Gap filled with this revised text:
Why doesn't Daisy come to the funeral? We can explain this with a simple phone-call between Daisy and Nick. (p. 158)
Text in italics is Original Text taken from 'The Great Gatsby' to give an entry point into the story (Story & Characters owned by F. Scott Fitzgerald, no copyright infringement intended)
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Text with revision:
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." 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.
*** End Original Text ***
For the remainder of that day and well into that evening I maintained a steadfast post close by the telephone, as if by my proximity I might encourage it to ring sooner. It was not however an unpleasant post to keep, due mostly to the comfortable recliner, and that day's newspaper which the butler had thoughtfully laid on the coffee table earlier that morning. Despite my attempts however, it was not until well into that evening that I finally received the call which had been occupying my thoughts all afternoon.
Daisy, whose voice seemed both far away and right next to me at the same time, muttered
"…is that you, Nick?" I paused for a moment, considering, before murmuring my assent.
"Daisy." It wasn't a question. "Where are you?" I asked, thinking quickly.
"Tom and I are in Chicago right now."
Chicago. That figured. They were half a continent away.
Even though I had rehearsed this conversation in my mind over and over, suddenly I was lost for words. Finally, after we had both said nothing for what seemed a considerable time, I blurted out "So you've heard."
I heard a small, sharp intake of breath from half-way across the continent.
"Isn't it tragic!" she exclaimed, as though she were discussing a radio drama, rather than her once-lover. To her credit however she managed a small sob, which to me seemed like the dot on the exclamation she had just made.
"Yes." I replied, "It is, isn't it."
"I can't believe he did it though, can you Nick?"
"No. It's very sad that he would be driven to do such a thing." I said, thinking of the horrible pain Wilson must have suffered.
"I've still not come to terms with it, I think."
"He just kept on going though, didn't even bother to stop. I feel so..." Daisy trailed off. Perhaps she could sense what I was about to say.
"Gatsby told me." I said plainly, with all the conviction I could muster.
"Whatever do you mean?" Daisy flustered, and I imagined her ringing her hands, or perhaps knotting the telephone cord nervously.
I paused for a split second, knowing that this would be as close as I would ever come to revenge for Gatsby's murder. "You know exactly what I mean, Daisy. You did it Daisy. You killed Myrtle."
I imagined Daisy shuddering, as though she had swallowed a lemon, rind and all, however she did not let her voice slip as she said almost instructively "Don't be silly Nick. That's just ridiculous." Daisy let out a childish giggle, which to me sounded sick and twisted. Perhaps it was a bad connection…
Realising that to press this point would be futile, I moved on. Trying to keep emotion from my voice, I pressed, "There'll be a funeral for him soon. With luck in the next few days."
Once again there was a very pregnant pause.
"Oh Nick," said Daisy, sighing, telling me everything I already knew.
"Of course, I feel terrible about how this whole situation worked out." She paused briefly, and then continued with "I really did love him, you know."
"He didn't deserve what he got, did he?" I put forward, remorsefully.
"No. He didn't deserve to by killed by someone like Wilson."
I shook my head in amazement, as she continued.
"I never liked him much at all. In fact, I was just telling Tom the other day how he made my skin crawl, living in that shack right in the middle of all that nothing. It's almost unbearable to think about him, don't you agree, Nick?"
I wondered if Daisy could see the effect she had on people, or if she spoke to everyone as though through the forgiving veil and assuring distance of a telephone exchange.
"I'm sorry darling, I've got to dash. I've got a tennis lesson in a few minutes. It's all the rage here at the hotel. Tom and I will be playing with the lovely couple from across the floor. They've got a summer home in California which we were planning on visiting in a few days. It was good talking to you, Nick. I've missed hearing your voice."
I grunted acknowledgement, my mind no longer focussed on the conversation.
"Take care." I finally offered.
Daisy snapped it up. "I'll talk to you soon darling. Bye Bye."
And she was gone.
I replaced the receiver and leaned back into the comfortable leather recliner.
I sat quietly reflecting in that position for quite some time (Gatsby's staff had long since retired for the evening) and it was with a small shock that I registered the grandfather clock in the hall chiming a solitary note. At least I could see the difference between right and wrong. Daisy's innocence was almost like that of a young child. After all, I could see that all of the endless parties and outings and lunches and anything else that occupied any space of time were simply a façade, hiding the shallow, callous personalities that later emerged when the cards were down, almost like the alligators of the California swamps, lurking just below the surface, ready to attack. I realised however that Tom and Daisy, like the others, were merely victims of the times. They were all just caught up in their own importance, seemingly quite content to allow their lives to contain nothing but meaningless distraction after meaningless distraction. Really, just victims of a materialistic and short-sighted society that values money more than love.
Perhaps I was being too quick to judge, however I suspected that I was seeing clear for the first time. I thought of my hopes and dreams I had had of moving to the East and smiled wistfully. I was a lot more innocent then. I looked up and yawned. "Some dream." I muttered to no-one, as I stood and stretched, and began the long walk home.
*** Resume Original Text ***
I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota.
It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.
It was Gatsby's father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse gray beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat.