Jaws (18 page)

and hope to get anything done."

"Oh." She paused, fighting the dizziness that was creeping up on her. Go ahead, she told herself. Ask the question. "I was wondering..." No, be careful; ease into it. "I wanted to thank you for the beautiful charm."

"You're welcome. I'm glad you like it. But I should be thanking you. I had a good time last night."

"I did... we did, too. I'm glad you came."

"Yes."

"It was like old times."

"Yes."

Now, she said to herself. Do it. The words spilled from her mouth. "I was wondering, if you can't do any work today, I mean if you can't go out in the boat or anything, I was wondering if... if there was any chance you'd like to... if you're free for

lunch."

"Lunch?"

"Yes. You know, if you have nothing else to do, I thought we might have some lunch."

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

"We? You mean you and the chief and me?"

"No, just you and I. Martin usually has lunch at his desk. I don't want to interfere

with your plans or anything. I mean, if you've got a lot of work to do..."

"No, no. That's okay. Heck, why not? Sure. What did you have in mind?"

"There's a wonderful place up in Sag Harbor. Banner's. Do you know it?" She hoped he didn't. She didn't know it, either, which meant that no one there would know her. But she had heard that it was good and quiet and dark.

"No, I've never been there," said Hooper. "But Sag Harbor. That's quite a hike for

lunch."

"It's not bad, really, only about fifteen or twenty minutes. I could meet you there

whenever you like."

"Any time's all right with me."

"Around twelve-thirty, then?"

"Twelve-thirty it is. See you then."

Ellen hung up the phone. Her hands were still shaking, but she felt elated, excited.

Her senses seemed alive and incredibly keen. Every time she drew a breath she savored the smells around her. Her ears jingled with a symphony of tiny house sounds --creaks and rustles and thumps. She felt more intensely feminine than she had in years --a warm, wet feeling both delicious and uncomfortable.

She went into the bathroom and took a shower. She shaved her legs and under her arms. She wished she had bought one of those feminine hygiene deodorants she had seen advertised, but, lacking that, she powdered herself and daubed cologne behind her ears, inside her elbows, behind her knees, on her nipples, and on her genitals. There was a full-length mirror in the bedroom, and she stood before it, examining herself. Were the goods good enough? Would the offering be accepted? She had worked to keep in shape, to preserve the smoothness and sinuousness of youth. She could not bear the thought of rejection.

The goods were good. The lines in her neck were few and barely noticeable. Her face was unblemished and unscarred. There were no droops or sags or pouches. She stood straight and admired the contours of her breasts. Her waist was slim, her belly flat -the reward for endless hours of exercise after each child. The only problem, as she assessed her body critically, was her hips. By no stretch of anyone's imagination were they girlish.

They signaled motherhood. They were, as Brody once said, breeder's hips. The recollection brought a quick flash of remorse, but excitement quickly nudged it aside. Her

legs were long and --below the pad of fat on her rear --slender. Her ankles were delicate,

and her feet --with the toenails nearly pruned --were perfect enough to suit any pediphile.

She dressed in her hospital clothes. From the back of her closet she took a plastic

shopping bag into which she put a pair of bikini underpants, a bra, a neatly folded lavender summer dress, a pair of low-heeled pumps, a can of spray deodorant, a plastic bottle of bath powder, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. She carried the bag to the garage, tossed it into the back seat of her Volkswagen beetle, backed out of the driveway,

and drove to the Southampton Hospital.

The dull drive increased the fatigue she had been feeling for hours. She had not slept all night. She had first lain in bed, then sat by the window, struggling with all the

twistings of emotion and conscience, desire and regret, longing and recrimination. She didn't know exactly when she had decided on this manifestly rash, dangerous plan. She had been thinking about it --and trying not to think about it --since the day she first met

Hooper. She had weighed the risks and, somehow, calculated that they were worth file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (65 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt taking, though she was not entirely sure what she could gain from the adventure. She knew she wanted change, almost any change. She wanted to be assured and reassured that she was desirable --not just to her husband, for she had grown complacent about that, but

to the people she saw as her real peers, the people among whom she still numbered herself. She felt that without some remedy, the part of herself that she most cherished would die. Perhaps the past could never be revived. But perhaps it could be recalled physically as well as mentally. She wanted an injection, a transfusion of the essence of her past, and she saw Matt Hooper as the only possible donor. The thought of love never entered her mind. Nor did she want or anticipate a relationship either profound or enduring. She sought only to be serviced, restored.

She was grateful that the work assigned her when she arrived at the hospital demanded concentration and conversation, for it prevented her from thinking. She and another volunteer changed the bedding of the elderly patients for whom the hospital community was a surrogate --and, in some cases, final --home. She had to remember the names of children in distant cities, had to fashion new excuses for why they hadn't written. She had to feign recollection of the plots of television shows and speculate on why such-and-such a character had left his wife for a woman who was patently an adventuress.

At 11:45, Ellen told the supervisor of volunteers that she didn't feel well. Her thyroid was acting up again, she said, and she was getting her period. She thought she'd go lie down for a while in the staff lounge. And if a nap didn't help, she said, she'd probably go home. In fact, if she wasn't back on the job by 1:30 or so, the supervisor could assume she had gone home. It was an explanation that she hoped was vague enough to discourage anyone from actively looking for her.

She went into the lounge, counted to twenty, and opened the door a crack to see if

the corridor was empty. It was; most of the staff were in, or on their way to, the cafeteria

on the other side of the building. She stepped into the corridor, closed the door softly behind her, and hurried around a corner and out a side door of the hospital that led to the

staff parking lot.

