Chapter 7

It was when I was super curious about Gatsby that his house suddenly went dark one Saturday night - and, as mysteriously as it started, his life as a party king was over.

It wasn’t until later that I realized the cars pulling up to his driveway were just sitting there for a minute, then driving off looking annoyed. Wondering if he was sick, I went over to check on him - an unfamiliar butler with a seriously shady look squinted at me suspiciously from the door.

"Is Mr. Gatsby okay?"

"Nope."

After a pause he mumbled "sir" in a slow, reluctant way.

"I hadn’t seen him around, and I was a little worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway stopped by."

"Who?" he demanded rudely.

"Carraway."

"Carraway. Okay, I’ll tell him."

He slammed the door in my face.

My guy, Finn, told me that Gatsby had fired every single servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with a handful of new ones, who never even went into West Egg to get bribed by the local shops, but just ordered basic supplies over the phone.

The grocery delivery kid said the kitchen was a disaster, and everyone in the village thought the new people weren’t even servants at all.

The next day, Gatsby called me on the phone.

"Leaving town?" I asked.

"Nah, old sport."

"I heard you let go of all your staff."

"I wanted someone who wouldn’t spill secrets. Daisy comes over a lot - in the afternoons."

So, the whole elaborate setup just collapsed like a house of cards because of a look in her eyes.

"They’re people Wolfshiem wanted to help out. They’re all siblings. They used to run a small hotel."

"I see."

He was calling at Daisy’s request - would I come to lunch at her place tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later, Daisy herself called and sounded really relieved I was coming. Something was definitely up.

And yet, I couldn’t believe they’d pick this moment for a drama - especially for the pretty intense scene Gatsby had described in the garden.

The next day was scorching, practically the last day of summer, and definitely the hottest. As my train popped out of the tunnel into the sunlight, only the loud whistles from the National Biscuit Company broke the quiet heat at noon.

The straw seats in the train car were practically burning; the woman next to me was sweating delicately into her white blouse for a bit, and then, as her newspaper got damp, she just gave up and sank into the oppressive heat with a desperate cry. Her purse fell to the floor.

"Oh, my!" she gasped.

I picked it up with a tired bend and handed it back, holding it far away and grabbing the very tips of the corners to show I had no plans to steal anything - but everyone nearby, including the woman, still looked at me suspiciously.

"Hot!" the conductor yelled to the familiar faces. "Crazy weather!... Hot!... Hot!... Hot!... Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it...?"

My commuter ticket came back with a dark stain from his hand. It was wild that anyone would even care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made the pajama pocket over his heart damp!

... Through the hallway of the Buchanans’ house, a faint breeze blew, carrying the sound of the phone ringing out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.

"The master’s body?" the butler shouted into the mouthpiece. "I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t handle it - it’s way too hot to touch this afternoon!"

What he actually said was: "Yes... Yes... I’ll see."

He put down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats.

"Madame expects you in the salon!" he cried, pointing the way unnecessarily.

In this heat, every extra move felt like an insult to everyone.

The room, shaded by awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan were lying on an enormous couch, like silver statues weighed down by their own white dresses against the gentle breeze from the fans.

"We can’t move," they said together.

Jordan’s fingers, dusted white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine.

"And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?" I asked.

At the same time, I heard his voice, rough, muffled, and husky, coming from the hall telephone.

Gatsby stood in the middle of the bright red carpet and looked around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a little puff of powder rose from her chest.

"The rumor is," Jordan whispered, "that that’s Tom’s girl on the phone."

We were quiet. The voice in the hall got louder, annoyed: "Fine, I won’t sell you the car at all... I don’t owe you anything... and I won’t put up with you bothering me at lunchtime!"

"Holding the receiver down," Daisy said, sounding sarcastic.

"No, he’s not," I assured her.

"It’s a legit deal. I know about it."

Tom threw open the door, blocking out the light for a second with his big body, and hurried into the room.

"Mr. Gatsby!"

He stuck out his broad, flat hand with barely hidden dislike.

"Glad to see you, sir... Nick..."

"Make us a cold drink," Daisy cried.

As he went back into the room, she got up and went over to Gatsby, pulling his face down and kissing him on the mouth.

"You know I love you," she murmured.

"You forget there’s a lady here," said Jordan.

Daisy looked around doubtfully.

"You kiss Nick too."

"What a trashy girl!"

"I don’t care!" Daisy cried, and started dancing on the brick fireplace.

Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse, leading a little girl, came into the room.

"Bles-sed pre-cious," she cooed, holding out her arms.

"Come to your own mother that loves you."

The child, let go by the nurse, ran across the room and clung shyly to her mother’s dress.

"The bles-sed pre- cious ! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say - How-de-do."

Gatsby and I leaned down and took the small, reluctant hand. Afterward, he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he’d ever really believed she existed before.

"I got dressed before lunch," the child said, turning eagerly to Daisy.

"That’s because your mother wanted to show you off."

Her face made a tiny wrinkle on the small white neck.

"You dream, you. You absolute little dream."

"Yes," the child said calmly. "Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too."

"How do you like mother’s friends?"

Daisy turned her around so she faced Gatsby.

"Do you think they’re pretty?"

"Where’s Daddy?"

"She doesn’t look like her father," explained Daisy.

"She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of my face."

Daisy sat back on the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand.

"Come, Pammy."

"Goodbye, sweetheart!"

With a reluctant backward glance, the well-behaved child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, leading four gin rickeys that clinked full of ice.

Gatsby took up his drink.

"They certainly look cool," he said, with obvious tension.

We drank in long, greedy gulps.

"I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year," Tom said cheerfully. "It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun - or wait a minute - it’s just the opposite - the sun’s getting colder every year."

"Come outside," he suggested to Gatsby, "I’d like you to have a look at the place."

I went with them out to the veranda. On the quiet Sound, hot in the heat, one small sailboat crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it for a moment; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.

"I’m right across from you."

"So you are."

Our eyes lifted over the rose beds and the scorching lawn, past the weedy junk along the shoreline. Slowly, the white wings of the boat moved against the clear, blue sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the lush, blessed islands.

"There’s some action for you," said Tom, nodding. "I’d love to be out there with him for a bit."

We had lunch in the dining room, which was also darkened against the heat, and chased away the nervous energy with cold ale.

"What are we going to do this afternoon?" cried Daisy, "and the day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Jordan said. "Life starts fresh when it gets cool in the fall."

"But it’s so hot," insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, "and everything’s a mess. Let’s all go to town!"

Her voice struggled against the heat, pushing through it, shaping its meaninglessness into something recognizable.

"I’ve heard of turning a garage into a stable," said Tom to Gatsby, "but I’m the first guy who ever made a stable out of a garage."

"Who wants to go to town?" demanded Daisy insistently.

Gatsby’s eyes drifted toward her.

"Oh," she cried, "you look so cool."

Their eyes met, and they stared at each other, alone for a moment. With a quick glance, she looked down at the table.

"You always look so cool," she repeated.

She’s told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was stunned. His mouth opened slightly, and he looked at Gatsby, then back at Daisy, as if he’d just realized who she was, someone he knew a long time ago.

"You resemble the ad for that guy," she went on playfully.

"You know, the ad for that guy - "

"Okay," broke in Tom quickly, "I’m totally down to go to town. Come on - we’re all going to town."

He got up, his eyes still darting between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.

"Come on!" His temper cracked a little.

"What’s the deal? If we’re going to town, let’s get going."

His hand, shaking with the effort to stay calm, brought the last of his ale to his lips. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out onto the blazing gravel driveway.

"Are we just going?" she asked. "Like this? Aren’t we going to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?"

"Everyone smoked all through lunch."

"Oh, let’s have some fun," she begged him.

"It’s too hot to be a pain."

He didn’t answer.

"Do whatever you want," she said. "Come on, Jordan."

They went upstairs to get ready while we three guys stood there, shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon was already hovering in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, then changed his mind, but not before Tom spun around and faced him expectantly.

"You got your stables around here?" asked Gatsby, with some effort.

"About a quarter of a mile down the road."

"Oh."

A pause.

"I don’t see the point of going to town," broke out Tom savagely.

"Women get these ideas in their heads - "

"Should we grab anything to drink?" called Daisy from an upper window.

"I’ll get some whisky," answered Tom.

He went inside.

Gatsby turned to me rigidly:

"I can’t say anything in his house, old sport."

"She’s got a loud voice," I remarked. "It’s full of - " I hesitated.

"Her voice is full of money," he said suddenly.

That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money - that was the endless charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the song of cymbals... High in a white palace, the king’s daughter, the golden girl...

Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small, tight hats made of shiny cloth and carrying light capes over their arms.

"Should we all pile into my car?" suggested Gatsby.

He felt the hot, green leather of the seat.

