“How could I possibly love you?” I snapped back at Tom. My words practically sizzled in the air, but they felt like the truest words I’d spoken in some time.
Jay smirked, satisfied by my outburst. But I didn’t love him, either. I’d felt something for him, once, years ago. Maybe it was love or maybe it was the stupidity of a youthful flirtation. Now, I felt nothing. And that was the truth, the hard, hot truth. I felt nothing. I loved no one. Except my daughter.
“You never loved Tom,” Jay was saying now. “Tell him, Daisy.”
Tom’s eyes met my eyes, and they were suddenly soft and vulnerable and a little hurt. It felt like the most honest look we’d given each other since the South Seas. “Not even in Kapiolani?” he said softly.
Kapiolani. I remembered that morning, the intoxicating scent of the Pacific and the morning dew on the grass that soaked through my dress to my knees. I remembered the inebriating power I’d felt, giving Tom pleasure, just like that, so fearlessly, out in the open. And the truth was maybe I had loved him then. Before he’d ruined it only weeks later, in Santa Barbara. Before he’d ruined me, years later in Lake Forest. And again here, this summer, in New York.
Tom and Jay went on arguing, but I couldn’t listen anymore. I just couldn’t bear it. Jordan had lain back against the couch and closed her eyes, draping her arm against her face—she was done too. I was hot and tired and I hated everything about this day, this suite, this burning useless moment in my life.
“I want to go home,” I said, suddenly. And it wasn’t East Egg I meant. It was Louisville and my normal-sized house and my childhood bed and the old snow goose trilling my name up the stairs. No one heard me—they were still arguing—so I said it again, louder. “I want to go home.… Please, Tom! I can’t stand this anymore.”
He suddenly turned from Jay to look at me, his face red with heat and anger, and something burned up in his eyes that looked strangely like desire. This fight, this stupid reckless fight made him want me again, and it felt like such a cruelty to only be wanted by your husband when he believed another man wanted you more. If that was Tom’s idea of love, then maybe he’d never truly loved anyone or anything in his entire life.
“You two start on home, Daisy.” Tom’s voice softened, and I thought he meant me and Jordan. But then his face curled into a wicked grin and he nodded toward Jay. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car,” he added.
A smile erupted across Jay’s face, like maybe he thought he’d won, and I wanted to tell him I was not some prize at the county fair, not some object to be tossed around and desired and gambled away.
But it was so hot in this room, and I could barely breathe, much less think. I didn’t want to argue anymore; I didn’t want to be in this suffocating room any longer. All I wanted to do was go home.
* * *
OUTSIDE ON THE street I walked two steps ahead of Jay. The air wasn’t any cooler out here even though the city had fallen into the gloaming while we were all drinking and arguing up in the suite. Dusk hovered over us like a blanket, and as much as I wanted to race ahead of Jay, farther, faster, I felt weighed down by the hot air and too much gin.
“Daisy,” Jay called out, running to catch up. “Wait.”
“I’ll get a taxicab,” I said.
“Don’t be silly.” He dangled his keys at arm’s length so I could hear the jingling close enough to my ear. “I’ll let you drive. Come on, just get in the car, and we can talk.”
I stopped walking and spun around. “I don’t want to talk,” I spat at him. “Don’t you see I’ve grown quite tired of talking.” The real truth sat still unspoken though. I was just… tired. So very, very tired.
He grabbed my hand and unfurled my fist, placing the car keys in my palm. “Then we’ll drive to East Egg in silence.”
The truth was, I’d never get a taxicab in this awful heat. I took the keys, my eyes caught on the bright yellow light of his Rolls-Royce, and I stomped toward it. I got into the driver’s seat and started the ignition.
And it occurred to me as I drove down Fifth Avenue that this was exactly like that first time we met, in that sweltering August heat, Jay and I together, riding in a car. Only Rose was gone. And now I was the one driving.
That was the beginning; this would be the ending.
Myrtle August 1922
QUEENS, NY
THE YELLOW CAR CAME RIDING through the ashy sweltering afternoon, beautiful and too fast, like a burst of sunshine.
I saw it from my upstairs window, watched it slow down, then stop out front for gas. Tom got out of the car. Tom!
I’m coming, I mouthed from my bedroom window, my prison, but Tom didn’t look up.
I understood then that Cath must’ve gone out to East Egg, spoken to Tom just like I’d asked. He must’ve borrowed his friend’s car, so I would know now it was time for us to head west, the bright yellow like a signal, a beacon of hope.
All I had to do was break out of my bedroom, where George had kept me locked in since last week, and run down the stairs.
But before I could move, George walked out of the garage and started talking to Tom. My heart flooded my chest, watching them. Only minutes later, Tom shook his head, then got back in the car and sped off, toward the city. But I knew. I just had to bide my time; Tom would come back again, when he thought it was safe.
I spent the rest of the afternoon getting the bedroom door lock undone with a bobby pin, the same way Cath and I used to do as girls when Father got mad and locked us in our room without supper. We’d undo the lock after we knew he was asleep, and then I’d sneak out in the dark and bring Cath back some bread so she wouldn’t have to go to sleep hungry. As I did it again this afternoon, I suddenly remembered what it was like to feel young, to feel powerful. I’d feel that way all the time, as soon as I was with Tom. We’d have a sprawling, gorgeous estate by the Pacific Ocean, and I’d never be imprisoned again.
This beautiful thought made me hum a little as I dressed in my nicest red dress, put the diamond pins from Tom in my hair. And then I sat by the window, tapping my fingers against the ledge. I watched. And waited.
And I listened anxiously for George to come up the stairs, praying Tom would come back for me first.
* * *
LAST WEEK, I’D come back to Queens after seeing Cath in the city, and George had been waiting up for me when I’d tried to sneak in at half past midnight.
He’d sat at the kitchen table then with a bottle of moonshine, holding a gun in his hands, like he was waiting for an intruder. But he’d been waiting for me.
“Where were you, Myrtle?” he’d slurred.
I’d eyed the gun, put my suitcase down behind me, and hoped he was too drunk to notice it. “I just went to the city to visit with Cath. What are you doing up?” I’d asked.
“You think I can sleep while my wife is out running around?”
“Running around?” My laugh came out too high. “Hardly. I was helping fix Cath some soup. She’s under the weather.”