She heard Brody’s car pull into the driveway, and she opened the back door. Lord, he looks whipped, she thought as she watched him walk toward the house. His eyes were red and sunken, and he seemed slightly hunched as he walked. She kissed him at the door and said, “You look like you could use a drink.”
“That I could.” He went into the living room and flopped into a chair.
“What would you like?”
“Anything. Just so long as it’s strong.”
She went into the kitchen, filled a glass with equal portions of vodka and orange juice, and brought it to him. She sat on the arm of his chair and ran her hand over his head. She smiled and said, “There’s your bald spot. It’s been so long since I touched your bald spot that I’d forgotten it was there.”
“I’m surprised there’s any hair left at all. Christ, I’ll never be as old as I feel today.”
“I’ll bet. Well, it’s over now.”
“I wish it was,” said Brody. “I truly do wish it was.”
“What do you mean? It is over, isn’t it? There’s nothing more you can do.”
“We’re going out tomorrow. Six o’clock.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
“Why?” Ellen was stunned. “What do you think you can do?”
“Catch the fish. And kill it.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m not sure. But Quint believes it. God, how he believes it.”
“Then let him go. Let him get killed.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my job.”
“It is not your job!” She was furious, and scared, and tears began to well behind her eyes.
Brody thought for a moment and said, “No, you’re right.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t think I can tell you. I don’t think I know.”
“Are you trying to prove something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t feel this way before. After Hooper was killed, I was ready to give it up.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Quint, I guess.”
“You mean you’re letting him tell you what to do?”
“No. He didn’t tell me anything. It’s a feeling. I can’t explain it. But giving up isn’t an answer. It doesn’t put an end to anything.”
“Why is an end so important?”
“Different reasons, I think. Quint feels that if he doesn’t kill the fish, everything he believes in is wrong.”
“And you?”
Brody tried to smile. “Me, I guess I’m just a screwed-up cop.”
“Don’t joke with me!” Ellen cried, and tears spilled out of her eyes. “What about me and the children? Do you want to get killed?”
“No, God no. It’s just…”
“You think it’s all your fault. You think you’re responsible.”
“Responsible for what?”
“For that little boy and the old man. You think killing the shark will make everything all right again. You want revenge.”
Brody sighed. “Maybe I do. I don’t know. I feel… I believe that the only way this town can be alive again is if we kill that thing.”
“And you’re willing to get killed trying to—”
“Don’t be stupid! I’m not willing to get killed. I’m not even willing — if that’s the word you want to use — to go out in that goddam boat. You think I like it out there? I’m so scared every minute I’m out there I want to puke.”
“Then why go?” She was pleading with him, begging. “Can’t you ever think of anybody but yourself?”
Brody was shocked at the suggestion of selfishness. It had never occurred to him that he was being selfish, indulging a personal need for expiation. “I love you,” he said. “You know that… no matter what.”
“Sure you do,” she said bitterly. “Oh, sure you do.”
They ate dinner in silence. When they were finished, Ellen picked up the dishes, washed them, and went upstairs. Brody walked around the living room, turning out lights. Just as he reached for the switch to turn off the hall light, he heard a tap on the front door. He opened it and saw Meadows.
“Hey, Harry,” he said. “Come on in.”
“No,” said Meadows. “It’s too late. I just wanted to drop this by.” He handed Brody a manila envelope.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Meadows turned and walked down the path to the curb, where his car was parked, lights on and motor running.
Brody shut the door and opened the envelope. Inside was a proof of the editorial page of the next day’s Leader. The first two editorials had been circled in red grease pencil. Brody read: A NOTE OF SORROW… In the past three weeks, Amity has suffered through one horrible tragedy after another. Its citizens, and its friends, have been struck down by a savage menace that no one can deter, no one can explain.
Yesterday another human life was cut short by the Great White Shark. Matt Hooper, the young oceanographer from Woods Hole, was killed as he tried to kill the beast single-handedly.
People may debate the wisdom of Mr. Hooper’s daring attempt. But call it brave or foolhardy, there can be no debate about the motive that sent him on his fatal mission. He was trying to help Amity, spending his own time and money in an effort to restore peace to this despairing community.
He was a friend, and he gave his life so that we, his friends, might live.
…AND A VOTE OF THANKS Ever since the marauding shark first came to Amity, one man has spent his every waking minute trying to protect his fellow citizens. That man is Police Chief Martin Brody.
After the first attack, Chief Brody wanted to inform the public of the danger and close the beaches. But a chorus of less prudent voices, including that of the editor of this newspaper, told him he was wrong. Play down the risk, we said, and it will disappear. It was we who were wrong.
Some in Amity were slow to learn the lesson. When, after repeated attacks, Chief Brody insisted on keeping the beaches closed, he was vilified and threatened. A few of his most vocal critics were men motivated not by public-spiritedness but personal greed. Chief Brody persisted, and, once again, he was proven right.
Now Chief Brody is risking his life on the same expedition that took the life of Matt Hooper. We must all offer our prayers for his safe return… and our thanks for his extraordinary fortitude and integrity.
Brody said aloud, “Thank you, Harry.”
Around midnight, the wind began to blow hard from the northeast, whistling through the screens and soon bringing a driving rain that splashed on the bedroom floor. Brody got out of bed and shut the window. He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind refused to rest. He got up again, put on his bathrobe, went downstairs to the living room, and turned on the television. He switched channels until he found a movie — Weekend at the Waldorf, with Ginger Rogers. Then he sat down in a chair and promptly slipped into a fitful doze.
He awoke at five, to the whine of the television test pattern, turned off the set, and listened for the wind. It had moderated and seemed to be coming from a different quarter, but it still carried rain. He debated calling Quint, but thought, no, no use: we’ll be going even if this blows up into a gale. He went upstairs and quietly dressed. Before he left the bedroom, he looked at Ellen, who had a frown on her sleeping face. “I do love you, you know,” he whispered, and he kissed her brow. He started down the stairs and then, impulsively, went and looked in the boys’ bedrooms. They were all asleep.