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 icthyologist, 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.