Jaws

by Peter Benchley

  “And if the cage doesn’t go,” said Hooper, “I don’t go.”

  “Fuck yourself,” said Brody. “You can stay here, for all I care.”

  “I don’t think Quint would like that. Right, Quint? You want to go out and take on that fish with just you and the chief? You feel good about that?”

  “We’ll find another man,” said Brody.

  “Go ahead,” Hooper snapped. “Good luck.”

  “Can’t do it,” said Quint. “Not on this short notice.”

  “Then the hell with it!” said Brody. “We’ll go tomorrow. Hooper can go back to Woods Hole and play with his fish.”

  Hooper was angry—angrier, in fact, than he knew, for before he could stop himself, he had said, “That’s not all I might … Oh, forget it.”

  For several seconds, a leaden silence fell over the three men. Brody stared at Hooper, unwilling to believe what he had heard, uncertain how much substance there was in the remark and how much empty threat. Then suddenly he was overcome by rage. He reached Hooper in two steps, grabbed both sides of his collar, and rammed his fists into Hooper’s throat. “What was that?” he said. “What did you say?”

  Hooper could hardly breathe. He clawed at Brody’s fingers. “Nothing!” he said, choking. “Nothing!” He tried to back away, but Brody gripped him tighter.

  “What did you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, I tell you! I was angry. It was something to say.”

  “Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?”

  “Nowhere!” Hooper’s temples were throbbing. “Let me go! You’re choking me!”

  “Where were you?” Brody twisted his fists tighter.

  “In a motel! Now let me go!”

  Brody eased his grip. “With who?” he said, praying to himself, God, don’t let it be Ellen; let his alibi be a good one.

  “Daisy Wicker.”

  “Liar!” Brody tightened his grip again, and he felt tears begin to squeeze from his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” said Hooper, struggling to free himself.

  “Daisy Wicker’s a goddam lesbian! What were you doing, knitting?”

  Hooper’s thoughts were fogging. Brody’s knuckles were cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. His eyelids flickered and he began to lose consciousness. Brody released him and pushed him down to the dock, where he sat, sucking air.

  “What do you say to that?” said Brody. “Are you such a hotshot you can fuck a lesbian?”

  Hooper’s mind cleared quickly, and he said, “No. I didn’t find out until … until it was too late.”

  “What do you mean. You mean she went with you to a motel and then turned you down? No dyke is gonna go to any motel room with you.”

  “She did!” said Hooper, desperately trying to keep pace with Brody’s questions. “She said she wanted … that it was time she tried it straight. But then she couldn’t go through with it. It was awful.”

  “You’re bullshitting me!”

  “I’m not! You can check with her yourself.” Hooper knew it was a weak excuse. Brody could check it out with no trouble. But it was all he could think of. He could stop on the way home that evening and call Daisy Wicker from a phone booth, beg her to corroborate his story. Or he could simply never return to Amity—turn north and take the ferry from Orient Point and be out of the state before Brody could reach Daisy Wicker.

  “I will check,” said Brody. “You can count on it.”

  Behind him, Brody heard Quint laugh and say, “That’s the funniest thing I ever did hear. Tried to lay a lesbian.”

  Brody tried to read Hooper’s face, searching for anything that might betray a lie. But Hooper kept his eyes fixed on the dock.

  “Well, what do you say?” said Quint. “We going today or not? Either way, Brody, it’ll cost you.”

  Brody felt shaken. He was tempted to cancel the trip, to return to Amity and discover the truth about Hooper and Ellen. But suppose the worst was true. What could he do then? Confront Ellen? Beat her? Walk out on her? What good would that do? He had to have time to think. He said to Quint, “We’ll go.”

  “With the cage?”

  “With the cage. If this asshole wants to kill himself, let him.”

  “Okay by me,” said Quint. “Let’s get this circus on the road.”

  Hooper stood and walked to the cage. “I’ll get in the boat,” he said hoarsely. “If you two can push it over to the edge of the dock and lean it toward me, then one of you come down into the boat with me, we can carry it over into the corner.”

