Beginning on Monday morning—the first day the beaches were closed—Brody had posted two officers on the beaches. Together, they had had seventeen confrontations with people who insisted on swimming. One was with a man named Robert Dexter, who claimed a constitutional right to swim off his own beach and who allowed his dog to terrorize the officer on duty, until the cop pulled his pistol and threatened to shoot the dog. Another dustup took place on the public beach, when a New York lawyer started reading the United States Constitution to a policeman and a multitude of cheering youths.
Still, Brody was convinced that—so far, at least—no one had gone swimming.
On Wednesday, two kids had rented a skiff and rowed about three hundred yards offshore, where they spent an hour ladling blood, chicken guts, and duck heads overboard. A passing fishing boat spotted them and called Brody via the marine operator. Brody called Hooper, and together they went in Flicka and towed the boys to shore. In the skiff the boys had a flying gaff attached to two hundred yards of clothesline, secured to the prow by a square knot. They said they planned to hook the shark with the gaff and go for a “Nantucket sleigh ride.” Brody told them that if they ever tried the stunt again, he’d arrest them for attempted suicide.
There had been four reports of shark sightings. One had turned out to be a floating log. Two, according to the fisherman who followed up the reports, were schools of jumping bait fish. And one, as far as anyone could tell, was a flat nothing.
On Tuesday evening, just at dusk, Brody had received an anonymous phone call telling him that a man was dumping shark bait into the water off the public beach. It turned out to be not a man, but a woman dressed in a man’s raincoat—Jessie Parker, one of the clerks at Walden’s Stationery Store. At first she denied throwing anything into the water, but then she admitted that she had tossed a paper bag into the surf. It contained three empty vermouth bottles.
“Why didn’t you throw them in the garbage?” Brody had asked.
“I didn’t want the garbage man to think I’m a heavy drinker.”
“Then why didn’t you throw them in someone else’s garbage?”
“That wouldn’t be nice,” she said. “Garbage is … sort of private, don’t you think?”
Brody told her that from now on, she should take her empty bottles, put them in a plastic bag, put that bag in a brown paper bag, then smash the bottles with a hammer until they were ground up. Nobody would ever know they had been bottles.
Brody looked at his watch. It was after nine, too late to pay a visit to Sally Gardner. He hoped she was asleep. Maybe Grace Finley had given her a pill or a glass of whiskey to help her rest. Before he left the office, he called the Coast Guard station at Montauk and told the duty officer about Ben Gardner. The officer said he would dispatch a patrol boat at first light to search for the body.
“Thanks,” said Brody. “I hope you find it before it washes up.” Brody was suddenly appalled at himself. “It” was Ben Gardner, a friend. What would Sally say if she heard Brody refer to her husband as “it”? Fifteen years of friendship wiped out, forgotten. There was no more Ben Gardner. There was only an “it” that should be found before it became a gory nuisance.
“We’ll try,” said the officer. “Boy, I feel for you guys. You must be having a hell of a summer.”
“I only hope it isn’t our last,” said Brody. He hung up, turned out the light in his office, and walked out to his car.
As he turned into his driveway, Brody saw the familiar blue-gray light shining from the living room windows. The boys were watching television. He walked through the front door, flipped off the outside light, and poked his head into the dark living room. The oldest boy, Billy, lay on the couch, leaning on an elbow. Martin, the middle son, age twelve, lounged in an easy chair, his shoeless feet propped up on the coffee table. Eight-year-old Sean sat on the floor, his back against the couch, stroking a cat in his lap. “How goes it?” said Brody.
“Good, Dad,” said Bill, without shifting his gaze from the television.
“Where’s your mom?”
“Upstairs. She said to tell you your dinner’s in the kitchen.”
“Okay. Not too late, Sean, huh? It’s almost nine-thirty.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Sean.
Brody went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out a beer. The remains of the pot roast sat on the kitchen table in a roasting pan, surrounded by a scum of congealed gravy. The meat was brownish-gray and stringy. “Dinner?” said Brody to himself. He checked the icebox for sandwich makings. There was some hamburger, a package of chicken legs, a dozen eggs, a jar of pickles, and twelve cans of soda pop. He found a piece of American cheese, dried and curled with age, and he folded it and popped it into his mouth. He debated heating up the pot roast, then said aloud, “The hell with it.” He found two pieces of bread, spread mustard on them, took a carving knife from a magnetic board on the wall, and sliced a thick slab of roast. He dropped the meat on one of the pieces of bread, scattered a few pickles on top of it, covered it with the other piece of bread, and mashed the sandwich down with the heel of his hand. He put it on a plate, picked up his beer, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.
Ellen was sitting up in bed, reading Cosmopolitan. “Hello,” she said. “A tough day? You didn’t say anything on the phone.”
“A tough day. That’s about all we’re having these days. You heard about Ben Gardner? I wasn’t really positive when I talked to you.” He put the plate and the beer on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes.
