from the plastic bag and stepped into them. She shook a little powder into each cup of the bra and put it on. She took the dress from the bag, unfolded it, checked it for wrinkles, and slipped it over her
head. She poured powder into each of her shoes, brushed off the bottom of each foot with a paper towel, and put on the shoes. Then she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, stuffed her hospital clothes into the plastic bag, and opened the door. She looked both ways, saw that no one was watching her, then stepped out of the ladies' room, tossed the bag into the car, and got in.
As she drove out of the gas station, she hunched down in her seat so the attendant,
if he should chance to notice her, would not see that she had changed clothes. It was 12:20 when she arrived at Banner's, a small steak-and-seafood restaurant on the water in Sag Harbor. The parking lot was in the rear, for which she was grateful. On the off-chance that someone she knew might drive down the street in Sag Harbor, she didn't want her car in plain view.
One reason she had picked Banner's was that it was known as a favorite nighttime restaurant for yachtsmen and summer people, which meant that it probably had little luncheon trade. And it was expensive, which made it almost certain that no year-round file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (66 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt residents, no local tradesmen, would go there for lunch. Ellen checked her wallet. She had nearly fifty dollars --all the emergency cash she and Brody kept in the house. She made a mental note of the bills: a twenty, two tens, a five, and three ones. She wanted to
replace exactly what she had taken from the coffee can in the kitchen closet. There were two other cars in the parking lot, a Chevrolet Vega and a bigger car, tan. She remembered that Hooper's car was green and that it was named after some animal. She left her car and walked into the restaurant, holding her hands over her head to
protect her hair from the light rain.
The restaurant was dark, but because the day was gloomy it took her eyes only a few seconds to adjust. There was only one room, with a bar on the right as she walked in and about twenty tables in the center. The left-hand wall was lined with eight booths. The walls were dark wood, decorated with bullfight and movie posters. A couple --in their late twenties, Ellen guessed --was having a drink at a table by
the window. The bartender, a young man with a Vandyke beard and a button-down shirt, sat by the cash register reading the New York Daily News. They were the only people in the room. Ellen looked at her watch. Almost 12:30.
The bartender looked up and said, "Hi. Can I help you?" Ellen stepped to the bar. "Yes... yes. In a minute. But first I'd like... can you tell
me where the ladies' room is?"
"End of the bar, turn right. First door on your left."
"Thank you." Ellen walked quickly down the length of the bar, turned right, and went into the ladies' room.
She stood in front of the mirror and held out her right hand. It trembled, and she
clenched it into a fist. Calm down, she said to herself. You have to calm down or it's no use. It's lost. She felt that she was sweating, but when she put a hand inside her dress and
felt her armpit, it was dry. She combed her hair and surveyed her teeth. She remembered something a boy she had once gone out with had said: Nothing turns my stomach faster than seeing a girl with a big piece of crud between her teeth. She looked at her watch: 12:35.
She went back into the restaurant and looked around. Just the same couple, the bartender, and a waitress standing at the bar, folding napkins. The waitress saw Ellen come around the corner of the bar, and she said, "Hello. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'd like a table, please. For lunch."
"For one?"
"No. Two."
"Fine," said the waitress. She put down a napkin, picked up a pad, and walked Ellen to a table in the middle of the room. "Is this all right?"
"No. I mean, yes. It's fine. But I'd like to have that table in the corner booth, if you
don't mind."
"Sure," said the waitress. "Any table you like. We're not exactly full." She led Ellen to the table, and Ellen slipped into the booth with her back to the door. Hooper would be able to find her. If he came. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Yes. A gin and tonic, please." When the waitress left the table, Ellen smiled. It
was the first time since her wedding that she had had a drink during the day. The waitress brought the drink, and Ellen drank half of it immediately, eager to feel the relaxing warmth of alcohol. Every few seconds, she checked the door and looked at her watch. He's not going to come, she thought. It was almost 12:45. He got cold feet. He's scared of Martin. Maybe he's scared of me. What will I do if he doesn't come? I guess I'll have some lunch and go back to work. He's got to come! He can't do this to me.
"Hello."
The word startled Ellen. She hopped in her seat and said, "Oh!" Hooper slid into the seat opposite her and said, "I didn't mean to scare you. And file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (67 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt I'm sorry I'm late. I had to stop for gas, and the station was jammed. The traffic was terrible. And so much for my excuses. I should have left more time. I am sorry." He looked into her eyes and smiled.