  Brody and Quint slid the cage across the wooden boards, and Brody was surprised at how light it was. Even with the diving gear inside, it couldn’t have weighed more than two hundred pounds. They tipped it toward Hooper, who grabbed two of the bars and waited until Quint joined him in the cockpit. The two men easily carried the cage a few feet and pushed it into a corner under the overhang that supported the flying bridge. Hooper secured it with two pieces of rope.

  Brody jumped aboard and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Quint.

  “What?”

  “Four hundred dollars.”

  Brody took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Quint. “You’re going to die a rich man, Quint.”

  “That’s my aim. Uncleat the stern line, will you?” Quint uncleated the bow and midships spring lines and tossed them onto the dock, and when he saw that the stern line was clear, too, he pushed the throttle forward and guided the boat out of the slip. He turned right and pushed the throttle forward, and the boat moved swiftly through the calm sea—past Hicks Island and Goff Point, around Shagwong and Montauk points. Soon the lighthouse on Montauk Point was behind them, and they were cruising south by southwest in the open ocean.

  Gradually, as the boat fell into the rhythm of the long ocean swells, Brody’s fury dulled. Maybe Hooper was telling the truth. It was possible. A person wouldn’t make up a story that was so easy to check. Ellen had never cheated on him before, he was sure of that. She never even flirted with other men. But, he told himself, there’s always a first time. And once again the thought made his throat tighten. He felt jealous and injured, inadequate and outraged. He hopped down from the fighting chair and climbed up to the flying bridge.

  Quint made room on the bench for Brody, and Brody sat down next to him. Quint chuckled. “You boys almost had a no-shit punch-up back there.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Looked like something to me. What is it, you think he’s been poking your wife?”

  Confronted with his own thoughts stated so brutally, Brody was shocked. “None of your damn business,” he said.

  “Whatever you say. But if you ask me, he ain’t got it in him.”

  “Nobody asked you.” Anxious to change the subject, Brody said, “Are we going back to the same place?”

  “Same place. Won’t be too long now.”

  “What are the chances the fish will still be there?”

  “Who knows? But it’s the only thing we can do.”

  “You said something on the phone the other day about being smarter than fish. Is that all there is to it? Is that the only secret of success?”

  “That’s all there is. You just got to outguess ’em. It’s no trick. They’re stupid as sin.”

  “You’ve never found a smart fish?”

  “Never met one yet.”

  Brody remembered the leering, grinning face that had stared up at him from the water. “I don’t know,” he said. “That fish sure looked mean yesterday. Like he meant to be mean. Like he knew what he was doing.”

  “Shit, he don’t know nothing.”

  “Do they have different personalities?”

  “Fish?” Quint laughed. “That’s giving them more credit than they’re due. You can’t treat ’em like people, even though I guess some people are as dumb as fish. No. They do different things sometimes, but after a while you get to know everything they can do.”

  “
It’s not a challenge, then. You’re not fighting an enemy.”

  “No. No more ’n a plumber who’s trying to unstick a drain. Maybe he’ll cuss at it and hit it with a wrench. But down deep he don’t think he’s fighting somebody. Sometimes I run into an ornery fish that gives me more trouble than other ones, but I just use different tools.”

  “There are fish you can’t catch, aren’t there?”

  “Oh sure, but that don’t mean they’re smart or sneaky or anything. It only means they’re not hungry when you try to catch ’em, or they’re too fast for you, or you’re using the wrong bait.”

  Quint fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Once,” he said, “a shark almost caught me. It was about twenty years ago. I had a fair-size blue shark to gaff and he gave a big yank and hauled me overboard with him.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I come up over that transom so fast I don’t think my feet touched anything between water and deck. I was lucky I fell over the stern, where it’s fairly low down, near the water. If I’d of fallen over amidships, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Anyway, I was out of that water before the fish even knew I was in it. He was busy trying to shake the gaff.”

  “Suppose you fell over with this fish. Is there anything you could do?”

