Peter Benchley - Jaws

“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 series 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 week night?” 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.”

Brody laughed. “I’d tell you all about it, except it would probably put you to sleep.”

Brody led them into the living room and turned them over to Ellen for introduction to Hooper. He took drink orders — Bourbon on the rocks for Harry, club soda with a twist of lemon for Dorothy, and a gin and tonic for Daisy Wicker. But before he fixed their drinks, he made a fresh one for himself, and he sipped it as he prepared the others. By the time he was ready to return to the living room, he had finished about half his drink, so he poured in a generous splash of rye and a dash more ginger ale.

He took Dorothy’s and Daisy’s drinks first, and returned to the kitchen for Meadows’ and his own. He was taking one last swallow before rejoining the company, when Ellen came into the kitchen.

“Don’t you think you better slow down?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not being exactly gracious.”

“I’m not? I thought I was being charming.”

“Hardly.”

He smiled at her and said, “Tough shit,” and as he spoke, he realized she was right: he had better slow down. He walked into the living room.

The children had gone upstairs. Dorothy Meadows sat on the couch next to Hooper and was chatting with him about his work at Woods Hole. Meadows, in the chair opposite the couch, listened quietly. Daisy Wicker was standing alone, on the other side of the room, by the fireplace, gazing about with a subdued smile on her face. Brody handed Meadows his drink and strolled over next to Daisy.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“Am I? I didn’t notice.”

“Thinking of something funny?”

“No. I guess I was just interested. I’ve never been in a policeman’s house before.”

“What did you expect? Bars on the windows? A guard at the door?”

“No, nothing. I was just curious.”

“And what have you decided? It looks just like a normal person’s house, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so. Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

She took a sip of her drink and said, “Do you like being a policeman?”

Brody couldn’t tell whether or not there was hostility in the question. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a good job, and it has a purpose to it.”

“What’s the purpose?”

“What do you think?” he said, slightly irritated. “To uphold the law.”

“Don’t you feel alienated?”

“Why the hell should I feel alienated? Alienated from what?”

“From the people. I mean, the only thing that justifies your existence is telling people what not to do. Doesn’t that make you feel freaky?”

For a moment, Brody thought he was being put on, but the girl never smiled or smirked or shifted her eyes from his. “No, I don’t feel freaky,” he said. “I don’t see why I should feel any more freaky than you do, working at the whatchamacallit.”

“The Bibelot.”

“Yeah. What do you sell there anyway?”

“We sell people their past. It gives them comfort.”

“What do you mean, their past?”

“Antiques. They’re bought by people who hate their present and need the security of their past. Or if not theirs, someone else’s. Once they buy it, it becomes theirs. I bet that’s important to you, too.”

“What, the past?”

“No, security. Isn’t that supposed to be one of the heavy things about being a cop?”

Brody glanced across the room and noticed that Meadows’ glass was empty. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to tend to the other guests.”

“Sure. Nice talking to you.”

Brody took Meadows’ glass and his own into the kitchen. Ellen was filling a bowl with Tortilla chips.

“Where the hell did you find that girl?” he said. “Under a rock?”

“Who? Daisy? I told you, she works at the Bibelot.”

“Have you ever talked to her?”

“A little. She seems very nice and bright.”

“She’s a spook. She’s just like some of the kids we bust who start smart-mouthing us in the station.” He made a drink for Meadows, then poured another for himself. He looked up and saw Ellen staring at him.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said.

“I guess I don’t like strange people coming into my house and insulting me.”

“Honestly, Martin. I’m sure there was no insult intended. She was probably just being frank. Frankness is in these days, you know.”

“Well, if she gets any franker with me, she’s gonna be out, I’ll tell you that.” He picked up the two drinks and started for the door.

Ellen said, “Martin…” and he stopped. “For my sake… please.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Everything’ll be fine. Like they say in the commercials, calm down .”

He refilled Hooper’s drink and Daisy Wicker’s without refilling his own. Then he sat down and nursed his drink through a long story Meadows was telling Daisy. Brody felt all right — pretty good, in fact — and he knew that if he didn’t have anything more to drink before dinner, he’d be fine.

At 8.30, Ellen brought the soup plates out from the kitchen and set them around the table. “Martin,” she said, “would you open the wine for me while I get everyone seated?”

“Wine?”

“There are three bottles in the kitchen. A white in the icebox and two reds on the counter. You may as well open them all. The reds will need time to breathe.”