She looked down at her glass. "You don't have to apologize. I was late myself." The waitress came to the table. "Can I get you a drink?" she said to Hooper. He noticed Ellen's glass and said, "Oh, sure, I guess so. If you are. I'll have a gin
and tonic."
"I'll have another one," said Ellen. "This one's almost finished." The waitress left, and Hooper said, "I don't normally drink at lunch."
"Neither do I."
"After about three drinks I say stupid things. I never did hold my liquor very well."
Ellen nodded. "I know the feeling. I tend to get sort of..."
"Impetuous? So do I."
"Really? I can't imagine you getting impetuous. I thought scientists weren't ever impetuous."
Hooper smiled and said histrionically, "It may seem, madam, that we are wed to our test tubes. But beneath the icy exteriors there beat the hearts of some of the most brazen, raunchy people in the world."
Ellen laughed. The waitress brought the drinks and left two menus on the edge of the table. They talked --chatted, really --about old times, about people they had known and what those people were doing now, about Hooper's ambitions in ichthyology. They never mentioned the shark or Brody or Ellen's children. It was an easy, rambling conversation, which suited Ellen. Her second drink loosened her up, and she felt happy and in command of herself.
She wanted Hooper to have another drink, and she knew he was not likely to take the initiative and order one. She picked up one of the menus, hoping that the waitress would notice the movement, and said, "Let me see. What looks good?" Hooper picked up the other menu and began to read, and after a minute or two, the waitress strolled over to the table. "Are you ready to order?"
"Not quite yet," said Ellen. "It all looks good. Are you ready, Matthew?"
"Not quite," said Hooper.
"Why don't we have one more drink while we're looking?"
"Both?" said the waitress.
Hooper seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he nodded his head and said, "Sure. A special occasion."
They sat in silence, reading the menus. Ellen tried to assess how she felt. Three drinks would be a fairly heavy load for her to carry, and she wanted to make sure she didn't get fuzzy-headed or fuzzy-tongued. What was that saying, about alcohol increasing the desire but taking away from the performance? But that's just with men, she thought. I'm glad I don't have to worry about that. But what about him? Suppose he can't... Is there
anything I can do? But that's silly. Not on two drinks. It must take five or six or seven. A
man has to be incapacitated. But not if he's scared. Does he look scared? She peeked over the top of her menu and looked at Hooper. He didn't look nervous. If anything, he looked slightly perplexed.
"What's the matter?" she said.
He looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Your eyebrows were all scrunched up. You looked confused."
"Oh, nothing. I was just looking at the scallops, or what they claim are scallops.
The chances are they're flounder, cut up with a cookie cutter." The waitress brought their drinks and said, "Ready?"
"Yes," said Ellen. "I'll have the shrimp cocktail and the chicken."
"What kind of dressing would you like on your salad? We have French, Roquefort, Thousand Island, and oil and vinegar."
"Roquefort, please."
Hooper said, "Are these really bay scallops?"
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"All right. I'll have the scallops, and French dressing on the salad."
"Anything to start?"
"No," said Hooper, raising his glass. "This'll be fine." In a few minutes, the waitress brought Ellen's shrimp cocktail. When she had left,
Ellen said, "Do you know what I'd love? Some wine."
"That's a very interesting idea," Hooper said, looking at her. "But remember what I said about impetuousness. I may become irresponsible."
"I'm not worried." As Ellen spoke, she felt a blush crawl up her cheeks.
"Okay, but first I better check the treasury." He reached in his back pocket for his
wallet.
"Oh no. This is my treat."
"Don't be silly."
"No, really. I asked you to lunch." She began to panic. It had never occurred to her that he might insist on paying. She didn't want to annoy him by sticking him with a big bill. On the other hand, she didn't want to seem patronizing, to offend his virility.
"I know," he said. "But I'd like to take you to lunch." Was this a gambit? She couldn't tell. If it was, she didn't want to refuse it, but if he
was just being polite...
"You're sweet," she said, "but..."
"I'm serious. Please."
She looked down and toyed with the one shrimp remaining on her plate. "Well ..."
"I know you're only being thoughtful," Hooper said, "but don't be. Didn't David ever tell you about our grandfather?"
"Not that I remember. What about him?"
"Old Matt was known --and not very affectionately --as the Bandit. If he was
alive today, I'd probably be at the head of the pack calling for his scalp. But he isn't, so all
I had to worry about was whether to keep the bundle of money he left me or give it away. It wasn't a very difficult moral dilemma. I figure I can spend it as well as anyone I'd give
it to."
"Does David have a lot of money, too?"