"I should’ve left it in the shade."

"Is it standard shift?" demanded Tom.

"Yeah."

"Alright, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town."

The suggestion was not ideal for Gatsby.

"I don’t think there’s much gas," he complained.

"Plenty of gas," said Tom, sounding super excited.

He checked the gauge.

"And if we run out, I can stop at a drugstore. You can get anything at a drugstore these days."

There was a beat of silence after that random comment. Daisy looked at Tom, frowning, and a weird expression - familiar but totally new, like I’d only heard it described - flashed across Gatsby’s face.

"Come on, Daisy," said Tom, nudging her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. "I’ll take you in this circus wagon."

He opened the door, but she stepped away from his arm.

"You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé."

She moved close to Gatsby, touching his coat. Jordan, Tom, and I piled into the front seat of Gatsby’s car. Tom fumbled with the unfamiliar gears, and we shot off into the scorching heat, leaving them behind.

"Did you see that?" Tom demanded.

"See what?" He looked at me sharply, realizing Jordan and I probably knew all along.

"You think I’m dumb, don’t you?" he suggested.

"Maybe I am, but I have - almost a second sight, sometimes - that tells me what to do. You probably don't believe that, but science - " He paused.

The immediate situation pulled him back from a theoretical rabbit hole.

"I’ve done a little digging into this guy," he continued.

"I could have gone deeper if I’d known - "

"You mean you went to a psychic?" Jordan asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"What?" He looked confused, staring at us as we laughed.

"A psychic?"

"About Gatsby."

"About Gatsby! No, I didn’t. I said I’d been looking into his past."

"And you found he was an Oxford man," Jordan offered helpfully.

"An Oxford man!"

He sounded totally shocked.

"No way! He wears a pink suit."

"Still, he’s an Oxford man."

"Oxford, New Mexico," Tom scoffed.

"Or something like that."

"Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?" Jordan snapped.

"Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married - God knows where!"

We were all on edge now from the fading beer, and we drove in silence for a bit. Then, as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into view down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s warning about the gas.

"We’re good to get to town," said Tom.

"But there’s a garage right here," objected Jordan.

"I don’t want to get stranded in this crazy heat."

Tom slammed on the brakes, and we skidded to a dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment, the owner came out of his shop, his eyes looking hollow.

"Let’s get some gas !" Tom said impatiently. "What do you think we stopped for - to admire the view?"

"I’m feeling sick," said Wilson without moving. "Been sick all day."

"What’s wrong?"

"I’m completely drained."

"Well, should I fill it up?" Tom demanded.

"You sounded fine on the phone."

With a groan, Wilson stepped out of the shade and, breathing heavily, unscrewed the gas cap. His face was green in the sunlight.

"I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch," he said. "But I really need money, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car."

"How do you like this one?" inquired Tom.

"I bought it last week."

"It’s a nice yellow one," said Wilson, straining at the handle.

"Want to buy it?"

"Big chance," Wilson smiled faintly.

"No, but I could make some money on the other one."

"What do you want money for, all of a sudden?"

"I’m tired of being here. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go West."

"Your wife does," exclaimed Tom, surprised.

"She’s been talking about it for ten years."

He leaned against the pump, shielding his eyes.

"And now she’s going, whether she wants to or not. I’m getting her out of here."

The coupé zipped past us, kicking up dust and flashing a quick wave.

"What do I owe you?" Tom demanded, his voice sharp.

"I just figured something weird was going on the last couple of days," Wilson said. "That’s why I want to get out of here. That’s why I’d been bugging you about the car."

"What do I owe you?"

"Dollar twenty."

The relentless heat was starting to mess with my head, and I had a weird moment before I realized he hadn’t suspected Tom yet. He’s found out that Myrtle had a whole other life going on somewhere else, and the shock had totally knocked him for a loop.

I stared at him, then at Tom, who’s made a similar discovery less than an hour ago - and it hit me that there wasn’t a huge difference between guys, in brains or anything, as there was between someone who’s sick and someone who’s okay.

Wilson looked so guilty, unforgivably guilty - like he’s gotten some girl pregnant.

"I’ll let you have that car," Tom said. "I’ll send it over tomorrow afternoon."

That area was always a little creepy, even in the bright sunlight, and now I turned my head like I’s been warned about something behind us.

Over the piles of trash, the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept watch, but I realized after a sec that other eyes were checking us out, less than twenty feet away.

In one of the windows above the garage, the curtains had been moved a bit, and Myrtle Wilson was staring down at the car.

