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Daisy eventually moves back to the Midwest, Tom in tow. Who knows how long they’ll stay here, but for now they’re as close and accessible as they were in New York. Nick goes to visit them because you can’t hold a grudge forever, can you, no matter how tempted you may be, no matter how grave the offense. And Daisy’s offense wasn’t against him, anyway. No matter how much he wants to say any harm to Gatsby is harm to him, the truth remains: Gatsby was nothing to him, and him nothing to Gatsby. And Daisy’s his cousin and apparently she’s been talking to the rest of the family about how sad she is that Nick’s not talking to her. So he goes to visit them and smiles and laughs at Tom’s bad jokes and sympathizes with how much money they’ve apparently lost in the stock market, even though things still aren’t as bad for them as they are for, well, literally everyone else.
It’s only at nine o’clock in the evening, when Nick has been over for hours, that Pammy peeks into the room. Pammy, Daisy’s daughter.
Nick had almost forgot she had a daughter.
“Mama, Papa, may I say hello to Uncle Nick?” she asks, quietly. “You did say I could, yesterday.”
She seems to be barely aware that Nick, sitting right there, can already hear her.
“Oh, yes, of course, darling,” Daisy says. She beckons Pammy into the room and pulls her onto her lap. Pammy sits perfectly still. “Nick, you remember Pammy, don’t you?”
Nick remembers Pammy on the day of the disaster, his epically terrible birthday, how she’d come out and met Gatsby and Gatsby had hardly believed in her existence. How had he, too, forgotten her now?
“Of course,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you again.” He holds out her hand. Her fingers are very thin, and he notices a bruise on her wrist. He looks at her questioningly, but she only smiles at him, and he realizes he has held onto her hand for a bit too long.
Daisy has those bruises too—one is hidden just barely by some lace on her shoulder—but they look worse on a child’s skin. Though perhaps he’s a brute to say it’s okay for Daisy to be hurt, at least she could leave.
“Mama told me you were a soldier,” Pammy says. “I was wondering if you might tell a story about the war.” She glances at Tom, and Tom nods impatiently. “Please.”
Nick begins to tell a whitewashed version, the type that is better for children's consumption. Stories of the war. Most of the most vivid memories he has are of men sprawled out on wire, crowding together in the trenches, body pressed against body. Those aren’t appropriate for children. Then there are the stories of the like-minded men he met in the army, whose bodies he pressed against in other ways, but those stories are if anything worse for current company.
He tells a story that isn’t his but belongs to a comrade, of being stranded in enemy territory and hiding in a poor family’s house for a week while the area was swarming with enemy soldiers. Pammy seems to enjoy this one, and she certainly soaks up the attention.
She likes him, he thinks, though she is shy and says nothing in response to the story except a thank you sir and then is sent off to bed. Tom apologizes for her having shown up at all, and they don’t talk about her again all evening. But Nick doesn’t forget her again.
It’s none of Nick’s business what goes on in the Buchanan house or how Tom and Daisy raise their child. Pammy could have gotten that bruise any way, really. But it preys on him, and when he gets home that night he finds it hard to sleep.
He had a mother like Daisy and a father like Tom once. He suspects Daisy once had a mother like herself and father like Tom, and probably even Tom is the same. Birds of a feather flock together. They are what their parents made them.
His mother didn’t really talk to him, leaving him most of the time with a nurse. She wanted a daughter, and she always said when company was over that his father had wanted a son and his father had won. His father hadn’t really won anything of worth, though, because it seemed like Nick could never please him.
“This is not difficult,” his father said impatiently, when for the tenth time Nick failed to hook a worm for fishing. “What, does it scare you? My son, a wuss?”
“No,” Nick protested. It didn’t. He’d never minded the slime, and he didn’t even mind killing the worm, like some might. But it was very slippery. “I’m not scared. I can do it.”
His father grunted. “Well, hurry up.” And when Nick failed the eleventh time, he smacked Nick on the head and hooked the worm himself.
It was mostly only little things like that. Sure, Nick was likely to get slapped around every time his father decided they needed to spend quality time together (which was maybe once a month) but it was never anything major. His father wasn’t as violent as Tom. He would never have broken Myrtle’s nose, for example—though to be fair he would not have had a mistress to begin with. He had a specific idea of manliness, and sexual morality was very important in his views. A man had one woman, or at least, one woman at a time, and he treated her right. He might be tempted to do bad things—“God knows,” he might say, “as a man you’ll always be wanting to hit your woman, to sleep with every hussy on the block, to live like a complete and utter miscreant”—but he didn’t actually do them. Life as a man was a struggle between wanting to dominate women and maintaining self control.
When Nick got older, he expected sooner or later to feel the way his father predicted, and it was clear his father was keeping an eye on him, keeping an eye out for “those urges” to start taking place. But they didn’t come; Nick just never cared about women as much as his father said he would. He started paying more attention to the boys in his class, actually—maybe thinking about them in a way he knew he probably shouldn’t—but that was different, and anyways, Nick kept that very quiet and under control. He kept everything about puberty quiet and under control. He knew if he talked about it at all (the odd dreams, the way he trembled when his older friends touched him even on the arm, the insecurities and worries and doubts) it wouldn’t come out right, and his parents wouldn’t be pleased. His mother would shake her head and wish even harder he’d been a girl. His father would probably give him a talking to.
He stayed quiet, but his father was suspicious of his silence. He would interrogate Nick at length about how he felt about every girl in his class, whether he was doing anything funny with them. When Nick eventually made up a crush on one girl—Susan—to alleviate the pressure, his father narrowed in on it. After that, he asked about Susan every day, leaning into Nick’s space, sometimes taking him by the shoulders and looking him in the eyes, asking him if he was lying. Nick wasn’t sure what he’d be lying about, but he always said no.
Nick hated the interrogations. He never knew what to say during them. Yet at the same time, in a sick sort of way, he almost liked them. Sometimes he’d find bruises on his arms where his father squeezed them, shaking him, telling him he better be telling the truth, better not be messing around. His father was rough like Tom, didn’t know his own strength, but Nick still kind of liked it. It was more attention than his father had ever given him before.
He made up new lies about flirting with girls. Sometimes he even did flirt with girls (to no great effect) in an attempt to make the lies true. Always, he swore he was a gentleman. His greatest pleasure was to hear his dad hmph and say, “Fine, but make sure you stay that way. No son of mine’s going to be acting like a hooligan. I raised you better.”
It was glorious, to hear his father actually claim to have raised him. To have attention focused on him nearly every day instead of maybe one conversation a week, and a couple of cold glances. He would have done anything to get his father to look at him a little longer.
Back then that was the only kind of love he knew. Now, he thinks he’s known love a little better, but he’s not even sure. Love is always pain, whether it’s a slap on the cheek or the rushed desperation of the trenches or the agony of seeing a man smile at a woman in front of you. It always hurts—that is simply reality.
Pain is a part of life, a part of love. And parenting—Nick hardly knows anything about it. So why does he feel so uneasy about Pammy?
He makes a habit of asking to see her when he comes to visit, tells her stories about the war or about his travels, or occasionally stories he makes up for the newspaper he writes for these days (he has a column where he writes adventure stories, and minus a few gory details they’re just Pammy’s type). Sometimes they talk for hours, and he begins to coax her to talk back, to have something to say for herself rather than only listening. Daisy laughs and says he’s becoming paternal, more paternal than Tom. She says this to Tom’s face. Tom huffs.
The next time Nick comes to visit, he asks to see Pammy, and Tom says, “I think we should talk in private.”
Okay.
He’s hustled outside onto the porch, out of Daisy’s view or the view of the servants. He says, “Is something wrong with Pammy?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Pammy,” Tom says. “She’s a perfectly healthy girl, and I don’t think you should be telling her any more stories.”
Nick frowns. “They’re just about my war experiences. If you want, I can keep them tame.”
“I didn’t want to say this,” Tom says. “But to be frank, I don’t want you talking to her at all.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re a bad influence.”
No one has ever told Nick this before. They’re more likely to insult him by saying he’s too tame. “Tom, I’m not going to…what do you mean?”
“You think I don’t know about you?” Tom sneers. “We went to college together, Nick. I heard about what you got up to. I know you’re a pervert. Now, Daisy thinks it’s great, your taking an interest in the child, but from now on, that’s over. I don’t want you around her again.”
Nick says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tom rolls his eyes.
Nick says, “Look, you’ve seen every conversation I’ve had with Pammy.”
“If you’re not a pervert, why do you care this much?” Tom shoves Nick against the wall. Hard. “I’ve said it once. Stay away from my daughter. And actually, from now on, how about you just stay away from this house in general? After all, you hate us. Can’t be that hard.”
He breathes loudly over Nick for a second while Nick stands very still, then laughs and heads back inside the house, slamming the door closed. Nick hears a voice calling. “Uncle Nick!”
He looks up, and Pammy’s at the window.
“Hey.”
“Uncle Nick, are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.” He is fine. A little surprised, but that’s all. It brings back bad memories, Tom towering over him. But he hopes seeing this won’t set Pammy against her father. “I have to go now, Pammy. See you!”