"Yes. That's one of the things about him that's always baffled me. He's got enough
to support himself and any number of wives for life. So why did he settle on a meatball for a second wife? Because she has more money than he does. I don't know. Maybe money doesn't feel comfortable unless it's married to money."
"What did your grandfather do?"
"Railroads and mining. Technically, that is. Basically, he was a robber baron. At one point he owned most of Denver. He was the landlord of the whole red-light district."
"That must have been profitable."
"Not as much as you'd think," Hooper said with a laugh. "From what I hear, he liked to collect his rent in trade."
That might be a gambit, Ellen thought. What should she say? "That's supposed to be every schoolgirl's fantasy," she ventured playfully.
"What is?"
"To be a... you know, a prostitute. To sleep with a whole lot of different men."
"Was it yours?"
Ellen laughed, hoping to cover her blush. "I don't remember if it was exactly that," she said. "But I guess we all have fantasies of one kind or another." Hooper smiled and leaned back in his chair. He called the waitress over and said,
"Bring us a bottle of cold Chablis, would you please?" Something's happened, Ellen thought. She wondered if he could sense --smell?
like an animal? --the invitation she had extended. Whatever it was, he had taken the offensive. All she had to do was avoid discouraging him.
The food came, followed a moment later by the wine. Hooper's scallops were the size of marshmallows. "Flounder," he said after the waitress had left. "I should have file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (69 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt known."
"How can you tell?" Ellen asked. Immediately she wished she hadn't said anything. She didn't want to let the conversation drift.
"They're too big, for one thing. And the edges are too perfect. They were obviously cut."
"I suppose you could send them back." She hoped he wouldn't; a quarrel with the waitress could spoil their mood.
"I might," said Hooper, and he grinned at Ellen. "Under different circumstances." He poured Ellen a glass of wine, then filled his own and raised it for a toast. "To fantasies," he said. "Tell me about yours." His eyes were a bright, liquid blue, and his lips
were parted in a half smile.
Ellen laughed. "Oh, mine aren't very interesting. I imagine they're just your old run-of-the-mill fantasies."
"There's no such thing," said Hooper. "Tell me." He was asking, not demanding, but Ellen felt that the game she had started demanded that she answer.
"Oh, you know," she said. Her stomach felt warm, and the back of her neck was hot. "Just the standard things. Rape, I guess, is one."
"How does it happen?"
She tried to think, and she remembered the times when, alone, she would let her mind wander and conjure the carnal images. Usually she was in bed, often with her husband asleep beside her. Sometimes she found that, without knowing it, she had been rubbing her hand over her vagina, caressing herself.
"Different ways," she said.
"Name one."
"Sometimes I'm in the kitchen in the morning, after everybody has left, and a workman from one of the houses next door comes to my back door. He wants to use the phone or have a glass of water." She stopped.
"And then?"
"I let him in the door and he threatens to kill me if I don't do what he wants."
"Does he hurt you?"
"Oh no. I mean, he doesn't stab me or anything."
"Does he hit you?"
"No. He just... rapes me."
"Is it fun?"
"Not at first. It's scary. But then, after a while, when he's..."
"When he's got you all... ready."
Ellen's eyes moved to his, reading the remark for humor, irony, or cruelty. She saw none. Hooper ran his tongue over his lips and leaned forward until his face was only a foot or so from hers.
Ellen thought: The door's open now; all you have to do is walk through it. She said, "Yes."
"Then it's fun."
"Yes." She shifted in her seat, for the recollection was becoming physical.
"Do you ever have an orgasm?"
"Sometimes," she said. "Not always."
"Is he big?"
"Tall? Not..." They had been speaking very softly, and now Hooper lowered his voice to a whisper. "I don't mean tall. Is he... you know... big?"
"Usually," said Ellen, and she chuckled. "Huge."
"Is he black?"
"No. I've heard that some women have fantasies about being raped by black men, but I never have."
"Tell me another one."
"Oh no," she said, laughing. "Now it's your turn." They heard footsteps and turned to see the waitress approaching their table. "Is everything all right?" she said.
"Fine," Hooper said curtly. "Everything's fine." The waitress left. Ellen whispered, "Do you think she heard?" Hooper leaned forward. "Not a chance. Now tell me another one." It's going to happen, Ellen thought, and she felt suddenly nervous. She wanted to file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (70 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt tell him why she was behaving this way, to explain that she didn't do this all the time. He
probably thinks I'm a whore. Forget it. Don't get sappy or you'll ruin it. "No," she said with a smile. "It's your turn."
"Mine are usually orgies," he said. "Or at least threesies."
"What are threesies?"
"Three people. Me and two girls."
"Greedy. What do you do?"
"It varies. Everything imaginable."
"Are you... big?" she said.
"Bigger every minute. What about you?"
"I don't know. Compared to what?"
"To other women. Some women have really tight ones." Ellen giggled. "You sound like a comparison-shopper."
"Just a conscientious consumer."
"I don't know how I am," she said. "I haven't anything to compare it to." She looked down at her half-eaten chicken, and she laughed.
"What's funny?', he asked.
"I was just wondering," she said, and her laughter built. "I was just wondering if --oh, Lord, I'm getting a pain in my side --if chickens have..."
"Of course!" said Hooper. "But talk about a tightie!" They laughed together, and when the laughter faded, Ellen impulsively said,
"Let's make a fantasy."
"Okay. How do you want to start?"
"What would you do to me if we were going to... you know."
"That's a very interesting question," be said with mock gravity. "Before considering the what, however, we'd have to consider the where. I suppose there's always my room."
"Too dangerous. Everybody knows me at the Abelard. Anywhere in Amity would be too dangerous."
"What about your house?"
"Lord, no. Suppose one of my children came home. Besides..."
"I know. No desecrating the conjugal sheets. Okay, where else?"
"There must be motels between here and Montauk. Or even better, between here and Orient Point."
"Fair enough. Even if there's not, there's always the car."
"In broad daylight? You do have wild fantasies."
"In fantasies, anything is possible."
"All right. That's settled. So what would you do?"
"I think we should proceed chronologically. First of all, we'd leave here in one car. Probably mine, because it's least known. And we'd come back later to pick up yours."
"Okay."
"Then while we were driving along... no, even before that, before we left here, I'd
send you into the ladies' room and tell you to take off your panties."
"Why?"
"So I could... explore you while we're on the road. Just to keep the motors running."
"I see," she said, trying to seem matter-of-fact. She felt hot, flushed, and sensed
that her mind was floating somewhere apart from her body. She was a third person listening to the conversation. She had to fight to keep from shifting on the Leatherette bench. She wanted to squirm back and forth, to move her thighs up and down. But she was afraid of leaving a stain on the seat.
"Then," said Hooper, "while we were driving along, you might be sitting on my right hand and I'd be giving you a massage. Maybe I'd have my fly open. Maybe not, though, because you might get ideas, which would undoubtedly cause me to lose control, and that would probably cause a massive accident that would leave us both dead." Ellen started to giggle again, imagining the sight of Hooper lying by the side of the road, stiff as a flagpole, and herself lying next to him, her dress bunched up around file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (71 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt her waist and her vagina yawning open, glistening wet, for the world to see.
"We'd try to find a motel," said Hooper, "where the rooms are either in separate cabins or at least not butted fight up against each other, wall to wall."
"Why?"
"Noise. The walls are usually made of Kleenex and spit, and we wouldn't want to be inhibited by the thought of a shoe salesman in the next room pressing his ear to the wall and getting his kicks listening to us."
"Suppose you couldn't find a motel like that."
"We would," said Hooper. "As I said, in a fantasy anything is possible." Why does he keep saying that? Ellen thought. He can't really be playing a word game, working up a fantasy he has no intention of fulfilling. Her mind scrambled for a question to keep the conversation alive. "What name would you register us under?"
"Ah yes. I'd forgotten. These days I can't conceive of anyone getting uptight about
something like this, but you're right: we should have a name, just in case we ran into an old-fashioned innkeeper. How about Mr. and Mrs. Al Kinsey. We could say we were on an extended field trip for research."
"And we'd tell him we'd send him an autographed copy of our report."
"We'd dedicate it to him!"
They both laughed, and Ellen said, "What about after we registered?"
"Well, we'd drive to wherever our room was, scout around to see if anyone seemed to be in the rooms nearby --unless we had a cabin to ourselves --and then go inside."
"And then?"
"That's when our options broaden. I'd probably be so turned on that I'd grab you, let you have it --maybe on the bed, maybe not. That time would be my time. Your time would come later."
"What do you mean?"
"The first time would be out of control --a slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am deal. After that, I'd have more control, and the second time I could prepare you."
"How would you do that?"
"With delicacy and finesse."
The waitress was approaching the table, so they sat back and stopped talking.
"Will there be anything else?"
"No," said Hooper. "Just the check." Ellen assumed that the waitress would return to the bar to total the bill, but she
stood at the table, scribbling and carrying her ones. Ellen slid to the edge of the seat and
said as she stood up, "Excuse me. I want to powder my nose before we go."
