Peter Benchley - Jaws

“All alone. It’s just me and about a hundred million dollars’ worth of stereo equipment and a million books. Hey, do you still dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yeah. I just remembered. One of the things David used to say was that you were the best dancer he ever went out with. You won a contest, didn’t you?”

The past — like a bird long locked in a cage and suddenly released — was flying at her, swirling around her head, showering her with longing. “A samba contest,” she said. “At the Beach Club. I’d forgotten. No, I don’t dance any more. Martin doesn’t dance, and even if he did, I don’t think anyone plays that kind of music any more.”

“That’s too bad. David said you were terrific.”

“That was a wonderful night,” Ellen said, letting her mind float back, picking out the tiny memories. “It was a Lester Lanin band. The Beach Club was covered with crepe paper and balloons. David wore his favorite jacket — red silk.”

“I have it now,” said Hooper. “I inherited that from him .”

“They played all those wonderful songs. ‘Mountain Greenery’ was one. He could two-step so well. I could barely keep up with him. The only thing he wouldn’t do was waltz. He said waltzes made him dizzy. Everybody was so tan. I don’t think there was any rain all summer long. I remember I chose a yellow dress for that night because it went with my tan. There were two contests, a charleston that Susie Kendall and Chip Fogarty won. And the samba contest. They played ‘Brazil’ in the finals, and we danced as if our lives depended on it. Bending sideways and backward like crazy people. I thought I was going to collapse when it was over. You know what we won for first prize? A canned chicken. I kept it in my room until it got so old it began to swell and Daddy made me throw it away.”

Ellen smiled. “Those were fun times. I try not to think about them too much.”

“Why?”

“The past always seems better when you look back on it than it did at the time. And the present never looks as good as it will in the future. It’s depressing if you spend too much time reliving old joys. You think you’ll never have anything as good again.”

“It’s easy for me to keep my mind off the past.”

“Really? Why?”

“It just wasn’t too great, that’s all. David was the firstborn. I was pretty much of an afterthought. I think my purpose in life was to keep the parents’ marriage together. And I failed. That’s pretty crummy when you fail at the first thing you’re supposed to accomplish. David was twenty when the parents got divorced. I wasn’t even eleven. And the divorce wasn’t exactly amiable. The few years before it weren’t too amiable, either. It’s the old story — nothing special — but it wasn’t a lot of fun. I probably make too much of it. Anyway, I look forward to a lot of things. I don’t look back a lot.”

“I suppose that’s healthier.”

“I don’t know. Maybe if I had a terrific past, I’d spend all my time living in it. But… enough of that. I should get down to the dock. You’re sure I can’t drop you anywhere.”

“Positive, thank you. My car’s just across the street.”

“Okay. Well…” Hooper held out his hand. “It’s been really great to see you again, and I hope I’ll see you before I go.”

“I’d like that,” said Ellen, shaking his hand.

“I don’t suppose I could get you out on a tennis court late some afternoon.”

Ellen laughed. “Oh my. I haven’t held a tennis racket in my hand since I can’t remember when. But thanks for asking.”

“Okay. Well, see you.” Hooper turned and trotted the few yards down the block to his car, a green Ford Pinto.

Ellen stood and watched as Hooper started the car, maneuvered out of the parking space, and pulled out into the street. As he drove past her, she raised her hand to her shoulder and waved, tentatively, shyly. Hooper stuck his left hand out of the car window and waved. Then he turned the corner and was gone.

A terrible, painful sadness clutched at Ellen. More than ever before, she felt that her life — the best part of it, at least, the part that was fresh and fun — was behind her. Recognizing the sensation made her feel guilty, for she read it as proof that she was an unsatisfactory mother, an unsatisfied wife. She hated her life, and hated herself for hating it. She thought of a line from a song Billy played on the stereo: “I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday.” Would she make a deal like that? She wondered. But what good was there in wondering? Yesterdays were gone, spinning ever farther away down a shaft that had no bottom. None of the richness, none of the delight, could ever be retrieved.

A vision of Hooper’s smiling face flashed across her mind. Forget it, she told herself. That’s stupid. Worse. It’s self-defeating.

She walked across the street and climbed into her car. As she pulled out into the traffic, she saw Larry Vaughan standing on the corner. God, she thought, he looks as sad as I feel.

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 swimming — 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 realestate 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.

“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?”