VII

weenDaisyandmethatyou’llneverknow,thingsthatneitherofuscaneverforget.” ThewordsseemedtobitephysicallyintoGatsby. “IwanttospeaktoDaisyalone,”heinsisted.“She’sallexcitednow—” “EvenaloneIcan’tsayIneverlovedTom,”sheadmittedinapitifulvoice.“Itwouldn’tbetrue.” “Ofcourseitwouldn’t,”agreedTom. Sheturnedtoherhusband. “Asifitmatteredtoyou,”shesaid. “Ofcourseitmatters.I’mgoingtotakebettercareofyoufromnowon.” “Youdon’tunderstand,”saidGatsby,withatouchofpanic.“You’renotgoingtotakecareofheranymore.” “I’mnot?”Tomopenedhiseyeswideandlaughed.Hecouldaffordtocontrolhimselfnow.“Why’sthat?” “Daisy’sleavingyou.” “Nonsense.” “Iam,though,”shesaidwithavisibleeffort. “She’snotleavingme!”Tom’swordssuddenlyleaneddownoverGatsby.“Certainlynotforacommonswindlerwho’dhavetostealtheringheputonherfinger.” “Iwon’tstandthis!”criedDaisy.“Oh,pleaselet’sgetout.” “Whoareyou,anyhow?”brokeoutTom.“You’reoneofthatbunchthathangsaroundwithMeyerWolfshiem—thatmuchIhappentoknow.I’vemadealittleinvestigationintoyouraffairs—andI’llcarryitfurthertomorrow.” “Youcansuityourselfaboutthat,oldsport,”saidGatsbysteadily. “Ifoundoutwhatyour‘drugstores’were.”Heturnedtousandspokerapidly.“HeandthisWolfshiemboughtupalotofside-streetdrugstoreshereandinChicagoandsoldgrainalcoholoverthecounter.That’soneofhislittlestunts.IpickedhimforabootleggerthefirsttimeIsawhim,andIwasn’tfarwrong.” “Whataboutit?”saidGatsbypolitely.“IguessyourfriendWalterChasewasn’ttooproudtocomeinonit.” “Andyoulefthiminthelurch,didn’tyou?YoulethimgotojailforamonthoverinNewJersey.God!YououghttohearWalteronthesubjectofyou.” “Hecametousdeadbroke.Hewasverygladtopickupsomemoney,oldsport.” “Don’tyoucallme‘oldsport’!”criedTom.Gatsbysaidnothing.“Waltercouldhaveyouuponthebettinglawstoo,butWolfshiemscaredhimintoshuttinghismouth.” ThatunfamiliaryetrecognizablelookwasbackagaininGatsby’sface. “Thatdrugstorebusinesswasjustsmallchange,”continuedTomslowly,“butyou’vegotsomethingonnowthatWalter’safraidtotellmeabout.” IglancedatDaisy,whowasstaringterrifiedbetweenGatsbyandherhusband,andatJordan,whohadbeguntobalanceaninvisiblebutabsorbingobjectonthetipofherchin.ThenIturnedbacktoGatsby—andwasstartledathisexpression.Helooked—andthisissaidinallcontemptforthebabbledslanderofhisgarden—asifhehad“killedaman.”Foramomentthesetofhisfacecouldbedescribedinjustthatfantasticway. Itpassed,andhebegantotalkexcitedlytoDaisy,denyingeverything,defendinghisnameagainstaccusationsthathadnotbeenmade.Butwitheverywordshewasdrawingfurtherandfurtherintoherself,sohegavethatup,andonlythedeaddreamfoughtonastheafternoonslippedaway,tryingtotouchwhatwasnolongertangible,strugglingunhappily,undespairingly,towardthatlostvoiceacrosstheroom. Thevoicebeggedagaintogo. “Please,Tom!Ican’tstandthisanymore.” Herfrightenedeyestoldthatwhateverintentions,whatevercourageshehadhad,weredefinitelygone. “Youtwostartonhome,Daisy,”saidTom.“InMr.Gatsby’scar.” ShelookedatTom,alarmednow,butheinsistedwithmagnanimousscorn. “Goon.Hewon’tannoyyou.Ithinkherealizesthathispresumptuouslittleflirtationisover.” Theyweregone,withoutaword,snappedout,madeaccidental,isolated,likeghosts,evenfromourpity. AfteramomentTomgotupandbeganwrappingtheunopenedbottleofwhiskyinthetowel. “Wantanyofthisstuff?Jordan?…Nick?” Ididn’tanswer. “Nick?”Heaskedagain. “What?” “Wantany?” “No…Ijustrememberedthattoday’smybirthday.” Iwasthirty.Beforemestretchedtheportentous,menacingroadofanewdecade. Itwasseveno’clockwhenwegotintothecoupéwithhimandstartedforLongIsland.Tomtalkedincessantly,exultingandlaughing,buthisvoicewasasremotefromJordanandmeastheforeignclamouronthesidewalkorthetumultoftheelevatedoverhead.Humansympathyhasitslimits,andwewerecontenttoletalltheirtragicargumentsfadewiththecitylightsbehind.Thirty—thepromiseofadecadeofloneliness,athinninglistofsinglementoknow,athinningbriefcaseofenthusiasm,thinninghair.ButtherewasJordanbesideme,who,unlikeDaisy,wastoowiseevertocarrywell-forgottendreamsfromagetoage.Aswepassedoverthedarkbridgeherwanfacefelllazilyagainstmycoat’sshoulderandtheformidablestrokeofthirtydiedawaywiththereassuringpressureofherhand. Sowedroveontowarddeaththroughthecoolingtwilight. TheyoungGreek,Michaelis,whoranthecoffeejointbesidetheash-heapswastheprincipalwitnessattheinquest.Hehadsleptthroughtheheatuntilafterfive,whenhestrolledovertothegarage,andfoundGeorgeWilsonsickinhisoffice—reallysick,paleashisownpalehairandshakingallover.Michaelisadvisedhimtogotobed,butWilsonrefused,sayingthathe’dmissalotofbusinessifhedid.Whilehisneighbourwastryingtopersuadehimaviolentracketbrokeoutoverhead. “I’vegotmywifelockedinupthere,”explainedWilsoncalmly.