She was so focused she didn’t even notice she was being watched, and one feeling after another flashed across her face, like objects popping up in a photo slowly coming into view.

Her expression was familiar - I’s seen it on women’s faces before, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face, it seemed pointless and confusing until I realized her eyes, wide with jealous fear, weren’t fixed on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, who she thought was his wife.

There’s no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away, Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and safe, were slipping out of his control.

Instinct made him slam on the gas to catch up to Daisy and leave Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the tangled metal of the elevated train, we saw the easygoing blue coupé.

"Those movies around Fiftieth Street are pretty cool," Jordan suggested.

"I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s gone. There’s something really sensual about it - overripe, like all sorts of crazy fruits were just going to fall into your hands."

The word "sensual" seemed to make Tom even more anxious, but before he could complain, the coupé stopped, and Daisy signaled us to pull up alongside.

"Where are we going?" she cried.

"How about the movies?"

"It’s so hot," she complained.

"You go. We’ll ride around and meet you later."

She tried to be witty.

"We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the guy smoking two cigarettes."

"We can’t argue about it here," Tom said impatiently, as a truck blasted a cursing whistle behind us. "You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza."

Several times he looked back to see their car, and if traffic slowed them down, he’s slowed down too until he saw them. I think he was afraid they’d dart down a side street and disappear from his life forever.

But they didn’t. And we all took the weird step of renting a suite at the Plaza Hotel.

I honestly can’t remember how the huge fight ended up with us stuck in that room, even though I have a super clear memory of my underwear basically climbing up my legs like a wet snake and random beads of sweat trickling down my back.

It started with Daisy suggesting we rent five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then somehow morphed into "a place to have a mint julep. We all kept saying it was a "crazy idea" - we were all talking over each other, confusing a poor clerk, and pretending to be hilarious...

The room was huge and stuffy, and even though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows only let in a blast of hot, overgrown bushes from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair.

"It’s a really nice suite," Jordan said quietly, and everyone laughed.

"Open another window," Daisy commanded, without turning around.

"There aren’t any more."

"Well, we’d better call for an axe - "

"The thing to do is just forget about the heat," Tom said impatiently. "You’re making it way worse by complaining about it."

He pulled the bottle of whisky out of the towel and put it on the table.

"Why don’t you leave her alone, old sport?" Gatsby remarked. "You’re the one who wanted to come to town."

There was a moment of silence. The phone book slipped off the nail and landed on the floor, and then Jordan whispered, "Excuse me" - but nobody laughed this time.

"I’ll pick it up," I offered.

"I got it."

Gatsby checked out the broken string, mumbled "Hmm!" in a curious way, and tossed the book onto a chair.

"That’s a great saying of yours, isn’t it?" Tom said sharply.

"What is?"

"All this ‘old sport’ stuff. Where did you pick that up?"

"Now, come on, Tom," Daisy said, turning around from the mirror. "If you’re gonna start making personal remarks, I’m not staying here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint juleps."

As Tom grabbed the receiver, the trapped heat exploded into sound, and we were listening to the dramatic chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below.

"Imagine getting married in this heat!" Jordan said dramatically.

"Still - I did get married in the middle of June," Daisy remembered.

"Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it that fainted, Tom?"

"Biloxi," he said briefly.

"A guy named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes - that’s a fact - and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee."

"They carried him into my house," Jordan added, "because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to leave. The day after he left, Daddy died."

After a moment, she added as if she might have sounded disrespectful, "There wasn’t really any connection."

"I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis," I said.

"That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminum putter that I still use today."

The music had quieted down as the ceremony started, and now a long cheer floated in through the window, followed by intermittent shouts of "Yea - ea - ea!" and then a burst of jazz as the dancing began.

"We’re getting old," Daisy said. "If we were young, we’d get up and dance."

"Remember Biloxi," Jordan warned her.

"Where’d you know him, Tom?"

"Biloxi?" He concentrated, trying to remember.

"I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s."

"He was not," she denied.

"I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car."

"Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him."

Jordan smiled.

"He was probably just bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale."

Tom and I stared at each other blankly.

"Biloxi?"

"First of all, we didn’t even have a president - "

Gatsby’s foot started tapping a short, nervous beat, and Tom suddenly looked over at him.

"Hey, Mr. Gatsby, I heard you went to Oxford."

"Not exactly."

"Oh, yeah, I thought you went to Oxford."