  “Sure. Pray. It’d be like falling out of an airplane without a parachute and hoping you’ll land in a haystack. The only thing that’d save you would be God, and since He pushed you overboard in the first place, I wouldn’t give a nickel for your chances.”

  “There’s a woman in Amity who thinks that’s why we’re having trouble,” said Brody. “She thinks it’s some sort of divine retribution.”

  Quint smiled. “Might be. He made the damn thing, I suppose He can tell it what to do.”

  “You serious?”

  “No, not really. I don’t put much stock in religion.”

  “So why do you think people have been killed?”

  “Bad luck.” Quint pulled back on the throttle. The boat slowed and settled in the swells. “We’ll try to change it.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, read the notes, and sighting along his outstretched arm, checked his bearings. He turned the ignition key, and the engine died. There was a weight, a thickness, to the sudden silence. “Okay, Hooper,” he said. “Start chuckin’ the shit overboard.”

  Hooper took the top off the chum bucket and began to ladle the contents into the sea. The first ladleful spattered on the still water, and slowly the oily smear spread westward.

  By ten o’clock a breeze had come up—not strong, but fresh enough to ripple the water and cool the men, who sat and watched and said nothing. The only sound was the regular splash as Hooper poured chum off the stern.

  Brody sat in the fighting chair, struggling to stay awake. He yawned, then recalled that he had left the half-read copy of The Deadly Virgin in a magazine rack below. He stood, stretched, and went down the three steps into the cabin. He found the book and started topside again, when his eye caught the ice chest. He looked at his watch and said to himself, the hell with it; there’s no time out here.

  “I’m going to have a beer,” he called. “Anybody want one?”

  “No,” said Hooper.

  “Sure,” said Quint. “We can shoot at the cans.”

  Brody took two beers from the chest, removed the metal tabs, and started to climb the stairs. His foot was on the top step when he heard Quint’s flat, calm voice say, “There he is.”

  At first, Brody thought Quint was referring to him, but then he saw Hooper jump off the transom and heard him whistle and say, “Wow! He sure is!”

  Brody felt his pulse speed up. He stepped quickly onto the deck and said, “Where?”

  “Right there,” said Quint. “Dead off the stern.”

  It took Brody’s eyes a moment to adjust, but then he saw the fin—a ragged, brownish-gray triangle that sliced through the water, followed by the scythed tail sweeping left and right with short, spasmodic thrusts. The fish was at least thirty yards behind the boat, Brody guessed. Maybe forty. “Are you sure it’s him?” he said.

  “It’s him,” said Quint.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. Not till we see what he does. Hooper, you keep ladling that shit. Let’s bring him in here.”

  Hooper lifted the bucket up onto the transom and scooped the chum into the water. Quint walked forward and fastened a harpoon head to the wooden shaft. He picked up a barrel and put it under one arm. He held the coiled rope over his other arm and clutched the harpoon in his hand. He carried it all aft and set it on the deck.

  The fish cruised back and forth in the slick, seeming to search for the source of the bloody miasma.

  “Reel in those lines,” Quint said to Brody. “They won’t do any good now we’ve got him up.”

  Brody brought in the lines one by one and let the squid bait fall to the deck. The fish moved slightly closer to the boat, still cruising slowly.

  Quint set the barrel on the transom to the left of Hooper’s bucket and arranged the rope beside it. Then he climbed up on the transom and stood, his right arm cocked, holding the harpoon. “Come on,” he said. “Come on in here.”

  But the fish would come no closer than fifty feet from the boat.

  “I don’t get it,” said Quint. “He should come in and take a look at us. Brody, take the cutters out of my back pocket and clip off those squid bait and throw ’em overboard. Maybe some food’ll bring him in. And splash the hell out of the water when you throw ’em. Let him know something’s there.”

  Brody did as he was told, slapping and roiling the water with a gaff, always keeping the fin in sight, for he imagined the fish suddenly appearing from the deep and seizing him by the arm.

