“What type?”
“Rich. Good family. The Southampton summer type. You ought to know it, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t get angry. I was just asking.”
“I’m not angry. I just said you ought to know the type, that’s all. I mean, you’re the type yourself.”
Ellen smiled. “I used to be. But now I’m just an old lady.”
“That’s a crock,” Brody said. “Nine out of ten of the summer broads in this town can’t do what you can for a bathing suit.” He was happy to see her fishing for compliments, and happy to give them to her. This was one of their ritual preludes to sex, and the sight of Ellen in bed made Brody yearn for sex. Her hair hung down to her shoulders on both sides of her head, then tucked inward in a curl. Her nightgown was cut so deeply in front that both her breasts were visible, all but the nipples, and was so diaphanous that Brody was sure he could actually see the dark flesh of the nipples. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned from the bathroom, he was tumescent. He walked to the dresser to turn out the light.
“You know,” Ellen said, “I think we should give the boys tennis lessons.”
“What for? Have they said they want to play tennis?”
“No. Not in so many words. But it’s a good sport for them to know. It will help them when they’re gown-up. It’s an entree.”
“To what?”
“To the people they should know. If you play tennis well you can walk into a club anywhere and get to know people. Now’s the time they should be learning.”
“Where are they going to get lessons?”
“I was thinking of the Field Club.”
“As far as I know, we’re not members of the Field Club.”
“I think we could get in. I still know a few people who are members. If I asked them, I’ll bet they’d propose us.”
“Forget it.”
“Why?”
“Number one, we can’t afford it. I bet it costs a thousand bucks to join, and then it’s at least a few hundred a year. We haven’t got that kind of money.”
“We have savings.”
“Not for tennis lessons, for Christ sake! Come on, let’s drop it.” He reached for the light.
“It would be good for the boys.”
Brody let his hand fall to the top of the dresser. “Look, we’re not tennis people. We wouldn’t feel right there.
“How do you know? We’ve never tried.”
“Just forget it.” He switched off the light, walked over to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in beside Ellen. “Besides,” he said, nuzzling her neck, “there’s another sport I’m better at.”
“The boys are awake.”
“They’re watching television. They wouldn’t know it if a bomb went off up here.” He kissed her neck and began to rub his hand in circles on her stomach, moving higher with each rotation.
Ellen yawned. “I’m so sleepy,” she said. “I took a pill before you came home.”
Brody stopped rubbing. “What the hell for?”
“I didn’t sleep well last night, and I didn’t want to wake up if you came home late. So I took a pill.”
“I’m going to throw those goddam pills away.” He kissed her cheek, then tried to kiss her mouth but caught her in mid-yawn.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid it won’t work.”
“It’ll work. All you have to do is help a little.”
“I’m so tired. But you go ahead if you want. I’ll try to stay awake.”
“Shit,” said Brody. He rolled back to his side of the bed. “I’m not very big on screwing corpses.”
“That was uncalled-for.”
Brody didn’t reply. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and feeling his erection dwindle. But the pressure inside him was still there, a dull ache in his groin.
A moment later, Ellen said, “What’s Harry Meadows’ friend’s name?”
“Hooper.”
“Not David Hooper.”
“No. I think his name is Matt.”
“Oh. I went out with a David Hooper a long, long time ago. I remember…” Before she could finish the sentence, her eyes shut, and soon she slipped into the deep breathing of sleep.
A few blocks away, in a small clapboard house, a black man sat at the foot of his son’s bed. “What story do you want to read?” he said.
“I don’t want to read a story,” said the boy, who was seven. “I want to
“Okay. What’ll we tell one about?”
“A shark. Let’s tell one about a shark.” The man winced. “No. Let’s tell one about… a bear.”
“No, a shark. I want to know about sharks.”
“You mean a once-upon-a-time story?”
“Sure. Like, you know, once upon a time there was a shark that ate people.”
“That’s not a very nice story.”
“Why do sharks eat people?”
“I guess they get hungry. I don’t know.”
“Do you bleed if a shark eats you?”
“Yes,” said the man. “Come on. Let’s tell a story about another kind of animal. You’ll have nightmares if we tell about a shark.”
“No, I won’t. If a shark tried to eat me, I’d punch him in the nose.”
“No shark is going to try to eat you.”
“Why not? If I go swimming I bet one would. Don’t sharks eat black people?”
“Now stop it! I don’t want to hear any more about sharks.” The man lifted a pile of books from the bedside table. “Here. Let’s read
Part 2
SIX
On her way home Friday noon, after a morning of volunteer work at the Southampton Hospital, Ellen stopped at the post office to buy a roll of stamps and get the mail. There was no home mail delivery in Amity. In theory, only special delivery mail was brought to the door — any door within a mile radius of the post office; in fact, even special delivery mail (except that clearly labeled as sent by the Federal Government) was kept at the post office until someone called for it.
The post office was a small, square building on Teal Street, just off Main. It had 500 mailboxes, 340 of which were rented to Amity’s permanent residents. The other 160 were allotted to summer people, according to the whims of the postmistress, Minnie Eldridge. Those people she liked were permitted to rent boxes for the summer. Those she didn’t like had to wait in line at the counter. Since she refused to rent a box to any summer person on a year-round basis, summer people never knew from one year to the next whether or not they would have a mailbox when they arrived in June.