"Yeah - I did go there."

A pause. Then Tom’s voice, dripping with disbelief and a jab:

"You must have gone there around the same time Biloxi went to New Haven."

Another pause. A waiter bustled in with crushed mint and ice, but the silence wasn’t broken by a thank you or the soft click of the door. This huge detail was finally going to be cleared up.

"I told you I went there," said Gatsby.

"I heard you, but when?"

"It was nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man."

Tom glanced around to see if we were feeling the same shock. But we were all staring at Gatsby.

"It was a chance they offered some of the officers after the armistice," he continued.

"We could go to any college in England or France."

I almost jumped up and clapped him on the back. I had one of those bursts of total belief in him that I’d felt before. Daisy stood up, smiling faintly, and headed to the table.

"Open the whiskey, Tom," she ordered, "and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so clueless... Look at the mint!"

"Hold on," snapped Tom, "I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question."

"Go ahead," said Gatsby politely.

"What are you trying to stir up in my house, anyway?"

They were out in the open now, and Gatsby seemed relieved.

"He’s not causing trouble," Daisy looked desperately from one to the other.

"You’re causing a scene. Please, just chill out."

"Chill out!" repeated Tom in disbelief.

So the latest trend is to sit back and let some random guy make a move on your wife? Well, you can count me out... Nowadays people start by making fun of family and traditions, and next thing you know, they’re throwing everything out the window and having mixed-race marriages.

Flushed with his passionate rant, he saw himself standing alone on the last line of defense for civilization.

"We’re all white here," murmured Jordan.

I know I’m not the most popular guy. I don’t throw huge parties. I guess you have to turn your house into a mess to have any friends - in the modern world.

As angry as I was, as we all were, I wanted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The shift from party animal to goody-two-shoes was wild.

"I’ve got something to tell you, old sport - " began Gatsby.

But Daisy sensed what he was going for.

"Please don’t!" she interrupted, practically begging.

"Please, let’s all go home. Why don't we just go home?"

"That’s a good idea," I said, getting up. "Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink."

"I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me."

"Your wife doesn’t love you," said Gatsby. "She’s never loved you. She loves me."

"You’re crazy!" exclaimed Tom automatically.

Gatsby jumped to his feet, buzzing with excitement.

"She never loved you, do you hear me?" he cried. "She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a huge mistake, but in her heart she’s never loved anyone but me!"

At that moment, Jordan and I tried to leave, but Tom and Gatsby insisted, each one more forceful than the other, as if neither had anything to hide and it would be a privilege to witness their emotions.

"Sit down, Daisy," Tom’s voice struggled to sound like a dad.

"What’s been going on? I want to hear everything."

"I told you what’s been going on," said Gatsby. "Going on for five years - and you didn’t even know."

Tom turned to Daisy sharply.

"You’ve been seeing this guy for five years?"

"Not seeing," said Gatsby. "No, we couldn’t meet. But we both loved each other the whole time, old sport, and you had no clue. I used to laugh sometimes" - but there was no humor in his eyes - "to think that you didn’t know."

"Oh - that’s all."

Tom tapped his fingers together like a priest and leaned back in his chair.

"You’re crazy!" he exploded.

"I can’t talk about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t even know Daisy then - and I’ll be damned if I see how you got anywhere near her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But everything else you’re saying is a total lie."

"Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now."

"No," said Gatsby, shaking his head.

"She does, though. The thing is, sometimes she gets weird ideas in her head and doesn’t even know what she’s doing."

He nodded knowingly.

"And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Sometimes I go on a wild night out and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and deep down I’m always in love with her."

"You’re disgusting," said Daisy.

She turned to me, and her voice dropped, filling the room with a cutting look: "Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised they didn’t tell you about that little mess."

Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.

"Daisy, that’s old news now," he said earnestly. "It doesn’t matter anymore. Just tell him the truth - that you never loved him - and it’s all erased."

She looked at him blankly.

"Why - how could I love him - ever?"

"You never loved him."

She hesitated. Her eyes landed on Jordan and me, like she suddenly realized what she was doing - and like she’s never intended doing anything at all. But it was done. It was too late.

"I never loved him," she said, reluctantly.

"Not at Kapiolani?" demanded Tom suddenly.

"No."

From the ballroom below, muffled, heavy music was drifting up on hot waves of air.

"Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?"

There was a soft, tender tone in his voice...

"Daisy?"

"Please don’t."

Her voice was cold, but the bitterness was gone. She looked at Gatsby.

