Chapter 8

I couldn't sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning non-stop on the Sound, and I tossed around, feeling sick between crazy dreams and scary nightmares. Around dawn, I heard a taxi pull up to Gatsby’s driveway, and I immediately jumped out of bed and started getting dressed

- I felt like I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and waiting until morning would be too late.

Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, looking totally bummed out or asleep.

"Nothing happened," he said, sounding really down. "I waited, and around four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute, then turned off the light."

His house had never seemed so huge as it did that night when we searched through the massive rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains like giant walls and felt along endless dark walls for light switches - once I tripped and splashed onto the keys of a ghostly piano.

There was a ton of dust everywhere, and the rooms smelled musty, like they hadn’t been aired in forever. I found the humidor on a table I didn’t recognize, with just two stale, dry cigarettes inside. We opened the French windows of the living room and sat smoking out into the darkness.

"You should get out of here," I said. "It’s pretty clear they’ll trace your car."

"Go away now, old sport?"

"Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal."

He wouldn’t even consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clinging to some last hope, and I couldn’t bear to shake him free.

That night, he told me the crazy story of his youth with Dan Cody - told it to me because "Jay Gatsby" had shattered like glass against Tom’s cruelness, and the long, secret story was finally out.

I think he would have admitted anything now, without holding back, but he really wanted to talk about Daisy.

She was the first "nice" girl he’d ever known. In different ways, he’d come in contact with people like that before, but there was always a clear barrier between them. He found her incredibly desirable. He went to her house, first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone.

It blew his mind - he’d never been in such a beautiful house before. But what made it so intense was that Daisy lived there - it was as normal to her as his tent out at camp was to him.

There was a mysterious vibe about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs that were more beautiful and cool than any other bedrooms, of fun and vibrant things happening in the hallways, and of romances that weren’t old news but fresh and alive, smelling of this year’s shiny cars and dances where the flowers were barely wilted.

It excited him that a bunch of guys had already loved Daisy - it just made her more valuable in his eyes. He felt their presence all over the house, filling the air with the echoes of intense emotions.

But he knew he was in Daisy’s house by a total accident. Even if his future as Jay Gatsby was amazing, right now he was just a broke young guy with no past, and at any moment, his fake persona could disappear. So he made the most of his time.

He took whatever he could get, greedily and without shame - eventually, he took Daisy one October night, because he didn’t really have the right to touch her hand.

He could have hated himself, because he’d definitely tricked her. I don’t mean he’d pretended to have millions, but he’d deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was from the same social circle as her - that he could totally take care of her.

The truth was, he didn’t have that kind of support - he didn’t have a wealthy family behind him, and he could be shipped anywhere in the world at the whim of the government.

He didn’t hate himself, and things didn’t turn out how he’s thought they would. He’s probably planned to take what he could and bounce - but now he found himself chasing a grail. He knew Daisy was amazing, but he didn’t realize just how amazing a "nice" girl could be.

She disappeared into her huge house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby - nothing. He felt like they were married, that was it.

When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who felt, somehow, totally betrayed. Her porch glowed with the fake luxury of star-shine; the wicker couch creaked stylishly as she turned toward him, and he kissed her curious and beautiful mouth.

She’s caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever. Gatsby was totally aware of the youth and mystery that money traps and preserves, of the freshness of her clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the tough struggles of the less fortunate.

"I can’t even explain how surprised I was to realize I was in love with her, old sport. I even hoped she’d ditch me for a while, but she didn’t, because she was into me too. She thought I was smart because I knew different stuff than she did..."

"Well, there I was, totally off track with my ambitions, falling deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the point of doing big things if I could just have a better time telling her what I was going to do?"

On the last afternoon before he left for Europe, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, quiet time. It was a cold fall day, with a fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved, and he shifted his arm a little. Once he kissed her dark, shiny hair.

The afternoon made them calm for a while, like giving them a deep memory for the long goodbye the next day promised.

They’d never been closer in their month of love, or understood each other better, than when she brushed her lips against his coat's shoulder or when he touched the tips of her fingers gently, as though she were asleep.

He did really well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front, and after the Argonne battles he got his major and command of the divisional machine guns. After the armistice, he tried desperately to get home, but some mix-up or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead.