“Yes. I got a call from Grace Finley asking if I knew where Dr. Craig was. His service wouldn’t say, and Grace wanted to give Sally a sedative.”
“Did you find him?”
“No. But I had one of the boys take some Seconal over to her.”
“What’s Seconal?”
“Sleeping pills.”
“I didn’t know you were taking sleeping pills.”
“I don’t, often. Just every now and then.”
“Where did you get them?”
“From Dr. Craig, when I went to him last time about my nerves. I told you.”
“Oh.” Brody tossed his shoes into a corner, stood up, and took off his trousers, which he folded neatly over the back of a chair. He took off his shirt, put it on a hanger, and hung it in the closet. In T-shirt and undershorts he sat down on the bed and began to eat his sandwich. The meat was dry and flaky. All he could taste was mustard.
“Didn’t you find the roast?” said Ellen.
Brody’s mouth was full, so he nodded.
“What’s that you’re eating, then?”
He swallowed. “The roast.”
“Did you heat it up?”
“No. I don’t mind it like this.”
Ellen made a face and said, “Yech.”
Brody ate in silence, as Ellen aimlessly turned the pages of her magazine. After a few moments, she closed the magazine, put it in her lap, and said, “Oh, dear.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I was just thinking about Ben Gardner. It’s so horrible. What do you think Sally will do?”
“I don’t know,” said Brody. “I worry about her. Have you ever talked money with her?”
“Never. But there can’t be much. I don’t think her children have had new clothes in a year, and she’s always saying that she’d give anything to be able to afford meat more than once a week, instead of having to eat the fish Ben catches. Will she get social security?”
“I’d think so, but it won’t amount to much. There’s welfare.”
“Oh, she couldn’t,” said Ellen.
“You wait. Pride is something she won’t be able to afford. Now there won’t even be fish anymore.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Personally? I don’t see how. We’re not exactly in fat city ourselves. But there may be something the town can do. I’ll talk to Vaughan about it.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“You mean about catching that damn thing? No. Meadows called the oceanographer friend of his down from Woods Hole, so he’s here. Not that I see what good he’s going to do.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s all right, I guess. He’s young, a decent-looking guy. He’s a bit of a know-it-all, but that’s not surprising. He seems to know the area pretty well.”
“Oh? How so?”
“He said he was a summer kid in Southampton. Spent all his summers there.”
“Working?”
“I don’t know, living with the parents probably. He looks to be the type.”
“What type?”
“Rich. Good family. The Southampton summer type. You ought to know it, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t get angry. I was just asking.”
“I’m not angry. I just said you ought to know the type, that’s all. I mean, you’re the type yourself.”
Ellen smiled. “I used to be. But now I’m just an old lady.”
“That’s a crock,” Brody said. “Nine out of ten of the summer broads in this town can’t do what you can for a bathing suit.” He was happy to see her fishing for compliments, and happy to give them to her. This was one of their ritual preludes to sex, and the sight of Ellen in bed made Brody yearn for sex. Her hair hung down to her shoulders on both sides of her head, then tucked inward in a curl. Her nightgown was cut so deeply in front that both her breasts were visible, all but the nipples, and was so diaphanous that Brody was sure he could actually see the dark flesh of the nipples. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned from the bathroom, he was tumescent. He walked to the dresser to turn out the light.
“You know,” Ellen said, “I think we should give the boys tennis lessons.”
“What for? Have they said they want to play tennis?”
“No. Not in so many words. But it’s a good sport for them to know. It will help them when they’re grown up. It’s an entrée.”
“To what?”
“To the people they should know. If you play tennis well, you can walk into a club anywhere and get to know people. Now’s the time they should be learning.”
“Where are they going to get lessons?”
“I was thinking of the Field Club.”
“As far as I know, we’re not members of the Field Club.”
“I think we could get in. I still know a few people who are members. If I asked them, I’ll bet they’d propose us.”
“Forget it.”
“Why?”
“Number one, we can’t afford it. I bet it costs a thousand bucks to join, and then it’s at least a few hundred a year. We haven’t got that kind of money.”
“We have savings.”
“Not for tennis lessons, for Christ’s sake! Come on, let’s drop it.” He reached for the light.
“It would be good for the boys.”
Brody let his hand fall to the top of the dresser. “Look, we’re not tennis people. We wouldn’t feel right there. I wouldn’t feel right there. They don’t want us there.”
“How do you know? We’ve never tried.”
“Just forget it.” He switched off the light, walked over to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in beside Ellen. “Besides,” he said, nuzzling her neck, “there’s another sport I’m better at.”
“The boys are awake.”
“They’re watching television. They wouldn’t know it if a bomb went off up here.” He kissed her neck and began to rub his hand in circles on her stomach, moving higher with each rotation.
Ellen yawned. “I’m so sleepy,” she said. “I took a pill before you came home.”
Brody stopped rubbing. “What the hell for?”
“I didn’t sleep well last night, and I didn’t want to wake up if you came home late. So I took a pill.”