"There, Jay," she said - but her hand trembled as she tried to light a cigarette.

Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.

"Oh, you want too much!" she cried to Gatsby. "I love you now - isn’t that enough? I can’t change the past."

She started to cry. "I did love him once - but I loved you too."

Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.

"You loved me too?" he repeated.

"Even that’s a lie," said Tom savagely. "She didn’t even know you were alive. There are things between Daisy and me you’ll never know, things neither of us can ever forget."

The words seemed to hit Gatsby hard.

"I want to talk to Daisy alone," he insisted.

"She’s all worked up now - "

"Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom," she admitted in a small voice. "It wouldn’t be true."

"Of course it wouldn’t," agreed Tom.

She turned to her husband.

"As if it even matters to you," she said.

"It totally matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on."

"You don’t get it," said Gatsby, a hint of panic in his voice. "You’re not going to take care of her anymore."

"Why’s that?"

Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could stay in control now.

"Why’s that?"

"Daisy’s leaving you."

"Don’t be ridiculous."

"I am, though," she said with a visible effort.

"She’s not leaving me!" Tom’s words suddenly leaned over Gatsby.

"Certainly not for a lowlife who had to steal the ring he put on her finger."

"I won’t stand for this!" cried Daisy. "Oh, let’s just go."

"Who are you, anyway?" burst out Tom.

"You’re one of those guys who hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem - I know that much. I’ve done a little digging into your business - and I’m going to look into it more tomorrow."

"You can do whatever you want, old sport," said Gatsby steadily.

"I figured out what your ‘drugstores’ were."

He turned to us and spoke quickly.

"He and this Wolfshiem bought up a bunch of corner pharmacies here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little schemes. I pegged him as a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far off."

"So what?" said Gatsby politely. "I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to get involved."

"And you left him hanging, right? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. Man, you should hear Walter rant about you."

"He came to us broke. He was pretty happy to grab some cash, old sport."

"Don’t call me ‘old sport’!" snapped Tom.

Gatsby didn’t say a thing. "Walter could have you busted for gambling, but Wolfshiem scared him into keeping his mouth shut."

That familiar, weird look was back on Gatsby’s face.

"That drugstore thing was just pocket change," continued Tom slowly, "but you’re up to something now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about."

I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had started balancing an invisible object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby - and was shocked by his expression.

He looked - and I’m saying this despite all the gossip coming out of his yard - like he’d "killed a man." For a second, his face could be described in just that crazy way.

It faded, and he started talking excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that hadn’t even been made.

But with every word, she was retreating further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to reach for something that was gone, struggling unhappily, without despair, toward that lost voice across the room.

The voice begged again to leave.

"Please, Tom! I can’t stand this anymore."

Her scared eyes showed that whatever intentions, whatever courage she’s had, were definitely gone.

"You two head home, Daisy," said Tom. "In Mr. Gatsby’s car."

She looked at Tom, now alarmed, but he insisted with a dismissive air.

"Go on. He won’t bother you. I think he gets it that his little flirtation is over."

They were gone, without a word, dismissed, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our sympathy.

After a moment, Tom got up and started wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel.

"Want some of this stuff? Jordan?... Nick?"

I didn’t answer.

"Nick?" He asked again.

"What?"

"Want any?"

"Nah... I just remembered that today’s my birthday."

I was thirty. Ahead of me stretched the daunting, threatening road of a new decade.

It was seven o’clock when we got into the car with him and headed for Long Island. Tom talked nonstop, celebrating and laughing, but his voice felt as distant from Jordan and me as the noise on the sidewalk or the rumble of the elevated train.

Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind us. Thirty - the promise of a decade of loneliness, a shrinking list of single guys to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair.

But Jordan was beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too smart ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from one generation to the next. As we crossed the dark bridge, her pale face slumped against my coat’s shoulder and the weight of thirty died away with the comforting pressure of her hand.

So we drove on toward oblivion through the cooling twilight.

The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee shop next to the ash piles, was the main witness at the inquest. He'd slept through the heat until after five, then wandered over to the garage and found George Wilson really sick in his office - pale as his own light hair and shaking all over.

Michaelis told him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying he’d lose a ton of business if he did. While his neighbor was trying to convince him, a huge commotion broke out upstairs.

"I’ve got my wife locked up there," Wilson said calmly. "She’s staying there until the day after tomorrow, then we’re moving out."

