Peter Benchley - Jaws

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 any more.”

“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 that 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 gown-up. It’s an entree.”

“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 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?”