Jaws (19 page)

Hooper smiled and said histrionically, "It may seem, madam, that we are wed to our test tubes. But beneath the icy exteriors there beat the hearts of some of the most brazen, raunchy people in the world."

Ellen laughed. The waitress brought the drinks and left two menus on the edge of the table. They talked --chatted, really --about old times, about people they had known and what those people were doing now, about Hooper's ambitions in ichthyology. They never mentioned the shark or Brody or Ellen's children. It was an easy, rambling conversation, which suited Ellen. Her second drink loosened her up, and she felt happy and in command of herself.

She wanted Hooper to have another drink, and she knew he was not likely to take the initiative and order one. She picked up one of the menus, hoping that the waitress would notice the movement, and said, "Let me see. What looks good?" Hooper picked up the other menu and began to read, and after a minute or two, the waitress strolled over to the table. "Are you ready to order?"

"Not quite yet," said Ellen. "It all looks good. Are you ready, Matthew?"

"Not quite," said Hooper.

"Why don't we have one more drink while we're looking?"

"Both?" said the waitress.

Hooper seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he nodded his head and said, "Sure. A special occasion."

They sat in silence, reading the menus. Ellen tried to assess how she felt. Three drinks would be a fairly heavy load for her to carry, and she wanted to make sure she didn't get fuzzy-headed or fuzzy-tongued. What was that saying, about alcohol increasing the desire but taking away from the performance? But that's just with men, she thought. I'm glad I don't have to worry about that. But what about him? Suppose he can't... Is there

anything I can do? But that's silly. Not on two drinks. It must take five or six or seven. A

man has to be incapacitated. But not if he's scared. Does he look scared? She peeked over the top of her menu and looked at Hooper. He didn't look nervous. If anything, he looked slightly perplexed.

"What's the matter?" she said.

He looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Your eyebrows were all scrunched up. You looked confused."

"Oh, nothing. I was just looking at the scallops, or what they claim are scallops.

The chances are they're flounder, cut up with a cookie cutter." The waitress brought their drinks and said, "Ready?"

"Yes," said Ellen. "I'll have the shrimp cocktail and the chicken."

"What kind of dressing would you like on your salad? We have French, Roquefort, Thousand Island, and oil and vinegar."

"Roquefort, please."

Hooper said, "Are these really bay scallops?"

"I guess so," said the waitress. "If that's what it says." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (68 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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

"All right. I'll have the scallops, and French dressing on the salad."

"Anything to start?"

"No," said Hooper, raising his glass. "This'll be fine." In a few minutes, the waitress brought Ellen's shrimp cocktail. When she had left,

Ellen said, "Do you know what I'd love? Some wine."

"That's a very interesting idea," Hooper said, looking at her. "But remember what I said about impetuousness. I may become irresponsible."

"I'm not worried." As Ellen spoke, she felt a blush crawl up her cheeks.

"Okay, but first I better check the treasury." He reached in his back pocket for his

wallet.

"Oh no. This is my treat."

"Don't be silly."

"No, really. I asked you to lunch." She began to panic. It had never occurred to her that he might insist on paying. She didn't want to annoy him by sticking him with a big bill. On the other hand, she didn't want to seem patronizing, to offend his virility.

"I know," he said. "But I'd like to take you to lunch." Was this a gambit? She couldn't tell. If it was, she didn't want to refuse it, but if he

was just being polite...

"You're sweet," she said, "but..."

"I'm serious. Please."

She looked down and toyed with the one shrimp remaining on her plate. "Well ..."

"I know you're only being thoughtful," Hooper said, "but don't be. Didn't David ever tell you about our grandfather?"

"Not that I remember. What about him?"

"Old Matt was known --and not very affectionately --as the Bandit. If he was

alive today, I'd probably be at the head of the pack calling for his scalp. But he isn't, so all

I had to worry about was whether to keep the bundle of money he left me or give it away. It wasn't a very difficult moral dilemma. I figure I can spend it as well as anyone I'd give

it to."

"Does David have a lot of money, too?"

"Yes. That's one of the things about him that's always baffled me. He's got enough

to support himself and any number of wives for life. So why did he settle on a meatball for a second wife? Because she has more money than he does. I don't know. Maybe money doesn't feel comfortable unless it's married to money."

"What did your grandfather do?"

"Railroads and mining. Technically, that is. Basically, he was a robber baron. At one point he owned most of Denver. He was the landlord of the whole red-light district."

"That must have been profitable."

"Not as much as you'd think," Hooper said with a laugh. "From what I hear, he liked to collect his rent in trade."

That might be a gambit, Ellen thought. What should she say? "That's supposed to be every schoolgirl's fantasy," she ventured playfully.

"What is?"

"To be a... you know, a prostitute. To sleep with a whole lot of different men."

"Was it yours?"

Ellen laughed, hoping to cover her blush. "I don't remember if it was exactly that," she said. "But I guess we all have fantasies of one kind or another." Hooper smiled and leaned back in his chair. He called the waitress over and said,

"Bring us a bottle of cold Chablis, would you please?" Something's happened, Ellen thought. She wondered if he could sense --smell?

like an animal? --the invitation she had extended. Whatever it was, he had taken the offensive. All she had to do was avoid discouraging him.

The food came, followed a moment later by the wine. Hooper's scallops were the size of marshmallows. "Flounder," he said after the waitress had left. "I should have file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (69 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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

"How can you tell?" Ellen asked. Immediately she wished she hadn't said anything. She didn't want to let the conversation drift.

"They're too big, for one thing. And the edges are too perfect. They were obviously cut."

"I suppose you could send them back." She hoped he wouldn't; a quarrel with the waitress could spoil their mood.

