Beautiful Little Fools(66)

What happened next came so fast that the motions were blurry through the haze of smoke. Suddenly Myrtle’s nose was gushing blood, and Tom stood there, his hand covered in it. And that’s when I realized he’d punched her in the face. He’d punched her in the face. He’d broken her nose.

This arrogant, rich, swine of a man had just broken my sister’s nose.

The room continued to be still, and the whiskey had made everyone slow, but me. I jumped up and ran to Myrtle, tilting her head back. “Jesus, what have you done?” I shouted at Tom.

“I didn’t… I didn’t… mean to…” Tom stuttered, staring at Myrtle’s blood all over his fingers, seemingly in disbelief that he had made her bleed. “Myrtle.” He reached out for her with his clean hand, but I slapped his hand away. She was sobbing now, and I pulled her to my chest, shushing her, rubbing her back, and trying to keep her head tilted back.

“Get me a towel,” I said to Tom. He didn’t move. No one did. “Get me a goddamned towel, Tom!”

That seemed to wake him up, finally, and he ran into the bathroom. I grabbed a copy of Town Tattle to catch the blood in the meanwhile, until Tom returned a few moments later with a small stack of towels. “Now get out,” I said to him. He shook his head and didn’t move. “Everyone out!” I shouted.

Nick and the neighbor couple listened and filed out, but Tom stood there, staring, as I lifted Myrtle’s head back again, told her to squeeze the bridge of her nose to try and stop the bleeding, and held a towel against her lips to catch the blood. “Tom,” I said, firmly. “You, too. Get out.”

I placed the towel in Myrtle’s hand, told her to hold it there. I glared at Tom, until he finally looked away, walked to the door. I followed behind him. “Tell her I’m sorry,” he said, somewhat contritely. I shook my head. “You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, Myrtle,” he called out over me, but it was hard to hear much but the sound of Myrtle’s continued cries now.

“I want you to leave my sister alone,” I told him firmly. “You have a wife. Go home to East Egg to her.” He shook his head. “I mean it,” I said firmly. “Leave Myrtle alone.”

“Or what?” He snickered a little, his voice thick with whiskey and condescension.

I leaned in closer, lowered my voice. “If you hurt my sister again, I don’t care who you are, Tom Buchanan. I’ll kill you.” I meant it. I really and truly did. But maybe it was hard to tell because my voice came out so shaky.

Tom’s mouth bent into a half smile, like I amused him. My hands shook with anger. But then he finally spun on his heel and left.

The apartment was totally quiet now, except for the soft sound of Myrtle’s continued sobs. I went back to the couch, and held her, rocking her back and forth.

“What’ll I tell George?” she whispered to me, once the bleeding had finally stopped. Her nose was already a peculiar shade of purple, her upper lip crusted with blood. Her eyes were wide, frightened.

She was afraid to tell her husband, who had hurt her for so long, that another man had done the same. Oh, Myrtle. Tom wasn’t ever going to save her from George. Tom was George, only with more money, more arrogance.

“You’re going to tell George that you walked into a pole on Fifth Avenue. I’ll come back with you. I’ll tell him myself. We can say it was my fault. I was drunk and I wasn’t watching, and I tripped, and… and… you saved me.”

Myrtle nodded slowly, squeezed my hand. “Thanks, Cath,” she whispered.

“You shouldn’t see him anymore, Myrt,” I said. “Tom’s no good for you.”

“But I love him,” she cried out. “And he’s going to leave Daisy and we’ll go together out west and we’ll be so happy.” The fantasy cracked in her voice as she repeated it now, and maybe, no matter how much she claimed to believe it, deep down she, too, knew it was broken, haphazard, unlikely. “Everything will be different soon,” she said, unconvincingly. “You’ll see, Cath.”

I stared at Myrtle’s purple swollen nose, and I shook my head. All I could think was that Jay was to blame. He’d brought Tom into her life. He had done it for his own selfish, stupid reasons, and now Myrtle sat before me bruised and bleeding. Anger boiled up inside of me. A fast-brewing, uncontrollable sort of rage. This was all Jay’s fault.





Daisy July 1922

WEST EGG




THE RAIN CAME DOWN SO hard that I could barely see the scenery as we drove across to West Egg. East Egg, West Egg, old money, new money. It all looked the same: a blur of green, and the giant gray sound in between, and mansions obscured by a wash of raindrops.

Nick had telephoned yesterday, invited me for tea this afternoon. And he had told me, rather cryptically, to come alone. Or rather, his exact words were, Don’t bring Tom.

Tom who? I’d joked over the telephone.

But there had been something in the sound of Nick’s voice that had seemed so very serious, and I’d left the house this afternoon without telling anyone where I was going, not even Jordan. She and Nick, to my delight, had become quite friendly these past few weeks, and I wondered now if maybe he wanted to speak to me privately about her.

I’d been prepared to drive myself this afternoon, but then when I’d walked out to the garage, Ferdie, our chauffeur, said he wouldn’t allow it. “Not in this weather, Mrs. Buchanan.” He was a sweet, older man, and I took his chastising with the kindness in which I was sure it was intended.