Jaws

by Peter Benchley

  “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 people, 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 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.”

  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 icthyology. 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.”

  “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 giv
e 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 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 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,” he 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 lat
er 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 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 right 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.”

  “Suppose you couldn’t find a motel like that.”

  “We would,” said Hooper. “As I said, in a fantasy anything is possible.”

  Why does he keep saying that? Ellen thought. He can’t really be playing a word game, working up a fantasy he has no intention of fulfilling. Her mind scrambled for a question to keep the conversation alive. “What name would you register us under?”

  “Ah yes. I’d forgotten. These days I can’t conceive of anyone getting uptight about something like this, but you’re right: we should have a name, just in case we ran into an old-fashioned innkeeper. How about Mr. and Mrs. Al Kinsey. We could say we were on an extended field trip for research.”