Jaws Read online

  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 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: 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 litt
le. 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 low-keyed, 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.”

  “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 filled 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.”

  The others raised their glasses, and Brody said, “Good luck.”

  Meadows took a bite of meat, chewed it, savored it, and said, “Fantastic. It’s like the tenderest of sirloins, only better. What a splendid flavor.”

  “Coming from you, Harry,” said Ellen, “that’s a special compliment.”

  “It’s delicious,” said Dorothy. “Will you promise to give me the recipe? Harry will never forgive me if I don’t give this to him at least once a week.”

  “He better rob a bank,” said Brody.

  “But it is delicious, Martin, don’t you think?”

  Brody didn’t answer. He had started to chew a piece of meat when another wave of nausea hit him. Once again sweat popped out on his forehead. He felt detached, as if his body were controlled by someone else. He sensed panic at the loss of motor control. His fork felt heavy, and for a moment he feared it might slip from his fingers and clatter onto the table. He gripped it with his fist and held on. He was sure his tongue wouldn’t behave if he tried to speak. It was the wine. It had to be the wine. With greatly exaggerated precision, he reached forward to push his wine glass away from him. He slid his fingers along the tablecloth to minimize the chances of knocking over the glass. He sat back and took a deep breath. His vision blurred. He tried to focus his eyes on a painting above Ellen’s head, but he was distracted by the image of Ellen talking to Hooper. Every time she spoke she touched Hooper’s arm—lightly, but, Brody thought, intimately, as if they were sharing secrets. He didn’t hear what anyone was saying. The last thing he remembered hearing was, “Don’t you think?” How long ago was that? Who had said it? He didn’t know. He looked at Meadows, who was talking to Daisy. Then he looked at Dorothy and said thickly, “Yes.”

  “What did you say, Martin?” She looked up at him. “Did you say something?”

  He couldn’t speak. He wanted to stand and walk out to the kitchen, but he didn’t trust his legs. He’d never make it without holding on to something. Just sit still, he told himself. It’ll pass.

  And it did. His head began to clear. Ellen was touching Hooper again. Talk and touch, talk and touch. “Boy, it’s hot,” he said. He stood up and walked, carefully but steadily, to a window and tugged it open. He leaned on the sill and pressed his face against the screen. “Nice night,” he said. He straightened up. “I think I’ll get a glass of water.” He walked into the kitchen and shook his head. He turned on the cold-water tap and rubbed some water on his brow. He filled a glass and drank it down, then refilled it and drank that down. He took a few deep breaths, went back into the dining room, and sat down. He looked at the food on his plate. Then he suppressed a shiver and smiled at Dorothy.

  “Any more, anybody?” said Ellen. “There’s plenty here.”

  “Indeed,” said Meadows. “But you’d better serve the others first. Left to my own devices, I’d eat the whole thing.”

  “And you know what you’d be saying tomorrow,” said Brody.

  “What’s that?”

  Brody lowered his voice and said gravely, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”

  Meadows and Dorothy laughed, and Hooper said, in a high falsetto whine, “No, Ralph, I ate it.” Then even Ellen laughed. It was going to be all right.

  By the time dessert was served—
coffee ice cream in a pool of crème de cacao—Brody was feeling well. He had two helpings of ice cream, and he chatted amiably with Dorothy. He smiled when Daisy told him a story about lacing the stuffing at last Thanksgiving’s turkey with marijuana.

  “My only worry,” said Daisy, “was that my maiden aunt called Thanksgiving morning and asked if she could come for dinner. The turkey was already made and stuffed.”

  “So what happened?” said Brody.

  “I tried to sneak her some turkey without stuffing, but she made a point of asking for it, so I said what the heck and gave her a big spoonful.”

  “And?”

  “By the end of the meal she was giggling like a little girl. She even wanted to dance. To Hair yet.”

  “It’s a good thing I wasn’t there,” said Brody. “I would have arrested you for corrupting the morals of a maiden.”

  They had coffee in the living room, and Brody offered drinks, but only Meadows accepted. “A tiny brandy, if you have it,” he said.

  Brody looked at Ellen, as if to ask, Do we have any? “In the cupboard, I think,” she said.

  Brody poured Meadows’ drink and thought briefly of pouring one for himself. But he resisted, telling himself, Don’t press your luck.

  At a little after ten, Meadows yawned and said, “Dorothy, I think we had best take our leave. I find it hard to fulfill the public trust if I stay up too late.”

  “I should go, too,” said Daisy. “I have to be at work at eight. Not that we’re selling very much these days.”

  “You’re not alone, my dear,” said Meadows.

  “I know. But when you work on commission, you really feel it.”

  “Well, let’s hope the worst is over. From what I gather from our expert here, there’s a good chance the leviathan has left.” Meadows stood up.

  “A chance,” said Hooper. “I hope so.” He rose to go. “I should be on my way, too.”

  “Oh, don’t go!” Ellen said to Hooper. The words came out much stronger than she had intended. Instead of a pleasant request, they sounded a shrill plea. She was embarrassed, and she added quickly, “I mean, the night is young. It’s only ten.”

  “I know,” said Hooper. “But if the weather’s any good tomorrow, I want to get up early and get into the water. Besides, I have a car and I can drop Daisy off on my way home.”