Jaws (16 page)

"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 file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (56 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt 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 file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (57 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt 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."

"Of course they will," Brody said as he stood up. "Who doesn't?"

"Oh, and the tire-bouchin is on the counter next to the red."

"The what?"

Daisy Wicker said, "It's tire-bouchon. The corkscrew." Brody took vengeful pleasure in seeing Ellen blush, for it relieved him of some of

his own embarrassment. He found the corkscrew and went to work on the two bottles of red wine. He pulled one cork cleanly, but the other crumbled as he was withdrawing it, and pieces slipped into the bottle. He took the bottle of white out of the refrigerator, and

as he uncorked it he tangled his tongue trying to pronounce the name of the wine: file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (58 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt Montrachet. He arrived at what seemed to him an acceptable pronunciation, wiped the bottle dry with a dish-towel, and took it into the dining room. Ellen was seated at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Hooper was at her left,

Meadows at her right. Next to Meadows, Daisy Wicker, then an empty space for Brody at the far end of the table, and, opposite Daisy, Dorothy Meadows Brody put his left hand behind his back and, standing over Ellen's right shoulder, poured her a glass of wine. "A glass of Mount Ratchet," he said. "Very good year, 1970. I remember it well."

"Enough," said Ellen, tipping the mouth of the bottle up. "Don't fill the glass all

the way."

"Sorry," said Brody, and he filled Meadows' glass next. When he had finished pouring the wine, Brody sat down. He looked at the soup in front of him. Then he glanced furtively around the table and saw that the others were actually eating it: it wasn't a joke. So he took a spoonful. It was cold, and it didn't taste

anything like soup, but it wasn't bad.

"I love gazpacho," said Daisy, "but it's such a pain to make that I don't have it very often."

"Mmmm," said Brody, spooning another mouthful of soup.

"Do you have it very often?"

"No," he said. "Not too often."

"Have you ever tried a G and G?"

"Can't say as I have."

"You ought to try one. Of course, you might not enjoy it since it's breaking the law."

"You mean eating this thing is breaking the law? How? What is it?"

"Grass and gazpacho. Instead of herbs, you sprinkle a little grass over the top. Then you smoke a little, eat a little, smoke a little, eat a little. It's really wild." It was a moment before Brody realized what she was saying, and even when he understood, he didn't answer right away. He tipped his soup bowl toward himself, scooped out the last little bit of soup, drained his wine glass in one draft, and wiped his

mouth with his napkin. He looked at Daisy, who was smiling sweetly at him, and at Ellen, who was smiling at something Hooper was saying.

"It really is," said Daisy.

Brody decided to be low-keyed --avuncular and nonetheless annoyed, but lowkeyed, so as not to upset Ellen. "You know," he said, "I don't find..."

"I bet Matt's tried one."

"Maybe he has. I don't see what that..."

Daisy raised her voice and said, "Matt, excuse me." The conversation at the other end of the table stopped. "I was just curious. Have you ever tried a G and G? By the way, Mrs. Brody, this is terrific gazpacho."

"Thank you," said Ellen. "But what's a G and G?"

"I tried one once," said Hooper. "But I was never really into that."

"You must tell me," Ellen said. "What is it?"

"Matt'll tell you," said Daisy, and just as Brody turned to say something to her, she leaned over to Meadows and said, "Tell me more about the water table." Brody stood up and began to clear away the soup bowls. As he walked into the kitchen, he felt a slight rush of nausea and dizziness, and his forehead was sweating. But

by the time he put the bowls into the sink, the feeling had passed. Ellen followed him into the kitchen and tied an apron around her waist. "I'll need

some help carving," she said.

"Okeydoke," said Brody, and he searched through a drawer for a carving knife and fork. "What did you think of that?"

"Of what?"

"That G and G business. Did Hooper tell you what it is?"

"Yes. That was pretty funny, wasn't it? I must say, it sounds tasty." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (59 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt

"How would you know?"

"You never know what we ladies do when we get together over at the hospital. Here, carve." With a two-tine serving fork, she hefted the lamb onto the carving board.

"Slices about three quarters of an inch thick, if you can, the way you'd slice a steak." That Wicker bitch was right about one thing, Brody thought as he slashed the meat: I sure as shit feel alienated right now. A slab of meat fell away, and Brody said,

"Hey, I thought you said this was lamb."

"It is."

"It isn't even done. Look at that." He held up the piece he had sliced. It was pink

and, toward the middle, almost red.

"That's the way it's supposed to be."

"Not if it's lamb, it isn't. Lamb's supposed to be cooked through, well done."

"Martin, believe me. It's all right to cook a butterfly lamb sort of medium. I promise you."

Brody raised his voice. "I'm not gonna eat raw lamb!"

"Ssshhh! For God's sake. Can't you keep your voice down?" Brody said in a hoarse whisper, "Then put the goddam thing back till it's done."

"It's done!" said Ellen. "If you don't want to eat it, don't eat it, but that's the way

I'm going to serve it."

"Then cut it yourself." Brody dropped the knife and fork on the carving board, picked up the two bottles of red wine, and left the kitchen.

"There'll be a slight delay," he said as he approached the table, "while the cook kills our dinner. She tried to serve it as it was, but it bit her on the leg." He raised a bottle

of wine over one of the clean glasses and said, "I wonder why you're not allowed to serve red wine in the same glass the white wine was."

"The tastes," said Meadows, "don't complement each other."

"What you're saying is, it'll give you gas." Brody flied the six glasses and sat down. He took a sip of wine, said, "Good," then took another sip and another. He refilled his glass.

Ellen came in from the kitchen carrying the carving board. She set it on the sideboard next to a stack of plates. She returned to the kitchen and came back, carrying two vegetable dishes. "I hope it's good," she said. "I haven't tried it before."

"What is it?" asked Dorothy Meadows. "It smells delicious."

"Butterfly lamb. Marinated."

"Really? What's in the marinade?"

"Ginger, soy sauce, a whole bunch of things." She put a thick slice of lamb, some asparagus and summer squash on each plate, and passed the plates to Meadows, who sent them down and around the table.

When everyone had been served and Ellen had sat down, Hooper raised his glass and said, "A toast to the chef."