3-30-15 Monday Mischief
Story © Brannon Hollingsworth, All Rights Reserved
Characters © F. Scott Fitzgerald, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”
AFTER two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and
the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and
newspaper men in and out of Gatsby's front door. A rope
stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the
curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through
my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered
open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a
detective, used the expression "madman" as he bent over Wilson's body
that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his
voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare-grotesque, circumstantial,
eager, and untrue. When Michaelis's testimony at the inquest brought to
light Wilson's suspicions of his wife I thought the whole
tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade-but Catherine, who
might have said anything, didn't say a word. She showed a surprising
amount of character about it too-looked at the coroner
with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that
her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy
with her husband, that her sister had been into no
mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her
handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure.
So Wilson was reduced to a man "deranged by grief" in
order that the case might remain in its simplist form. And it rested
there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself
on Gatsby's side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the
catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him,
and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was
surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn't move or
breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was
responsible, because no one else was interested-interested, I mean,
with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague
right at the end.
I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her
instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away
early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
"Left no address?"
"No."
"Say when they'd be back?"
"No."
"Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?"
"I don't know. Can't say."
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where
he lay and reassure him: "I'll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don't
worry. Just trust me and I'll get somebody for you-"
Meyer Wolfshiem's name wasn't in the phone book. The butler gave me
his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the
time I had the number it was long after five, and no one
answered the phone.
"Will you ring again?"
"I've rung them three times."
"It's very important."
"Sorry. I'm afraid no one's there."
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they
were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it.
But, as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby
with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old
sport, you've got to get somebody for me. You've got to try hard. I
can't go through this alone."
Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going
up-stairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk-he'd
never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there
was nothing-only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten
violence, staring down from the wall.
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem,
which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next
train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I
was sure he'd start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure
there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon-but neither a wire nor Mr.
Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and
photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back
Wolfshiem's answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful
solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks
of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a
mad act as that man did should make us all think. I
cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business
and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do
a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I
hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am
completely knocked down and out. Yours truly MEYER WOLFSHIEM and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know
about the funeral etc do not know his family at all.
When the
phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I
thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection
came through as a man's voice, very thin and far away.
"This is Slagle speaking. . ."
"Yes?" The name was unfamiliar.
"Hell of a note, isn't it? Get my wire?"
"There haven't been any wires."
"Young Parke's in trouble," he said rapidly. "They picked him up when
he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York
giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What
d'you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns-"
"Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here-this isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead."
It wasn't until that moment--the moment I heard my own spoken words--that I'd realized what I'd said.
'Mr. Gatsby's dead.'
He'd been dead all this time, in fact.
And yet, I'd been hearing him. Seeing him. Conversing with him.
Dead.
All the stuff I'd seen. Dear God, all the stuff I'd done.
'Mr. Gatsby's dead.'
There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an
exclamation . . . then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.
***
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