Jaws

  “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’ 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 thing for Hooper.”

  There was a pause before Ellen said, “If you think so.”

  “I don’t really care. I just thought he 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 lift 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 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 doorbell 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 wear 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 icthyologist, 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.”

  “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 se
ries 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 drink. Anybody else ready?”

  “On a weeknight?” 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.”