Peter Benchley - Jaws

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 backstreet 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 ichthyologist, 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!”