“I’m going to throw those goddam pills away.” He kissed her cheek, then tried to kiss her mouth but caught her in mid-yawn.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid it won’t work.”
“It’ll work. All you have to do is help a little.”
“I’m so tired. But you go ahead if you want. I’ll try to stay awake.”
“Shit,” said Brody. He rolled back to his side of the bed. “I’m not very big on screwing corpses.”
“That was uncalled for.”
Brody didn’t reply. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and feeling his erection dwindle. But the pressure inside him was still there, a dull ache in his groin.
A moment later, Ellen said, “What’s Harry Meadows’ friend’s name?”
“Hooper.”
“Not David Hooper.”
“No, I think his name is Matt.”
“Oh. I went out with a David Hooper a long, long time ago. I remember …” Before she could finish the sentence, her eyes shut, and soon she slipped into the deep breathing of sleep.
A few blocks away, in a small clapboard house, a black man sat at the foot of his son’s bed. “What story do you want to read?” he said.
“I don’t want to read a story,” said the boy, who was seven. “I want to tell a story.”
“Okay. What’ll we tell one about?”
“A shark. Let’s tell one about a shark.”
The man winced. “No. Let’s tell one about … a bear.”
“No, a shark. I want to know about sharks.”
“You mean a once-upon-a-time story?”
“Sure. Like, you know, once upon a time there was a shark that ate people.”
“That’s not a very nice story.”
“Why do sharks eat people?”
“I guess they get hungry. I don’t know.”
“Do you bleed if a shark eats you?”
“Yes,” said the man. “Come on. Let’s tell a story about another kind of animal. You’ll have nightmares if we tell about a shark.”
“No, I won’t. If a shark tried to eat me, I’d punch him in the nose.”
“No shark is going to try to eat you.”
“Why not? If I go swimming I bet one would. Don’t sharks eat black people?”
“Now stop it! I don’t want to hear any more about sharks.” The man lifted a pile of books from the bedside table. “Here. Let’s read Peter Pan.”
PART
TWO
6
On her way home Friday noon, after a morning of volunteer work at the Southampton Hospital, Ellen stopped at the post office to buy a roll of stamps and get the mail. There was no home mail delivery in Amity. In theory, only special delivery mail was brought to the door—any door within a mile radius of the post office; in fact, even special delivery mail (except that clearly labeled as sent by the Federal Government) was kept at the post office until someone called for it.
The post office was a small, square building on Teal Street, just off Main. It had 500 mailboxes, 340 of which were rented to Amity’s permanent residents. The other 160 were allotted to summer people, according to the whims of the postmistress, Minnie Eldridge. Those people she liked were permitted to rent boxes for the summer. Those she didn’t like had to wait in line at the counter. Since she refused to rent a box to any summer person on a year-round basis, summer people never knew from one year to the next whether or not they would have a mailbox when they arrived in June.
It was generally assumed that Minnie Eldridge was in her early seventies, and that she had somehow convinced the authorities in Washington that she was well under compulsory retirement age. She was small and frail-looking, but deceptively strong, able to hustle packages and cartons nearly as quickly as the two young men who worked in the post office with her. She never spoke about her past or her private life. The only common knowledge about her was that she had been born on Nantucket Island and had left sometime soon after World War I. She had been in Amity for as long as anyone living could remember, and she considered herself not only a native, but also the resident expert on the history of
the town. She needed no prodding at all to embark on a discourse about Amity’s eponym, a seventeenth-century woman named Amity Hopewell who had been convicted of witchcraft, and she took pleasure in reciting the list of major events in the town’s past: the landing of some British troops during the Revolution in an ill-fated attempt to outflank a Colonial force (the Britons lost their way and wandered aimlessly back and forth across Long Island); the fire in 1823 that destroyed every building except the town’s only church; the wreck of a rum-running ship in 1921 (the ship was eventually refloated, but by then all the cargo off-loaded to make the ship lighter had vanished); the hurricane of 1938, and the widely reported (though never fully ascertained) landing of three German spies on the Scotch Road beach in 1942.
Ellen and Minnie made each other nervous. Ellen sensed that Minnie didn’t like her, and she was right. Minnie felt uneasy with Ellen because she couldn’t catalogue her. Ellen was neither summer folk nor winter folk. She hadn’t earned her year-round mailbox, she had married it.
Minnie was alone in the post office, sorting mail, when Ellen arrived.
“Morning, Minnie,” Ellen said.
Minnie looked up at the clock over the counter and said, “Afternoon.”
“Could I have a roll of eights, please?” Ellen put a five-dollar bill and three ones on the counter.
Minnie pushed a few more letters into boxes, set down her bundle, and walked to the counter. She gave Ellen a roll of stamps and dropped the bills into a drawer. “What’s Martin think he’s going to do about that shark?” she said.
“I don’t know. I guess they’ll try to catch it.”
“Canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Book of Job,” said Minnie. “No mortal man’s going to catch that fish.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We’re not meant to catch it, that’s why. We’re being readied.”