“She’sgoingtostaytheretillthedayaftertomorrow,andthenwe’regoingtomoveaway.” Michaeliswasastonishedtheyhadbeenneighboursforfouryears,andWilsonhadneverseemedfaintlycapableofsuchastatement.Generallyhewasoneoftheseworn-outmen:whenhewasn’tworking,hesatonachairinthedoorwayandstaredatthepeopleandthecarsthatpassedalongtheroad.Whenanyonespoketohimheinvariablylaughedinanagreeable,colourlessway.Hewashiswife’smanandnothisown. SonaturallyMichaelistriedtofindoutwhathadhappened,butWilsonwouldn’tsayaword—insteadhebegantothrowcurious,suspiciousglancesathisvisitorandaskhimwhathe’dbeendoingatcertaintimesoncertaindays.Justasthelatterwasgettinguneasy,someworkmencamepastthedoorboundforhisrestaurant,andMichaelistooktheopportunitytogetaway,intendingtocomebacklater.Buthedidn’t.Hesupposedheforgotto,that’sall.Whenhecameoutsideagain,alittleafterseven,hewasremindedoftheconversationbecauseheheardMrs.Wilson’svoice,loudandscolding,downstairsinthegarage. “Beatme!”heheardhercry.“Throwmedownandbeatme,youdirtylittlecoward!” Amomentlatersherushedoutintothedusk,wavingherhandsandshouting—beforehecouldmovefromhisdoorthebusinesswasover. The“deathcar”asthenewspaperscalledit,didn’tstopitcameoutofthegatheringdarkness,waveredtragicallyforamoment,andthendisappearedaroundthenextbend.MavroMichaeliswasn’tevensureofitscolour—hetoldthefirstpolicemanthatitwaslightgreen.Theothercar,theonegoingtowardNewYork,cametorestahundredyardsbeyond,anditsdriverhurriedbacktowhereMyrtleWilson,herlifeviolentlyextinguished,kneltintheroadandmingledherthickdarkbloodwiththedust. Michaelisandthismanreachedherfirst,butwhentheyhadtornopenhershirtwaist,stilldampwithperspiration,theysawthatherleftbreastwasswinginglooselikeaflap,andtherewasnoneedtolistenfortheheartbeneath.Themouthwaswideopenandrippedalittleatthecorners,asthoughshehadchokedalittleingivingupthetremendousvitalityshehadstoredsolong. Wesawthethreeorfourautomobilesandthecrowdwhenwewerestillsomedistanceaway. “Wreck!”saidTom.“That’sgood.Wilson’llhavealittlebusinessatlast.” Hesloweddown,butstillwithoutanyintentionofstopping,until,aswecamenearer,thehushed,intentfacesofthepeopleatthegaragedoormadehimautomaticallyputonthebrakes. “We’lltakealook,”hesaiddoubtfully,“justalook.” Ibecameawarenowofahollow,wailingsoundwhichissuedincessantlyfromthegarage,asoundwhichaswegotoutofthecoupéandwalkedtowardthedoorresolveditselfintothewords“Oh,myGod!”utteredoverandoverinagaspingmoan. “There’ssomebadtroublehere,”saidTomexcitedly. Hereachedupontiptoesandpeeredoveracircleofheadsintothegarage,whichwaslitonlybyayellowlightinaswingingmetalbasketoverhead.Thenhemadeaharshsoundinhisthroat,andwithaviolentthrustingmovementofhispowerfularmspushedhiswaythrough. ThecircleclosedupagainwitharunningmurmurofexpostulationitwasaminutebeforeIcouldseeanythingatall.Thennewarrivalsderangedtheline,andJordanandIwerepushedsuddenlyinside. MyrtleWilson’sbody,wrappedinablanket,andtheninanotherblanket,asthoughshesufferedfromachillinthehotnight,layonaworktablebythewall,andTom,withhisbacktous,wasbendingoverit,motionless.Nexttohimstoodamotorcyclepolicemantakingdownnameswithmuchsweatandcorrectioninalittlebook.AtfirstIcouldn’tfindthesourceofthehigh,groaningwordsthatechoedclamorouslythroughthebaregarage—thenIsawWilsonstandingontheraisedthresholdofhisoffice,swayingbackandforthandholdingtothedoorpostswithbothhands.Somemanwastalkingtohiminalowvoiceandattempting,fromtimetotime,tolayahandonhisshoulder,butWilsonneitherheardnorsaw.Hiseyeswoulddropslowlyfromtheswinginglighttotheladentablebythewall,andthenjerkbacktothelightagain,andhegaveoutincessantlyhishigh,horriblecall: “Oh,myGa-od!Oh,myGa-od!Oh,Ga-od!Oh,myGa-od!