Michaelis was shocked; they’d been neighbors for four years, and Wilson had never seemed capable of saying something like that. Usually, he was one of those worn-down guys: when he wasn't working, he’d sit in a chair in the doorway and stare at the people and cars driving by.

If anyone talked to him, he'd always laugh in a friendly, kind of blank way. He was his wife’s guy, not his own.

So, naturally, Michaelis tried to figure out what happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word - instead, he started giving his visitor weird, suspicious looks and asking what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days.

Just as the other guy was starting to feel uneasy, some construction workers walked by on their way to his restaurant, and Michaelis took the chance to leave, planning to come back later. But he didn’t. He probably just forgot.

When he came outside again, a little after seven, he remembered the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and yelling, downstairs in the garage.

"Beat me!" he heard her scream.

"Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!"

A moment later, she burst out into the fading light, waving her hands and shouting - before he could even move from his door, it was over.

The "death car," as the newspapers called it, didn't stop; it came out of the growing darkness, wobbled sadly for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn't even sure of its color - he told the first cop it was light green.

The other car, the one heading toward New York, pulled over about a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life suddenly gone, knelt in the road and mixed her thick, dark blood with the dust.

Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they ripped open her shirt, still damp with sweat, they saw her left breast was hanging loose like a flap, and there was no need to check for a heartbeat.

Her mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, like she’s struggled to let go of all the energy she’s held onto for so long.

We saw the three or four cars and the crowd when we were still a ways off.

"Wreck!" said Tom. "That’s good. Wilson’ll have some business at last."

He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we got closer, the quiet, focused faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically hit the brakes.

"We’ll take a look," he said hesitantly, "just a quick look."

I realized now there was this hollow, wailing sound coming from the garage, a sound that, as we got out of the coupe and walked toward the door, turned into the words "Oh, my God!" whispered over and over in a gasping moan.

"There’s some serious trouble here," said Tom excitedly.

He stretched up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light hanging from a swinging metal basket above. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a sudden, forceful push of his strong arms, pushed his way through.

The circle closed up again with a running murmur of complaints; it took a minute before I could really see anything. Then new people showed up and we were suddenly pushed inside.

Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then another blanket, like she was freezing even though it was a hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom was standing over it, his back to us, completely still.

Next to him was a motorcycle cop writing down names, sweating and correcting himself in a little notebook.

At first, I couldn’t figure out where the high, groaning words that echoed loudly through the empty garage were coming from - then I saw Wilson standing in the doorway of his office, swaying back and forth and holding onto the doorposts with both hands.

Some guy was talking to him in a low voice and trying to put a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson didn’t seem to notice. His eyes would slowly drift from the swinging light to the table with the body, then snap back to the light, and he kept yelling:

"Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh gosh! Oh my gosh!"

Presently, Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, mumbled something incoherent to the policeman.

"M-a-v - " the policeman was saying, " - o - "

"No, r - " corrected the man, "M-a-v-r-o - "

"Listen to me!" muttered Tom fiercely.

"r - " said the policeman, "o - "

"g - "

"g - " He looked up as Tom’s big hand fell sharply on his shoulder.

"What do you want, dude?"

"What happened? - that’s what I want to know."

"Car hit her. Instantly killed."

"Instantly killed," repeated Tom, staring.

"She ran out in the road. Some jerk didn’t even stop his car."

"There were two cars," said Michaelis, "one coming, one going, see?"

"Going where?" asked the policeman sharply.

"One going each way. Well, she" - his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side - "she ran out there and the one coming from N’York just slammed right into her, going thirty or forty miles an hour."

"What’s the name of this place?" demanded the officer.

"Doesn’t have a name."

A pale, well-dressed Black guy stepped closer.

"It was a yellow car," he said, "a big yellow car. New."

"See the accident?" asked the policeman.

"No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster than forty. Going fifty, sixty."

"Come here and let’s get your name. Watch out now. I need to get his name."

Some of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, because suddenly a new thing came out in his desperate cries:

"You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!"

Watching Tom, I saw the muscle in his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, grabbed him firmly by the upper arms.

"You’ve gotta pull yourself together," he said with a soothing, rough voice.

Wilson’s eyes fell on Tom; he started to stand on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees if Tom hadn’t held him upright.

"Listen," said Tom, shaking him a little. "I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine - do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon."

Only the Black guy and I were close enough to hear what he said, but the policeman picked up something in his tone and looked over with a suspicious glare.

"What’s all that?" he demanded.

"I’m his friend."

Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body.