"I might," said Hooper, and he grinned at Ellen. "Under different circumstances." He poured Ellen a glass of wine, then filled his own and raised it for a toast. "To fantasies," he said. "Tell me about yours." His eyes were a bright, liquid blue, and his lips

were parted in a half smile.

Ellen laughed. "Oh, mine aren't very interesting. I imagine they're just your old run-of-the-mill fantasies."

"There's no such thing," said Hooper. "Tell me." He was asking, not demanding, but Ellen felt that the game she had started demanded that she answer.

"Oh, you know," she said. Her stomach felt warm, and the back of her neck was hot. "Just the standard things. Rape, I guess, is one."

"How does it happen?"

She tried to think, and she remembered the times when, alone, she would let her mind wander and conjure the carnal images. Usually she was in bed, often with her husband asleep beside her. Sometimes she found that, without knowing it, she had been rubbing her hand over her vagina, caressing herself.

"Different ways," she said.

"Name one."

"Sometimes I'm in the kitchen in the morning, after everybody has left, and a workman from one of the houses next door comes to my back door. He wants to use the phone or have a glass of water." She stopped.

"And then?"

"I let him in the door and he threatens to kill me if I don't do what he wants."

"Does he hurt you?"

"Oh no. I mean, he doesn't stab me or anything."

"Does he hit you?"

"No. He just... rapes me."

"Is it fun?"

"Not at first. It's scary. But then, after a while, when he's..."

"When he's got you all... ready."

Ellen's eyes moved to his, reading the remark for humor, irony, or cruelty. She saw none. Hooper ran his tongue over his lips and leaned forward until his face was only a foot or so from hers.

Ellen thought: The door's open now; all you have to do is walk through it. She said, "Yes."

"Then it's fun."

"Yes." She shifted in her seat, for the recollection was becoming physical.

"Do you ever have an orgasm?"

"Sometimes," she said. "Not always."

"Is he big?"

"Tall? Not..." They had been speaking very softly, and now Hooper lowered his voice to a whisper. "I don't mean tall. Is he... you know... big?"

"Usually," said Ellen, and she chuckled. "Huge."

"Is he black?"

"No. I've heard that some women have fantasies about being raped by black men, but I never have."

"Tell me another one."

"Oh no," she said, laughing. "Now it's your turn." They heard footsteps and turned to see the waitress approaching their table. "Is everything all right?" she said.

"Fine," Hooper said curtly. "Everything's fine." The waitress left. Ellen whispered, "Do you think she heard?" Hooper leaned forward. "Not a chance. Now tell me another one." It's going to happen, Ellen thought, and she felt suddenly nervous. She wanted to file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (70 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt tell him why she was behaving this way, to explain that she didn't do this all the time. He

probably thinks I'm a whore. Forget it. Don't get sappy or you'll ruin it. "No," she said with a smile. "It's your turn."

"Mine are usually orgies," he said. "Or at least threesies."

"What are threesies?"

"Three people. Me and two girls."

"Greedy. What do you do?"

"It varies. Everything imaginable."

"Are you... big?" she said.

"Bigger every minute. What about you?"

"I don't know. Compared to what?"

"To other women. Some women have really tight ones." Ellen giggled. "You sound like a comparison-shopper."

"Just a conscientious consumer."

"I don't know how I am," she said. "I haven't anything to compare it to." She looked down at her half-eaten chicken, and she laughed.

"What's funny?', he asked.

"I was just wondering," she said, and her laughter built. "I was just wondering if --oh, Lord, I'm getting a pain in my side --if chickens have..."

"Of course!" said Hooper. "But talk about a tightie!" They laughed together, and when the laughter faded, Ellen impulsively said,

"Let's make a fantasy."

"Okay. How do you want to start?"

"What would you do to me if we were going to... you know."

"That's a very interesting question," be said with mock gravity. "Before considering the what, however, we'd have to consider the where. I suppose there's always my room."

"Too dangerous. Everybody knows me at the Abelard. Anywhere in Amity would be too dangerous."

"What about your house?"

"Lord, no. Suppose one of my children came home. Besides..."

"I know. No desecrating the conjugal sheets. Okay, where else?"

"There must be motels between here and Montauk. Or even better, between here and Orient Point."

"Fair enough. Even if there's not, there's always the car."

"In broad daylight? You do have wild fantasies."

"In fantasies, anything is possible."

"All right. That's settled. So what would you do?"

"I think we should proceed chronologically. First of all, we'd leave here in one car. Probably mine, because it's least known. And we'd come back later to pick up yours."

"Okay."

"Then while we were driving along... no, even before that, before we left here, I'd

send you into the ladies' room and tell you to take off your panties."

"Why?"

"So I could... explore you while we're on the road. Just to keep the motors running."

"I see," she said, trying to seem matter-of-fact. She felt hot, flushed, and sensed

that her mind was floating somewhere apart from her body. She was a third person listening to the conversation. She had to fight to keep from shifting on the Leatherette bench. She wanted to squirm back and forth, to move her thighs up and down. But she was afraid of leaving a stain on the seat.

"Then," said Hooper, "while we were driving along, you might be sitting on my right hand and I'd be giving you a massage. Maybe I'd have my fly open. Maybe not, though, because you might get ideas, which would undoubtedly cause me to lose control, and that would probably cause a massive accident that would leave us both dead." Ellen started to giggle again, imagining the sight of Hooper lying by the side of the road, stiff as a flagpole, and herself lying next to him, her dress bunched up around file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (71 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt her waist and her vagina yawning open, glistening wet, for the world to see.

"We'd try to find a motel," said Hooper, "where the rooms are either in separate cabins or at least not butted fight up against each other, wall to wall."

"Why?"

"Noise. The walls are usually made of Kleenex and spit, and we wouldn't want to be inhibited by the thought of a shoe salesman in the next room pressing his ear to the wall and getting his kicks listening to us."