Were getting off, he insisted. I want you to meet my girl.
I think hed tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.
I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburgs persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars bought and sold. and I followed Tom inside.
The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.
Hello, Wilson, old man, said Tom, slapping him jovially 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?
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, explained Wilson quickly. I just meant
His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush 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, and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity except his wife, who moved close to Tom.
I want to see you, said Tom intently Get on the next train.
All right.
Ill meet you by the news-stand on the lower level.
She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door.
We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July[32], and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.
Terrible place, isnt it, said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.
Awful.
It does her good to get away.
Doesnt her husband object?
Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. Hes so dumb he doesnt know hes alive.
So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.
* * *She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin[33], which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of Town Tattle[34] and a moving-picture magazine, and in tile station drug-store some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.
I want to get one of those dogs, she said earnestly. I want to get one for the apartment. Theyre nice to have a dog.
We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller[35]. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
What kind are they? asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.
All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?
Id like to get one of those police dogs; I dont suppose you got that kind?
The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck.
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 Airedale. He passed his hand over the brown washrag of a back. Look at that coat. Some coat. Thats a dog thatll never bother you with catching cold.