She drove most of the way to Sag Harbor, then stopped at a gas station. When the tank was full and the gas paid for, she asked to use the ladies' room. The attendant gave her the key, and she pulled her car around to the side of the station, next to the ladies'

room door. She opened the door, but before going into the ladies' room she returned the key to the attendant. She walked to her car, removed the plastic bag from the back seat, entered the ladies' room, and pushed the button that locked the door. She stripped, and standing on the cold floor in her bare feet, looking at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she felt a thrill of risk. She sprayed deodorant under her arms and on her feet. She took the clean underpants from the plastic bag and stepped into them. She shook a little powder into each cup of the bra and put it on. She took the dress from the bag, unfolded it, checked it for wrinkles, and slipped it over her

head. She poured powder into each of her shoes, brushed off the bottom of each foot with a paper towel, and put on the shoes. Then she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, stuffed her hospital clothes into the plastic bag, and opened the door. She looked both ways, saw that no one was watching her, then stepped out of the ladies' room, tossed the bag into the car, and got in.

As she drove out of the gas station, she hunched down in her seat so the attendant,

if he should chance to notice her, would not see that she had changed clothes. It was 12:20 when she arrived at Banner's, a small steak-and-seafood restaurant on the water in Sag Harbor. The parking lot was in the rear, for which she was grateful. On the off-chance that someone she knew might drive down the street in Sag Harbor, she didn't want her car in plain view.

One reason she had picked Banner's was that it was known as a favorite nighttime restaurant for yachtsmen and summer people, which meant that it probably had little luncheon trade. And it was expensive, which made it almost certain that no year-round file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (66 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt residents, no local tradesmen, would go there for lunch. Ellen checked her wallet. She had nearly fifty dollars --all the emergency cash she and Brody kept in the house. She made a mental note of the bills: a twenty, two tens, a five, and three ones. She wanted to

replace exactly what she had taken from the coffee can in the kitchen closet. There were two other cars in the parking lot, a Chevrolet Vega and a bigger car, tan. She remembered that Hooper's car was green and that it was named after some animal. She left her car and walked into the restaurant, holding her hands over her head to

protect her hair from the light rain.

The restaurant was dark, but because the day was gloomy it took her eyes only a few seconds to adjust. There was only one room, with a bar on the right as she walked in and about twenty tables in the center. The left-hand wall was lined with eight booths. The walls were dark wood, decorated with bullfight and movie posters. A couple --in their late twenties, Ellen guessed --was having a drink at a table by

the window. The bartender, a young man with a Vandyke beard and a button-down shirt, sat by the cash register reading the New York Daily News. They were the only people in the room. Ellen looked at her watch. Almost 12:30.

The bartender looked up and said, "Hi. Can I help you?" Ellen stepped to the bar. "Yes... yes. In a minute. But first I'd like... can you tell

me where the ladies' room is?"

"End of the bar, turn right. First door on your left."

"Thank you." Ellen walked quickly down the length of the bar, turned right, and went into the ladies' room.

She stood in front of the mirror and held out her right hand. It trembled, and she

clenched it into a fist. Calm down, she said to herself. You have to calm down or it's no use. It's lost. She felt that she was sweating, but when she put a hand inside her dress and

felt her armpit, it was dry. She combed her hair and surveyed her teeth. She remembered something a boy she had once gone out with had said: Nothing turns my stomach faster than seeing a girl with a big piece of crud between her teeth. She looked at her watch: 12:35.

She went back into the restaurant and looked around. Just the same couple, the bartender, and a waitress standing at the bar, folding napkins. The waitress saw Ellen come around the corner of the bar, and she said, "Hello. May I help you?"

"Yes. I'd like a table, please. For lunch."

"For one?"

"No. Two."

"Fine," said the waitress. She put down a napkin, picked up a pad, and walked Ellen to a table in the middle of the room. "Is this all right?"

"No. I mean, yes. It's fine. But I'd like to have that table in the corner booth, if you

don't mind."

"Sure," said the waitress. "Any table you like. We're not exactly full." She led Ellen to the table, and Ellen slipped into the booth with her back to the door. Hooper would be able to find her. If he came. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes. A gin and tonic, please." When the waitress left the table, Ellen smiled. It

was the first time since her wedding that she had had a drink during the day. The waitress brought the drink, and Ellen drank half of it immediately, eager to feel the relaxing warmth of alcohol. Every few seconds, she checked the door and looked at her watch. He's not going to come, she thought. It was almost 12:45. He got cold feet. He's scared of Martin. Maybe he's scared of me. What will I do if he doesn't come? I guess I'll have some lunch and go back to work. He's got to come! He can't do this to me.

"Hello."

The word startled Ellen. She hopped in her seat and said, "Oh!" Hooper slid into the seat opposite her and said, "I didn't mean to scare you. And file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (67 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt I'm sorry I'm late. I had to stop for gas, and the station was jammed. The traffic was terrible. And so much for my excuses. I should have left more time. I am sorry." He looked into her eyes and smiled.

She looked down at her glass. "You don't have to apologize. I was late myself." The waitress came to the table. "Can I get you a drink?" she said to Hooper. He noticed Ellen's glass and said, "Oh, sure, I guess so. If you are. I'll have a gin

and tonic."

"I'll have another one," said Ellen. "This one's almost finished." The waitress left, and Hooper said, "I don't normally drink at lunch."

"Neither do I."

"After about three drinks I say stupid things. I never did hold my liquor very well."

Ellen nodded. "I know the feeling. I tend to get sort of..."

"Impetuous? So do I."

"Really? I can't imagine you getting impetuous. I thought scientists weren't ever impetuous."