As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, Brody heard Ellen say, “It is such fun to see you again.”
Brody walked into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath and clenched and unclenched his right fist. He was fighting anger and confusion, and he was losing. He felt threatened, as if an intruder had come into his home, possessing subtle, intangible weapons he could not cope with: looks and youth and sophistication and, above all, a communion with Ellen born in a time which, Brody knew, Ellen wished had never ended. Where previously he had felt Ellen was trying to use Hooper to impress other summer people, now he felt she was trying to impress Hooper herself. He didn’t know why. Maybe he was wrong. After all, Ellen and Hooper had known each other long ago. Perhaps he was making too much of two friends simply trying to get to know one another again. Friends? Christ, Hooper had to be ten years younger than Ellen, or almost. What kind of friends could they have been? Acquaintances. Barely. So why was she putting on her supersophisticated act? It demeaned her, Brody thought; and it demeaned Brody that she should try, by posturing, to deny her life with him.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He stood up, opened a dresser drawer, and rooted through it until he found Ellen’s jewelry box. He took out the silver chain, closed the drawer, and walked into the hall. He poked his head into the boys’ rooms and said, “Let’s go, troops,” and then he walked downstairs.
Ellen and Hooper were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, and as Brody walked into the living room, he heard Ellen say, “Would you rather that I not call you Matthew?”
Hooper laughed and said, “I don’t mind. It does sort of bring back memories, and despite what I said the other day, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
The other day? Brody thought. In the hardware store? That must have been some conversation. “Here,” he said to Ellen, handing her the chain.
“Thank you,” she said. She unclasped the pearls and tossed them onto the coffee table. “Now, Matthew, show me how this should go.” Brody picked the string of pearls off the table and put them in his pocket.
The boys came downstairs single file, all dressed neatly in sport shirts and slacks. Ellen snapped the silver chain around her neck, smiled at Hooper, and said, “Come here, boys. Come meet Mr. Hooper. This is Billy Brody. Billy’s fourteen.” Billy shook hands with Hooper. “And this is Martin Junior. He’s twelve. And this is Sean. He’s nine… almost nine. Mr. Hooper is an oceanographer.”
“An ichthyologist, actually,” said Hooper.
“What’s that?” said Martin Junior.
“A zoologist who specializes in fish life.”
“What’s a zoologist?” asked Sean.
“I know that,” said Billy. “That’s a guy who studies animals.”
“Right,” said Hooper. “Good for you.”
“Are you going to catch the shark?” asked Martin.
“I’m going to try to find him,” said Hooper. “But I don’t know. He may have gone away already.”
“Have you ever caught a shark?”
“Yes, but not one as big as this.”
Sean said, “Do sharks lay eggs?”
“That, young man,” said Hooper, “is a good question, and a very complicated one. Not like a chicken, if that’s what you mean. But yes, some sharks do have eggs.”
Ellen said, “Give Mr. Hooper a chance, boys.” She turned to Brody. “Martin, could you make us a drink?”
“Sure,” said Brody. “What’ll it be?”
“A gin and tonic would be fine for me,” said Hooper.
“What about you, Ellen?”
“Let’s see. What would be good. I think I’ll just have some vermouth on the rocks.”
“Hey, Mom,” said Billy, “what’s that around your neck?”
“A shark tooth, dear. Mr. Hooper gave it to me.”
“Hey, that’s really cool. Can I look?”
Brody went into the kitchen. The liquor was kept in a cabinet over the sink. The door was stuck. He tugged at the metal handle, and it came off in his hand. Without thinking, he pegged it into the garbage pail. From a drawer he took a screwdriver and pried open the cabinet door. Vermouth. What the hell was the color of the bottle? Nobody ever drank vermouth on the rocks. Ellen’s drink when she drank, and that was rarely, was rye and ginger. Green. There it was, way in the back. Brody grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap, and sniffed. It smelled like one of those cheap, fruity wines the winos bought for sixty-nine a pint.
Brody made the two drinks, then fashioned a rye and ginger for himself. By habit, he began to measure the rye with a shot glass, but then he changed his mind and poured until the glass was a third full. He topped it off with ginger ale, dropped in a few ice cubes, and reached for the two other glasses. The only convenient way to carry them in one hand was to grip one with the thumb and last three fingers of his hand and then support the other against the first by sticking his index finger down the inside of the glass. He took a slug of his own drink and went back into the living room.
Billy and Martin had crowded onto the couch with Ellen and Hooper. Sean was sitting on the floor. Brody heard Hooper say something about a pig, and Martin said, “Wow!”
“Here,” said Brody, handing the forward glass — the one with his finger in it — to Ellen.
“No tip for you, my man,” she said. “It’s a good thing you decided against a career as a waiter.”
Brody looked at her, considered a series of rude remarks, and settled for, “Forgive me, Duchess.” He handed the other glass to Hooper and said, “I guess this is what you had in mind.”
“That’s great. Thanks.”
“Matt was just telling us about a shark he caught,” said Ellen. “It had almost a whole pig in it.”
“No kidding,” said Brody, sitting in a chair opposite the couch.
“And that’s not all, Dad,” said Martin. “There was a roll of tar paper, too.”
“And a human bone,” said Sean.
“I said it looked like a human bone,” said Hooper. “There was no way to be sure at the time. It might have been a beef rib.”
Brody said, “I thought you scientists could tell those things right on the spot.”
“Not always,” said Hooper. “Especially when it’s only a piece of a bone like a rib.”
Brody took a long swallow of his drink and said, “Oh.”
“Hey, Dad,” said Billy. “You know how a porpoise kills a shark?”
“With a gun?”
“No, man. It butts him to death. That’s what Mr. Hooper says.”
“Terrific,” said Brody, and he drained his glass. “I’m going to have another drink. Anybody else ready?”
“On a week night?” said Ellen. “My.”
“Why not? It’s not every night we throw a no-kidding, go-to-hell dinner party.” Brody started for the kitchen but was stopped by the ringing of the doorbell. He opened the door and saw Dorothy Meadows, short and slight, dressed, as usual, in a dark blue dress and a single strand of pearls. Behind her was a girl Brody assumed was Daisy Wicker — a tall, slim girl with long, straight hair. She wore slacks and sandals and no makeup. Behind her was the unmistakable bulk of Harry Meadows.
“Hello, there,” said Brody. “Come on in.”
“Good evening, Martin,” said Dorothy Meadows. “We met Miss Wicker as we came into the driveway.”
“I walked,” said Daisy Wicker. “It was nice.”
“Good, good. Come on in. I’m Martin Brody.”
“I know. I’ve seen you driving your car. You must have an interesting job.”
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.