He was worried now - there was a feeling of anxious despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t get why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.

For Daisy was young, and her fake world was full of orchids and cheerful snobbery and orchestras that set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and mystery of life in new songs.

All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless message of the "Beale Street Blues" while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust.

At the grey tea hour, there were always rooms that pulsed constantly with this low, sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.

Through this hazy universe, Daisy started to move with the season again; suddenly she was keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen guys, and dozing off at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed.

And all the time, something inside her was crying out for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately - and the decision had to be made by some force - of love, of money, of undeniable practicality - that was close at hand.

That shift happened mid-spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan. He was big and important, and Daisy was totally flattered. There was definitely some awkwardness and some relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.

It was dawn now on Long Island, and we started opening the rest of the windows downstairs, flooding the house with light that shifted from grey to gold. The shadow of a tree fell suddenly across the dew, and birds started singing among the blue leaves.

There was a slow, easy feeling in the air, barely a breeze, promising a really nice, cool day.

"I don’t think she ever really loved him."

Gatsby turned from the window and looked at me, kind of challenging me.

"You gotta remember, old sport, she was really hyped up this afternoon. He told her stuff in a way that scared her - made it seem like I was some low-down hustler. And the result was she barely knew what she was saying."

He sat down looking bummed.

"Of course, she might have loved him just for a minute, when they first got married - and maybe even loved me more even then, see?"

Suddenly, he dropped a weird comment.

"Anyway," he said, "it was just personal."

What could you make of that, except to guess that he felt super intensely about the whole thing, more than you could measure?

He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their honeymoon, and took a tough but irresistible trip to Louisville on his last army paycheck.

He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had echoed through the November nights and revisiting all those out-of-the-way spots where they’d driven around in her white car.

Just like Daisy’s house had always seemed more mysterious and exciting than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she wasn’t there, was filled with a sad, beautiful vibe.

He left feeling like if he’d searched harder, he might have found her - that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach - he was broke now - was hot. He went out to the open doorway and sat down on a folding chair, and the station blurred past, and unfamiliar buildings zipped by.

Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people who might have once caught a glimpse of her face on a random street .

The tracks curved, and now it was heading away from the sun, which, as it sank lower, seemed to spread a blessing over the disappearing city where she’d drawn her breath.

He stretched out his hand desperately, as if to grab just a wisp of air, to save a piece of the spot she’d made beautiful for him. But it was all going by too fast for his blurry eyes, and he knew he’d lost that part of it, the best and freshest part, forever.

It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out onto the porch. The night had made a big difference in the weather, and there was an autumn feel in the air. The gardener, the last of Gatsby’s old staff, came to the bottom of the steps.

"I’m gonna drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes."

"Don’t do it today," Gatsby answered.

He turned to me apologetically.

"You know, old sport, I haven’t used that pool all summer?"

I looked at my watch and stood up.

"Twelve minutes to my train."

I didn’t want to go into the city. I wasn’t really doing anything worthwhile, but it was more than that - I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could shake myself loose.

"I’ll call you up," I said finally.

"Do, old sport."

"I’ll call you around noon."

We walked slowly down the steps.

"I guess Daisy’ll call too."

He looked at me anxiously, like he wanted me to back him up on this.

"I guess so."

"Well, goodbye."

We shook hands, and I started to head out. Just before I reached the hedge, I remembered something and turned around.

"They’re a total mess," I shouted across the lawn. "You’re worth the whole bunch combined."

I’m always glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I didn’t really like him. First, he nodded politely, then his face broke into that amazing, understanding smile, like we’d been in on the same secret the whole time.

His bright pink suit looked awesome against the white steps, and I thought about the night I first came to his family’s place, like three months earlier.

The lawn and driveway were packed with people who guessed he was shady - and he stood on those steps, hiding his big dreams, as he waved them goodbye.

I thanked him for having me over. We were always thanking him for that - me and the others.

"Bye," I called.

"Breakfast was great, Gatsby."

Back in the city, I tried to buy a bunch of stock, then I fell asleep in my chair. Just before noon, the phone woke me up, and I jumped, sweating.

