“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.”
He’d frowned and massaged the gun with his drunken fingers.
Every fiber of my being had told me to grab my suitcase then, to run, to go back to the city. Maybe Cath’s couch wouldn’t be so bad? But George would only follow me there. And I’d told Cath I’d trust her, wait it out here. Wait for Tom to come and take me westward like he’d promised. Anyway, if I turned and ran, I was pretty sure George would shoot me.
I’d forced myself to smile, to walk toward him. It took every ounce of strength I had to lean in and rub his shoulders. “Darling, it’s so late. Let’s go to bed.”
He’d stared up at me, his eyes glassy, desperate. But he’d let go of the gun, and he’d stood, wrapped his hands around my neck. At first he’d moved his fingers gently, massaging my collarbone with his thumbs. But I knew what was coming and a shiver erupted through my body. His hands began to squeeze. Tighter and tighter.