  “Throw some other ones while you’re at it,” said Quint. “They’re in the chest there. And throw those beers over, too.”

  “The beers? What for?”

  “The more we can get in the water, the better. Don’t make no difference what it is, so long as it gets him interested enough to want to find out.”

  Hooper said, “What about the porpoise?”

  “Why, Mr. Hooper,” said Quint. “I thought you didn’t approve.”

  “Never mind that,” Hooper said excitedly. “I want to see that fish!”

  “We’ll see,” said Quint. “If I have to use it, I will.”

  The squid had drifted back toward the shark, and one of the beers bobbed on the surface as it slowly faded aft of the boat. But still the fish stayed away.

  They waited—Hooper ladling, Quint poised on the transom, Brody standing by one of the rods.

  “Shit,” said Quint. “I guess I got no choice.” He set the harpoon down and jumped off the transom. He flipped the top off the garbage can next to Brody, and Brody saw the lifeless eyes of the tiny porpoise as it swayed in the briny water. The sight repelled him, and he turned away.

  “Well, little fella,” said Quint. “The time has come.” From the lazaret he took a length of dog-leash chain and snapped one end of it into the hook eye protruding from beneath the porpoise’s jaw. To the other end of the chain he tied a length of three-quarter-inch hemp. He uncoiled several yards of the rope, cut it, and made it fast to a cleat on the starboard gunwale.

  “I thought you said the shark could pull out a cleat,” said Brody.

  “It might just,” said Quint. “But I’m betting I can get an iron in him and cut the rope before he pulls it taut enough to yank the cleat.” Quint took hold of the dog chain and lifted the starboard gunwale and set it down. He climbed onto the transom and pulled the porpoise after him. He took the knife from the sheath at his belt. With his left hand he held the porpoise out in front of him. Then, with his right, he cut a series of shallow slashes in the porpoise’s belly. A rank, dark liquid oozed from the animal and fell in droplets on the water. Quint tossed the porpoise into the water, let out six feet of line, then put the rope under his foot on the transom and stepped down
hard. The porpoise floated just beneath the surface of the water, less than six feet from the boat.

  “That’s pretty close,” said Brody.

  “Has to be,” said Quint. “I can’t get a shot at him if he’s thirty feet away.”

  “Why are you standing on the rope?”

  “To keep the little fella where he is. I don’t want to cleat it down that close to the boat. If he took it and didn’t have any running room, he could thrash around and beat us to pieces.” Quint hefted the harpoon and looked at the shark’s fin.

  The fish moved closer, still cruising back and forth but closing the gap between itself and the boat by a few feet with every passage. Then it stopped, twenty or twenty-five feet away, and for a second seemed to lie motionless in the water, aimed directly at the boat. The tail dropped beneath the surface; the dorsal fin slid backward and vanished; and the great head reared up, mouth open in a slack, savage grin, eyes black and abysmal.

  Brody stared in mute horror, sensing that this was what it must be like to try to stare down the devil.

  “Hey, fish!” Quint called. He stood on the transom, legs spread, his hand curled around the shaft of the harpoon that rested on his shoulder. “Come see what we’ve got for you!”

  For another moment the fish hung in the water, watching. Then, soundlessly, the head slid back and disappeared.

  “Where’d he go?” said Brody.

  “He’ll be coming now,” said Quint. “Come, fish,” he purred. “Come, fish. Come get your supper.” He pointed the harpoon at the floating porpoise.

  Suddenly the boat lurched violently to the side. Quint’s legs skidded out from under him, and he fell on his back on the transom. The harpoon dart separated from the shaft and clattered to the deck. Brody tumbled sideways, grabbed the back of the chair, and twirled around as the chair swiveled. Hooper spun backward and slammed into the port gunwale.

  The rope attached to the porpoise tautened and shivered. The knot by which it was secured to the cleat tightened so hard that the rope flattened and its fibers popped. The wood under the cleat began to crack. Then the rope snapped backward, went slack, and curled in the water beside the boat.