"I know," said Hooper, smiling.
"You do?" said the waitress as Ellen passed her. "Boy, that's what marriage will do for you. I hope nobody ever knows me that well."
Ellen arrived home a little before 4:30. She went upstairs, into the bathroom, and
turned on the water in the tub. She took off all her clothes and stuffed them into the laundry hamper, mixing them with the clothes already in the hamper. She looked in the mirror and examined her face and neck. No marks.
After her bath, she powdered herself, brushed her teeth, and gargled with mouthwash. She went into the bedroom, put on a fresh pair of underpants and a nightgown, pulled back the bedclothes and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would pounce upon her.
But sleep could not overpower a memory that kept sliding into her mind. It was a vision of Hooper, eyes wide and staring --but unseeing --at the wall as he approached climax. The eyes seemed to bulge until, just before release, Ellen had feared they might actually pop out of their sockets. Hooper's teeth were clenched, and he ground them the way people do during sleep. From his voice there came a gurgling whine, whose tone rose higher and higher with each frenzied thrust. Even after his obvious, violent climax, Hooper's countenance had not changed. His teeth were still clenched, his eyes still fixed on the wall, and he continued to pump madly. He was oblivious of the being beneath him, file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (72 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt and when, perhaps a full minute after his climax, Hooper still did not relax, Ellen had become afraid --of what, she wasn't sure, but the ferocity and intensity of his assault seemed to her a pursuit in which she was only a vehicle. After a while, she had tapped him on the back and said softly, "Hey, I'm here too," and in a moment his eyelids closed and his head dropped to her shoulder. Later, during their subsequent coupling, Hooper had been more gentle, more controlled, less detached. But the fury of the first encounter still lingered disturbingly in Ellen's mind.
Finally, her mind gave in to fatigue, and she fell asleep. Almost instantly, it seemed, she was awakened by a voice that said, "Hey there, are you okay?" She opened her eyes and saw Brody sitting on the end of the bed. She yawned. "What time is it?"
"Almost six."
"Oh-oh. I've got to pick up Sean. Phyllis Santos must be having a fit."
"I got him," said Brody. "I figured I'd better, once I couldn't reach you."
"You tried to reach me?"
"A couple of times. I tried you at the hospital at around two. They said they thought you'd come home."
"That's right. I did. I felt awful. My thyroid pills aren't doing what they should. So
I came home."
"Then I tried to reach you here."
"My, it must have been important."
"No, it was nothing important. If you must know, I was calling to apologize for whatever I did that got you upset last night."
A twinge of shame struck Ellen, but it passed, and she said, "You're sweet, but don't worry. I'd already forgotten about it."
"Oh," said Brody. He waited a moment to see if she was going to say anything else, and when it was clear she wasn't, he said, "So where were you?"
"I told you, here!" The words came out more harshly than she had intended. "I came home and went to bed, and that's where you found me."
"And you didn't hear the phone? It's right there." Brody pointed to the bed table near the other side of the bed.
"No, I ..." She started to say she had turned the phone off, but then she remembered that this particular phone couldn't be turned off all the way. "I took a pill. The moaning of the damned won't wake me after I've taken one of those pills." Brody shook his head. "I really am going to throw those damn things down the john. You're turning into a junkie." He stood and went into the bathroom. Ellen heard him flip up the toilet seat and begin to urinate --a loud, powerful, steady stream that went on and on and on. She smiled. Until today, she had assumed Brody was some kind of urinary freak: he could go for almost a day without urinating. Then, when he did pee, he seemed to pee forever. Long ago, she had concluded that his bladder was the size of a watermelon. Now she knew that huge bladder capacity was simply a male trait. Now, she said to herself, I am a woman of the world.
"Have you heard from Hooper?" Brody called over the noise of the endless stream.
Ellen thought for a moment about her response, then said, "He called this morning, just to say thank you. Why?"
"I tried to get hold of him today, too. Around midday and a couple of times during
the afternoon. The hotel said they didn't know where he was. What time did he call here?"
"Just after you left for work."
"Did he say what he was going to be doing?"
"He said . . . he said he might try to work on the boat, I think. I really don't remember."
"Oh. That's funny."
"What is?"
"I stopped by the dock on my way home. The harbor master said he hadn't seen Hooper all day."
"Maybe he changed his mind."
"He was probably shagging Daisy Wicker in some hotel room." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (73 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt Ellen heard the stream slow, then dwindle into droplets. Then she heard the toilet
flush.