It was Jordan Baker; she often called around this time because she was always moving between hotels, clubs, and private houses, so it was hard to find her any other way.

Usually, her voice sounded fresh and cool, like a piece of grass from a golf course had blown in the window, but this morning it sounded harsh and dry.

"I left Daisy’s house," she said. "I’m in Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon."

Leaving Daisy’s probably wasn’t the most considerate thing to do, but her next comment really bugged me.

"You weren’t very nice to me last night."

"Why would it matter?"

Silence for a second. Then:

"Still - I want to see you."

"I want to see you, too."

"What if I don’t go to Southampton and come into town this afternoon?"

"Nah - not this afternoon."

"Okay."

"It’s not happening this afternoon. Lots of - "

We talked like that for a while, and then suddenly we weren’t talking anymore. I don’t know who hung up first, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t even have talked to her across a table that day if I never talked to her again.

I called Gatsby’s place a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally, a frustrated operator told me someone was using the line for a long-distance call from Detroit. I pulled out my train schedule and circled the three:fifty train.

Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.

When I passed the piles of trash on the train that morning, I deliberately moved to the other side of the car.

I figured there’d be a crowd around there all day with kids searching for dark spots in the dust, and some random guy telling the same story over and over until it didn’t even feel real anymore, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic story would be forgotten.

Now I want to go back a bit and tell you what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.

They had trouble finding her sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule about drinking that night, because when she arrived, she was totally out of it and couldn't even understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing.

When they convinced her of that, she immediately fainted, like that was the worst part of it all. Someone, being nice or curious, took her in their car, following behind her sister’s body.

Until way past midnight, a bunch of people kept hanging around outside the garage, while George Wilson rocked back and forth on the couch inside. For a while, the office door was open, and everyone who came into the garage couldn’t help but peek in.

Eventually, someone said it was kind of rude, and they closed the door. Michaelis and a few other guys were there - first a group of four or five, then just two or three.

Later, Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to hang out for another fifteen minutes while he went back home and made some coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until sunrise.

Around three o’clock, the way Wilson was muttering started to change - he got quieter and started talking about the yellow car.

He said he had a way to figure out who the yellow car belonged to, and then he suddenly blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife came back from the city with a bruised face and a swollen nose.

But when he heard himself say that, he flinched and started crying "Oh, my God!" again in a groaning voice. Michaelis tried to distract him, awkwardly.

"How long have you been married, George? Come on, just try to sit still for a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?"

"Twelve years."

"Ever have any kids? Come on, George, sit still - I asked you a question. Did you ever have any kids?"

The hard brown beetles kept bumping against the dim light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car speeding down the road outside, it sounded like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours earlier.

He didn't really like being in the garage because the workbench was stained where the body had been lying, so he shuffled around the office - he knew every single thing in it by morning - and from time to time sat down next to Wilson, trying to keep him a little calmer.

"Do you go to church sometimes, George? Maybe even if it’s been a while? Maybe I could call the church and get a priest to come over and talk to you, see?"

"Don’t belong to one."

"You should have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?"

"That was a long time ago."

The effort of answering broke his rocking - for a moment he was silent. Then that same half-knowing, half-confused look came back into his faded eyes.

"Look in the drawer there," he said, pointing at the desk.

"Which drawer?"

"That drawer - that one."

Michaelis opened the drawer closest to his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog leash, made of leather and braided silver. It looked pretty new.

"This?" he asked, holding it up.

Wilson stared and nodded.

"I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something weird."

"You mean your wife bought it?"

"She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her dresser."

Michaelis didn’t think there was anything strange about that, and he gave Wilson a bunch of reasons why his wife might have bought the dog leash.

But maybe Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he started saying "Oh, my God!" again in a whisper - his comforter left a bunch of explanations hanging in the air.

"Then he killed her," said Wilson.

His mouth dropped open suddenly.

"Who did?"

"I have a way of finding out."

"You’re being dramatic, George," said his friend. "This has been a lot for you, and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try to sit quiet until morning."

"He murdered her."

"It was an accident, George."

Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with a hint of a superior "Hm!"

