The interior was poor and bare; the only car visible was a dust-covered Ford. The owner himself appeared in the door of an ofce, wiping his hands on a piece of waste37. He was a blond, spiritless man, weak, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a shade of hope appeared in his light blue eyes.
Hello, Wilson, old man, said Tom, slapping him cheerfully on the shoulder. Hows business?
I cant complain, answered Wilson unconvincingly. When are you going to sell me that car?
Next week; Ive got my man working on it now.
Works pretty slow, dont he?38
No, he doesnt, said Tom coldly. And if you feel that way about it, maybe Id better sell it somewhere else after all.
I dont mean that, answered Wilson quickly. I just meant
His voice faded off and Tom looked impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish gure of a woman blocked out the light from the ofce door39. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly fat, but she carried her overweight body sensuously as some women can. Her face contained no shade of beauty, but there was an immediate vitality about her that you couldnt miss. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him right in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice:
Get some chairs, why dont you, so somebody can sit down.
Oh, sure, agreed Wilson hurriedly. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity40 except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
I want to see you, said Tom imperatively. Get on the next train.
All right.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight.
Terrible place, isnt it, said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.
Awful.
It does her good to get away. Wilson thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. Hes so stupid he doesnt know hes alive.
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York. She had changed her dress to a brown gured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York41. At the news-stand she bought a copy of Town Tattle42, and in the station drugstore some cold cream and a small ask of perfume. Upstairs, she let four taxicabs drive away before she chose a new one, lavender-colored, and in this we climbed into. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and tapped on the front glass.43
I want to get one of those dogs for the apartment, she said imperatively.
We backed up to a gray old man who was selling very recent puppies of a doubtful breed.
What kind are they? asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly.
All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?
Id like to get one of those police dogs; I dont think you got that kind?
The man looked doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up44.
Thats no police dog, said Tom.
No, its not exactly a police dog, said the man with disappointment in his voice. Its more of an Airedale45. Look at that coat. Thats a dog thatll never catch cold, so you dont need to worry about it.
I think its cute, said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. How much is it?
That dog? He looked at it admiringly. That dog will cost you ten dollars.
The Airedale (without any doubts, there was an Airedale among the dogs ancestors, though its feet were surprisingly white) changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilsons lap, where she fondled the weatherproof coat with rapture46.
Is it a boy or a girl? she asked delicately.
That dog? That dogs a boy.
Heres your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it, said Tom decisively.
We drove over to Fifth Avenue.
Hold on, I said, I have to leave you here.
No, you dont, said Tom quickly. Myrtlell be hurt if you dont come up to the apartment. Wont you, Myrtle?
Come on, she said. Ill telephone my sister Catherine. People who ought to know say shes very beautiful.
Well, Id like to, but
The cab stopped at one of apartment houses. Throwing a homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and other things she bought, and went haughtily in.
The apartment was on the top oor a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it47, so that to move about was to stumble continually over. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph of what seemed to be a hen, but when you saw it from a distance it transformed into a bonnet with an old lady looking from under it. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table. Mrs. Wilson was rst busy with the dog. A lazy elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened was like in the mist. Sitting on Toms lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some. When I came back they had disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living room. Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the rst drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our rst names) reappeared, company began to arrive at the apartment door.
The sister, Catherine, was a slim, chatty girl of about thirty, with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white48. She had plucked her eyebrows and then drew them again at a more frivolous angle but nature tried to return their previous form so her face looked indistinctly. When she moved about there was a continuous clicking thanks to pottery bracelets that jingled up and down upon her arms.
Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the at below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. Later I got to know that he was a photographer and had made the photo of Mrs. Wilsons mother the old lady in the bonnet which was on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since they had been married.
Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now dressed in an elegant afternoon dress of cream-colored chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she walked about the room. With the inuence of the dress her personality had also changed. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage turned into impressive arrogance. Her laughter, her gestures became more violently feigned moment by moment.
My dear, she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to take care of my feet, and when she gave me the bill I was shocked.