"He says he knows the car that did it... It was a yellow car."

Some vague feeling made the policeman look suspiciously at Tom.

"And what color’s your car?"

"It’s a blue car, a coupé."

"We’ve come straight from New York," I said.

Someone who’d been tailing us confirmed it, and the cop turned away.

"Now, if you’d give me that name again, correct - " Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back.

"If somebody’d just sit with him," he snapped, all bossy.

He watched as the two guys standing closest glanced at each other and reluctantly went into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, avoiding looking at the table. As he passed close to me, he whispered, "Let’s get out of here."

Self-consciously, with his strong arms pushing the way, we pushed through the still-growing crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who’d been sent for in a desperate hope half an hour ago.

Tom drove slowly until we were past the bend - then his foot slammed down, and the coupé sped along through the night. After a little while, I heard a low, choked sob, and saw that tears were streaming down his face.

"That God-awful coward!" he whimpered.

"He didn’t even stop his car."

The Buchanans’ house suddenly appeared through the dark, rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows glowed with light among the vines.

"Daisy’s home," he said.

As we got out of the car, he glanced at me and frowned slightly.

"I should’a dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight."

A change had come over him, and he spoke seriously, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch, he wrapped up the situation in a few quick phrases.

"I’ll call a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting, you and Jordan better go inside and see if they can get you some supper - if you want any."

He opened the door.

"Come in."

"No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside."

Jordan put her hand on my arm.

"Won’t you come in, Nick?"

"No, thanks."

I was feeling a little queasy and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more.

"It’s only half-past nine," she said.

I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, because she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house.

I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone picked up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate.

I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped out from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt totally weird by that point, because all I could think about was how bright his pink suit looked under the moon.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Just standing here, old sport."

Somehow, that seemed like a really lame excuse. For all I knew, he was about to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see shady faces, the faces of "Wolfshiem’s people," hiding behind him in the dark bushes.

"Did you see any trouble on the road?" he asked after a minute.

"Yeah."

He paused.

"Was she killed?"

"Yeah."

"I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock hits all at once. She handled it pretty well."

He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.

"I got to West Egg by a side road," he went on, "and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure."

I disliked him so much by this point that I didn’t even bother to tell him he was wrong.

"Who was the woman?" he asked.

"Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the heck did it happen?"

"Well, I tried to turn the wheel - " He stopped, and suddenly I figured out the truth.

"Was Daisy driving?"

"Yeah," he said after a moment, "but of course I’m gonna say I was. You see, when we left New York she was super nervous and she thought it would help her to drive - and this woman just bolted out at us right as we were passing a car coming the other way."

It all happened so fast, but it seemed to me that she wanted to talk to us, thought we were people she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she freaked out and turned back.

"The second my hand hit the wheel, I felt the crash - it must have killed her instantly."

"It ripped her open - "

"Don’t tell me, old sport."

He winced.

"Anyway - Daisy floored it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I slammed on the emergency brake. Then she fell right into my lap and I drove on."

"She’ll be okay tomorrow," he said after a bit. "I’m just gonna wait here and see if he tries to give her a hard time about that mess this afternoon. She’s locked herself in her room, and if he tries anything rough, she’s gonna turn the light off and on."

"He won’t touch her," I said. "He’s not even thinking about her."

"I don’t trust him, old sport."

"How long are you gonna wait?"

"All night, if I have to. Anyway, till everyone goes to bed."

A new thought hit me. What if Tom found out Daisy was driving? He might think he saw a connection - he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were a couple of bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor.

"You wait here," I said. "I’ll see if there’s any sign of a problem."

I walked back along the edge of the lawn, crossed the gravel quietly, and tiptoed up the porch steps. The living room curtains were open, and I could see the room was empty.

Crossing the porch where we ate dinner that June night, three months ago, I came to a small rectangle of light that I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a crack at the sill.

Daisy and Tom were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of beer. He was talking seriously across the table at her, and he was so into what he was saying that his hand had fallen on and covered hers.

Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. They weren’re happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the beer - and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was a clear vibe of closeness between them, and anyone would have said they were plotting something.

As I tiptoed off the porch, I heard my taxi making its way down the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I’d left him on the driveway.

"Is it quiet up there?" he asked, looking worried.

"Yeah, it’s quiet."

I paused.

"You should go home and get some sleep."

He shook his head.

"I want to wait here until Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport."

He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to watching the house, like my being there was messing with something important. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight - keeping watch over nothing.