The following rewrite starts off from the bottom of page 168 when Nick reveals that Wilson knew Gatsby's name and address at 2:30 P.M.

At two o' clock Gatsby put on his bathing suit in an attempt to use the swimming pool which he had left untouched all summer. He instructed the butler that if any phone calls arrived he should be notified at once from the pool. He then proceeded to the garage to retrieve an air mattress that had entertained his guests throughout the summer, and the chauffeur helped him pump it up. Finally, he cautioned the chauffeur that the car must not be taken out under any circumstances.

As Gatsby shouldered the cumbersome mattress, the telephone rang. He immediately dropped the floatation device and ran over to the drawing room. He had barely picked up the receiver when he shouted, "Hello," in an overly excited voice. To his pleasant surprise, it was Daisy.

"Hello, Jay," she cooed. Her trilling voice sounded just as musical and lovely as it did in person. "It's Daisy. I have to tell you something I think you should know—" her voice cut off, and Gatsby became worried, for her usually cheerful voice had suddenly changed into a panicked whisper.

"Daisy?" he inquired, now clutching the phone with both hands. There was only silence on the other end. After a few agonizing seconds, Daisy continued.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm hiding from Tom. I don't think he wants you to know what just happened . . ." Daisy's voice was now barely audible, and Gatsby pressed the phone closer to his ear.

". . .A man named Wilson was here, an older man who apparently owns the garage before town. He's gone mad! He barged into our house and held us at gunpoint, and he asked Tom a bunch of questions!"

Gatsby could tell she was sobbing, and after a pause, he asked, "What did Tom say?"

"He told him that you were the one who killed his wife! He also revealed your name, address, and the color of your car!"

Gatsby's heart was racing. He didn't mind taking the blame for Daisy, but not like this. A loud banging sound at the other end interrupted Gatsby's thoughts.

"Jay, I'm sorry—Tom, I didn't tell him . . . "

A pause.

"Tom, NO—"

The line went silent as the receiver at Daisy's end was hung up.

"Daisy!?" Gatsby cried.

No answer.

He stood there for a few minutes, tears streaming down his face. His dream, the one thing that made him who he was all this time, was gone.

CHAPTER IX

Gatsby never used his swimming pool that day, and when I look back, I'm glad he didn't. Had he gone out to relax, he would have been brutally murdered by Mr. Wilson, who in a fit of uncontrollable rage waited in the bushes of Gatsby's garden until, realizing his plan had failed, turned the gun on himself. Gatsby's gardener found his body at around three o'clock when he was tending to the grass.

I found out about the phone call when I visited Gatsby after work that evening. Unfortunately, Daisy was pronounced dead at a nearby hospital. The autopsy revealed that her neck had been broken and that she had probably died instantly. Further analysis showed that Tom Buchanan's fingerprints were located on her neck, and he was arrested for second degree murder the next day.

A week after, a funeral for Daisy was arranged at Gatsby's house. It was a small, quiet procession, which consisted of three cars—a depressingly black-colored hearse in front, the minister, Gatsby, and I in a limousine, and Jordan Baker with a few of Gatsby's servants in another at the rear. We reached the cemetery at five. It was pouring rain.

Since the weather wasn't letting up, we didn't spend more than half an hour at her grave. As the minister said a few words, Gatsby started to cry uncontrollably. I eventually pulled him aside to console him.

"I'm sorry, old sport," he sobbed. "It's just that Daisy was the only girl I ever truly loved, and now she's—" His last word was cut off due to a sudden outburst of fresh sobs.

Never before in my life had I ever seen Gatsby so upset; I hoped to never experience his sadness again. He had tried so hard to build himself up, to show Daisy that he was worthy of her love, and in the end it all went down in vain. It was an impossible dream.

I continued seeing Gatsby often, talking and going with him to lunch, but he was never the same. Daisy's death had changed him—it wasn't a very noticeable difference, but those who knew him best could tell. He had stopped his parties originally after seeing Daisy's distaste for them, but even after her death, the parties continued to be nonexistent. I would catch him sometimes at night, staring blankly across the bay at the little green light that marked the end of Daisy's dock. He would sometimes stretch his arms out toward the dark water, similar to the night when I first saw him.

Occasionally I would visit Daisy's grave with him, although according to one of Gatsby's servants, he would stop there everyday.

I only went to her resting place once by myself, to pay respect for her sacrifice in warning Gatsby of Wilson's rampage. Just before I reached the gate, something in the cemetery caught my eye. I went over to Daisy's burial site, and what I saw would be engraved in my mind forever.

Someone had left a bouquet of vibrant daisies and a note which read:

Thank you for saving my life. I only wish that I could have done the same for you. Farewell.