Peter Benchley - Jaws

“Lighthouse on the point and the water tower in town. They line up different ways depending where you are.”

“You can see them?” Brody strained his eyes, but he saw nothing more distinct than a lump in the line.

“Sure. You could too, if you’d been out here for thirty years.”

Hooper smiled and said, “Do you really think the fish will stay in one place?”

“I don’t know,” said Quint. “But this is where we found him this time, and we didn’t find him anywhere else.”

“And he sure as hell stayed around Amity,” said Brody.

“That’s because he had food,” said Hooper. There was no irony in his voice, no taunt. But the remark was like a needle stabbing into Brody’s brain.

They waited for three more hours, but the fish never returned. The tide slackened, carrying the slick ever slower.

At a little after five, Quint said, “We might as well go in. It’s enough to piss off the Good Humor man.”

“Where do you think he went?” said Brody. The question was rhetorical; he knew there was no answer.

“Anywhere,” said Quint. “When you want ’em, they’re never around. It’s only when you don’t want ’em, and don’t expect ’em, that they show up. Contrary fuckers.”

“And you don’t think we should spend the night, to keep the slick going.”

“No. Like I said, if the slick gets too big, it’s no good. We don’t have any food out here. And last but not least, you’re not paying me for a twenty-four-hour day.”

“If I could get the money, would you do it?”

Quint thought for a moment. “Nope. It’s tempting, though, ’cause I don’t think there’s much chance anything would happen at night. The slick would be big and confusing, and even if he came right up alongside and looked at us, we wouldn’t know he was there unless he took a bite out of us. So it’d be taking your money just to let you sleep on board. But I won’t do it, for two reasons. First off, if the slick did get too big, it would screw us up for the next day. Second, I like to get this boat in at night.”

“I guess I can’t blame you,” said Brody. “Your wife must like it better, too, having you home.”

Quint said flatly, “Got no wife.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I never saw the need for one.” Quint turned and climbed the ladder to the flying bridge.

Ellen was fixing the children’s supper when the doorbell rang. The boys were watching television in the living room, and she called to them, “Would somebody please answer the door?”

She heard the door open, heard some words exchanged, and, a moment later, saw Larry Vaughan standing at the kitchen door. It had been less than two weeks since she had last seen him, yet the change in his appearance was so startling that she couldn’t help staring at him. As always, he was dressed perfectly — a two-button blue blazer, button-down shirt, gray slacks, and Gucci loafers. It was his face that had changed. He had lost weight, and like many people who have no excess on their bodies, Vaughan showed the loss in his face. His eyes had receded in their sockets, and their color seemed to Ellen lighter than normal — a pasty gray. His skin looked gray, too, and appeared to droop at the cheekbones. His lips were moist, and he licked them every few seconds.

Embarrassed when she found herself staring, Ellen lowered her eyes and said, “Larry. Hello.”

“Hello, Ellen. I stopped by to…” Vaughan backed up a few steps and peered into the living room. “First of all, do you suppose I could have a drink?”

“Of course. You know where everything is. Help yourself. I’d get it for you, but my hands are covered with chicken.”

“Don’t be silly. I can find everything.” Vaughan opened the cupboard where the liquor was kept, took out a bottle, and poured a glass full of gin. “As I started to say, I stopped by to say farewell.”

Ellen stopped shuffling pieces of chicken in the frying pan and said, “You’re going away? For how long?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps for good. There’s nothing here for me any more.”

“What about your business?”

“That’s gone. Or it soon will be.”

“What do you mean, gone? A business doesn’t just go away.”

“No, but I won’t own it any more. What few assets there are will belong to my… partners.” He spat the word and then, as if to cleanse his mouth of its unpleasant residue, took a long swallow of gin. “Has Martin told you about our conversation?”

“Yes.” Ellen looked down at the frying pan and stirred the chicken.

“I imagine you don’t think very highly of me any more.”

“It’s not up to me to judge you, Larry.”

“I never wanted to hurt anybody. I hope you believe that.”

“I believe it. How much does Eleanor know?”

“Nothing, poor dear. I want to spare her, if I can. That’s one reason I want to move away. She loves me, you know, and I’d hate to take that love away… from either of us.” Vaughan leaned against the sink. “You know something? Sometimes I think — and I’ve thought this from time to time over the years — that you and I would have made a wonderful couple.”

Ellen reddened. “What do you mean?”

“You’re from a good family. You know all the people I had to fight to get to know. We would have fit together and fit in Amity. You’re lovely and good and strong. You would have been a real asset to me. And I think I could have given you a life you would have loved.”

Ellen smiled. “I’m not as strong as you think, Larry. I don’t know what kind of… asset I would have been.”

“Don’t belittle yourself. I only hope Martin appreciates the treasure he has.” Vaughan finished his drink and put the glass in the sink. “Anyway, no point in dreaming.” He walked across the kitchen, touched Ellen’s shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. “Good-by, dear,” he said. “Think of me once in a while.”

Ellen looked at him. “I will.” She kissed his cheek. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Vermont, maybe, or New Hampshire. I might sell land to the skiing crowd. Who knows? I might even take up the sport myself.”

“Have you told Eleanor?”

“I told her we might be moving. She just smiled and said, ‘Whatever you wish.’”

“Are you leaving soon?”

“As soon as I chat with my lawyers about my… liabilities.”

“Send us a card so we’ll know where you are.”

“I will. Good-by.” Vaughan left the room, and Ellen heard the screen door close behind him.

When she had served the children their supper, Ellen went upstairs and sat on her bed. “A life you would have loved,” Vaughan had said. What would a life with Larry Vaughan have been like? There would have been money, and acceptance. She would never have missed the life she led as a girl, for it would never have ended. There would have been no craving for renewal and self-confidence and confirmation of her femininity, no need for a fling with someone like Hooper.

But no. She might have been driven to it by boredom, like so many of the women who spent their weeks in Amity while their husbands were in New York. Life with Larry Vaughan would have been life without challenge, a life of cheap satisfactions.

As she pondered what Vaughan had said, she began to recognize the richness of her life: a relationship with Brody more rewarding than any Larry Vaughan would ever experience; an amalgam of minor trials and tiny triumphs that, together, added up to something akin to joy. And as her recognition grew, so did a regret that it had taken her so long to see the waste of time and emotion in trying to cling to her past. Suddenly she felt fear — fear that she was growing up too late, that something might happen to Brody before she could savor her awareness. She looked at her watch: 6.20. He should have been home by now. Something has happened to him, she thought. Oh please, God, not him.