"I know," he said, sounding sure. "I’m just a trusting guy, I don’t mean anyone any harm, but when I know something, I know it. It was the guy in that car. She ran out to talk to him, and he wouldn’t stop."

Michaelis had noticed that too, but it hadn't clicked for him that it meant anything special. He figured Mrs. Wilson was trying to get away from her husband, not trying to stop a specific car.

"How could she have been like that?"

"She’s a complicated person," Wilson said, like that explained everything. "Ah-h-h - "

He started rocking back and forth again, and Michaelis stood there twisting the leash in his hand.

"Maybe you got a friend I could call, George?"

It was a long shot - he was pretty sure Wilson didn't have any friends. There wasn't enough of him for his wife. He was glad later when he noticed things were changing in the room, a blue light getting brighter by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off.

Around five o’clock it was blue enough outside to turn off the light.

Wilson’s glazed eyes drifted toward the piles of ash, where little grey clouds were taking on crazy shapes and moving around in the faint morning breeze.

"I talked to her," he mumbled after a long silence.

"I told her she could maybe trick me, but she couldn’t trick God. I took her to the window" - with a visible effort he stood up and walked to the back window, pressing his face against it - "and I said ‘God knows what you’re doing, everything you’re doing. You can fool me, but you can’t fool God!’ "

Standing behind him, Michaelis was shocked to see he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just appeared, pale and huge, from the fading darkness.

"God sees everything," repeated Wilson.

"That’s an ad," Michaelis assured him.

Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there for a long time, his face close to the window, nodding into the dim light.

By six o’clock Michaelis was exhausted and relieved to hear a car pull up outside. It was one of the people who’d been watching the night before and promised to come back, so he made breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together.

Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep. When he woke up four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.

His movements - he was walking everywhere - were tracked later to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich he didn’t eat and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, because he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon.

So far, there was no mystery about where he’s been - there were kids who’d seen a guy "acting kinda weird" and drivers he stared at oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours, he vanished.

The police, based on what he’s told Michaelis that he "had a way of finding things out," figured he spent that time going from garage to garage in the area, asking about a yellow car.

But no garage worker who’s seen him ever came forward, and maybe he had an easier, surer way of getting what he wanted to know. By half-past two, he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the way to Gatsby’s house. So by then he knew Gatsby’s name.

At two o’clock, Gatsby put on his swimsuit and told the butler that if anyone called, he should be told to find him at the pool. He stopped at the garage for an inflatable mattress that had entertained his guests all summer, and the chauffeur helped him pump it up.

Then he gave instructions that the convertible wasn’t to be driven under any circumstances - which was strange, because the front right fender needed fixing.

Gatsby grabbed the mattress and headed toward the pool. He stopped once to adjust it, and the chauffeur asked if he needed a hand, but he shook his head and vanished into the yellowing trees.

No phone messages came in, but the butler stayed up all night, waiting for one until way past when anyone would have been around to deliver it if it had arrived. I think Gatsby himself didn’t really believe one would come, and maybe he didn't even care anymore.

If that was true, he must have felt like he’d lost everything - the good old days - and paid way too much to chase a single dream for so long.

He must have looked up at a sky he didn't recognize through scary leaves and shivered as he realized how weird a rose could be and how harsh the sunlight felt on the barely-there grass.

It was a brand-new world, real-looking but not real, where lost souls, dreaming like it was air, floated around randomly... like that ghostly, unreal figure gliding toward him through the hazy trees.

The chauffeur - he was one of Wolfshiem’s guys - heard the shots - later, he could only say he didn’t think much of them at the time. I drove straight from the station to Gatsby’s house, and my rush up the front steps was the first thing that got people’s attention.

But they knew then, I’m sure of it. Without saying much, four of us - the chauffeur, the butler, the gardener, and me - raced down to the pool.

There was a slight movement in the water as fresh water flowed from one end toward the drain on the other. Tiny ripples, barely like shadows of waves, carried the loaded mattress down the pool.

A little gust of wind that barely wrinkled the surface was enough to knock it off course with its unexpected load. A bunch of leaves swirled it slowly, tracing, like a marker, a thin red circle in the water.

It was after we started heading back to the house with Gatsby that the gardener spotted Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and it was all over.