II

edin,andnevereventoldmeaboutit,andthemancameafteritonedaywhenhewasout:‘Oh,isthatyoursuit?’Isaid.‘ThisisthefirstIeverheardaboutit.’ButIgaveittohimandthenIlaydownandcriedtobeatthebandallafternoon.” “Shereallyoughttogetawayfromhim,”resumedCatherinetome.“They’vebeenlivingoverthatgarageforelevenyears.AndTom’sthefirstsweetiesheeverhad.” Thebottleofwhisky—asecondone—wasnowinconstantdemandbyallpresent,exceptingCatherine,who“feltjustasgoodonnothingatall.”Tomrangforthejanitorandsenthimforsomecelebratedsandwiches,whichwereacompletesupperinthemselves.Iwantedtogetoutandwalkeastwardtowardtheparkthroughthesofttwilight,buteachtimeItriedtogoIbecameentangledinsomewild,stridentargumentwhichpulledmeback,asifwithropes,intomychair.Yethighoverthecityourlineofyellowwindowsmusthavecontributedtheirshareofhumansecrecytothecasualwatcherinthedarkeningstreets,andIsawhimtoo,lookingupandwondering.Iwaswithinandwithout,simultaneouslyenchantedandrepelledbytheinexhaustiblevarietyoflife. Myrtlepulledherchairclosetomine,andsuddenlyherwarmbreathpouredovermethestoryofherfirstmeetingwithTom. “Itwasonthetwolittleseatsfacingeachotherthatarealwaysthelastonesleftonthetrain.IwasgoinguptoNewYorktoseemysisterandspendthenight.Hehadonadresssuitandpatentleathershoes,andIcouldn’tkeepmyeyesoffhim,buteverytimehelookedatmeIhadtopretendtobelookingattheadvertisementoverhishead.Whenwecameintothestationhewasnexttome,andhiswhiteshirtfrontpressedagainstmyarm,andsoItoldhimI’dhavetocallapoliceman,butheknewIlied.IwassoexcitedthatwhenIgotintoataxiwithhimIdidn’thardlyknowIwasn’tgettingintoasubwaytrain.AllIkeptthinkingabout,overandover,was‘Youcan’tliveforeveryoucan’tliveforever.’?” SheturnedtoMrs.McKeeandtheroomrangfullofherartificiallaughter. “Mydear,”shecried,“I’mgoingtogiveyouthisdressassoonasI’mthroughwithit.I’vegottogetanotheronetomorrow.I’mgoingtomakealistofallthethingsI’vegottoget.Amassageandawave,andacollarforthedog,andoneofthosecutelittleashtrayswhereyoutouchaspring,andawreathwithablacksilkbowformother’sgravethat’lllastallsummer.IgottowritedownalistsoIwon’tforgetallthethingsIgottodo.” Itwasnineo’clock—almostimmediatelyafterwardIlookedatmywatchandfounditwasten.Mr.McKeewasasleeponachairwithhisfistsclenchedinhislap,likeaphotographofamanofaction.TakingoutmyhandkerchiefIwipedfromhischeekthespotofdriedlatherthathadworriedmealltheafternoon. Thelittledogwassittingonthetablelookingwithblindeyesthroughthesmoke,andfromtimetotimegroaningfaintly.Peopledisappeared,reappeared,madeplanstogosomewhere,andthenlosteachother,searchedforeachother,foundeachotherafewfeetaway.SometimetowardmidnightTomBuchananandMrs.Wilsonstoodfacetofacediscussing,inimpassionedvoices,whetherMrs.WilsonhadanyrighttomentionDaisy’sname. “Daisy!Daisy!Daisy!”shoutedMrs.Wilson.“I’llsayitwheneverIwantto!Daisy!Dai—” Makingashortdeftmovement,TomBuchananbrokehernosewithhisopenhand. Thentherewerebloodytowelsuponthebathroomfloor,andwomen’svoicesscolding,andhighovertheconfusionalongbrokenwailofpain.Mr.McKeeawokefromhisdozeandstartedinadazetowardthedoor.Whenhehadgonehalfwayheturnedaroundandstaredatthescene—hiswifeandCatherinescoldingandconsolingastheystumbledhereandthereamongthecrowdedfurniturewitharticlesofaid,andthedespairingfigureonthecouch,bleedingfluently,andtryingtospreadacopyofTownTattleoverthetapestryscenesofVersailles.ThenMr.McKeeturnedandcontinuedonoutthedoor.Takingmyhatfromthechandelier,Ifollowed. “Cometolunchsomeday,”hesuggested,aswegroaneddownintheelevator. “Where?” “Anywhere.” “Keepyourhandsoffthelever,”snappedtheelevatorboy. “Ibegyourpardon,”saidMr.McKeewithdignity,“Ididn’tknowIwastouchingit.” “Allright,”Iagreed,“I’llbegladto.” …Iwasstandingbesidehisbedandhewassittingupbetweenthesheets,cladinhisunderwear,withagreatportfolioinhishands. “BeautyandtheBeast…Loneliness…OldGroceryHorse…Brook’nBridge…” ThenIwaslyinghalfasleepinthecoldlowerlevelofthePennsylvaniaStation,staringatthemorningTribune,andwaitingforthefouro’clocktrain.