poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.
“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the
last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my
sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather
shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked
at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his
head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white
shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call
a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into
a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway
train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live
forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”
She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial
laughter.
“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m
through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to
make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave,
and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where
you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s
grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t
forget all the things I got to do.”
It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch
and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists
clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out
my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that
had worried me all the afternoon.
The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes
through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People
disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost
each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet
away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood
face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson
had any right to mention Daisy’s name.
“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I
want to! Daisy! Dai—”
Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his
open hand.
Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s
voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of
pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the

 Prev. P 22/132 next