“Oh don’t be so tiresome,” she said. “Tom, if you’re going to be so positively wretched, I will leave right out that door. Just send for some ice for the whiskey, if you please. Be useful.”
Tom grudgingly turned away from Gatsby, denied his proper prey, I thought, but as he spoke on the phone, I saw his face in profile. He looked confused and devastated, like the old bear whose kingdom has been taken over by a bunch of democratic sparrows.
He does love her, I thought in surprise, and at that point, I suppose I thought that it counted for something even when it stood up alone, without kindness or consideration or mercy or intelligence to back it up.
After Tom hung up the phone, the peculiar silence that falls over a group of people already ill at ease covered us, bringing the tinny opening strains of the “Wedding March” floating up from the ballroom under our feet.
“Oh!” Daisy cried. “A wedding!”
“Imagine getting married on a day like this,” I mumbled, but then she was thrusting a handful of dripping rosebuds from the vase on the table into my hands before she pushed me at Nick. She snatched up the telephone book from where it had fallen on the ground, standing before us with a great production of mock solemnity.
“And I now pronounce you man and wife,” she intoned. “You may kiss your bride!”
Nick turned to me with a shy halfway grin, and I gave him a loud and smacking kiss on the lips over Gatsby’s laugh and Tom’s faint protests.
“Be gentle with me, darling,” I told him.
“Always.”
There was absolutely no telling what stupid thing I was going to say next when Daisy shoved the phone book at me. My heart sank when I saw her grab Gatsby’s hand, and I acted without thinking.
“All right then, Jay and Nick, it’s your turn,” I cried, ignoring Daisy’s hurt gaze. To make sure I wasn’t misunderstood, I gave Gatsby my roses and wound Nick’s arm through his.
“But it’s—it’s bigamy,” Nick said, taking a stab at humor despite the startled fear in his eyes.
“Don’t worry, I shan’t tell if you make sure to keep me in mink and diamonds.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Gatsby said playfully. “You won’t want for anything so long as we can share, Mrs. Carraway.”
Actually, it turned out I hated the sound of Mrs. Carraway, but I was more than happy to keep Tom only fuming rather than explosive. I married Gatsby and Nick with great pomp and circumstance, and while Nick refused to kiss, he took the phone book from my hands, and pushed me towards Daisy.
“Now, you two!”
That was awkward, but Daisy had picked up one of the tumblers of whiskey, and sipping steadily, she gave in to the fun, forgetting the idea of trying to marry Gatsby in front of her actual husband. When Nick pronounced us wife and wife, she leaned over, splashing a few teaspoons of whiskey on my dress, and bent me back in a showy Broadway kiss. She bent me so far back that we lost our balance. We would have gone down in a tangle of limbs and laughter if Gatsby hadn’t been there in a flash, getting us both back on our feet. He would never have bothered with me if it was not for Daisy, but he did it all the same, and I thought maybe I could grow to like him a little more, that he was not such a terrible person with whom to share.
Then the ice came, and I started to think that we would get through the terrible day without any actual trouble. I was just starting to relax, my ankle pressed against Nick’s where he had finally managed to claim a spot next to me, when Tom spoke again, glancing at Gatsby out of the corner of his eye.
“What is it with you and with Nick, anyway?” he asked meaningfully. “Are you friends from the war, or something like that?”
“Afraid I didn’t have the honor,” Gatsby replied. “We were strangers until he came to one of my parties this summer.”