He waves cheerily, ignoring the fact that he won’t.
His father only ever hurt him badly once. News had gotten back to him about Nick and a boy a couple years older than him. He was furious.
“My son,” he growled. “I didn’t raise you to be a pervert.”
He hit Nick in the back of the head. It was the first time he’d done that in a couple years—he’d mostly stopped when Nick got older.
“I never even thought you’d be this kind of a disgrace to me,” he said. “How could you be so stupid?”
Nick said, “I didn’t do it.”
His father said, “You’re a little liar.”
How did he know?
He hit Nick in the face, open palm but heavy, cracking against his jaw. Then he shoved Nick across the room. Even then, it probably wouldn’t have hurt him much, really, except his head cracked against a table corner and started bleeding. Nick fell to the ground choking back a cry, and it was probably that pathetic sound that made his father kick him in the ribs, tell him to be a man. Even in retrospect, Nick can’t blame his father. It was only one slap, one shove, one kick--not much, really. He was just trying to teach a lesson, and it was the only way he knew to get it through a kid's head. He was, he told Nick that night, at his wit’s end.
The next day, he didn’t exactly apologize, but he did look regretful. He told Nick he hoped he wouldn’t be so damn stupid again and Nick said sir yes sir. And it didn’t happen again. Really, it didn’t. Because Nick’s father wasn’t a violent person, not really. He looked at the bruises on Nick’s face and it was clear by his expression that he felt sick. He probably wouldn’t have done it again, even if Nick tested him. But Nick didn’t.
After that, he didn’t like the interrogations any more, either. Not even slightly, not even in a guilty way. He started going with a girl who he knew didn’t give a shit about him because it was better—it wasn’t love, and therefore it wouldn’t hurt.
He loved his father, until his father died. He doesn’t love his mother, who is still alive, but that’s fair—his mother never loved him anyway. But he loved his father, and he was never any good at being a son. He doesn’t know anything about parenting. So he has no right to interfere with the Buchanans. Maybe they’re right and he shouldn’t be around kids. He’s heard that refrain before.
He forgets about Pammy, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t. He forgets about Pammy (well, almost) and he forgets about Daisy, and he forgets about Tom (who probably couldn’t have beaten him up anyway—he’s a grown man now and he fought with the army and he could have fought back and it was just a moment of weakness, really), and he continues to live as quietly as he may. Writing for the newspaper, tending to his garden. Remaining an eccentric hermit except for the occasional night when he drives into the city and stops in at a speakeasy for the evening.
Then Daisy forces herself back into his life with a blur of green.
It is winter when she drives up. She is wearing a green coat and a green dress, and Pammy in the backseat is wearing one that matches. They are also wearing matching bruises on opposite eyes. Daisy shoves Pammy into his arms as soon as he opens the door. “Take her. I need you to take her.”
“What? Daisy, come in.”
She does come in, but she won’t take off the coat, and she paces. Pammy is pale but Daisy is flushed and she is wild. “He hit her last night. I can’t believe he hit her. He promised he would never…and we didn’t even do anything wrong. Nick, we didn’t even do anything wrong.” She looks at Nick as if she expects him to disbelieve her, but he doesn’t.
He says, “Sit down.”
“She can’t stay with him. I won’t have them in the same house. You’ll keep her, right, Nick? Until I get Tom calmed down. He’s been in a bad mood lately. You’ll take care of her, right, Nick?”
Nick can’t refuse her, even though he has no idea how to take care of a child.
Daisy is gone in a blur of green again, her car hurtling away into the white snow. Pammy sits on the couch, and Nick gets her a cup of hot chocolate. He says, “You’ll be staying with me for a few days, okay?”
“I know. Mama told me.” She takes the cup and blows on it. It’s still too hot.
“Don’t worry,” Nick says, when they’ve been sitting quietly for a moment. “I’ll keep you safe.”
She looks up at him sharply. “You don’t need to protect me from Papa,” she says. “Papa’s not a bad man. It was an accident.”
Nick thinks of his father, how he would squeeze Nick’s shoulders too tight all the time, and that never meant anything, he just never saw the bruises that would form beneath Nick’s shirt. Thinks of how he loved him. Thinks of how he cried at the funeral and afterwards felt just a little relieved, how he tried to drown his feelings at a bar and felt like there was someone watching over his shoulders. And then realized with a guilty surge that he wished there was someone looking over his shoulder, wished he wasn't alone. All those complex feelings. Love is pain, and Pammy knows it. She will be like him someday, when Tom is gone.
But until then, he thinks, he doesn’t want her to be the boy he was once. Maybe she doesn’t have to get quite as hurt. At any rate, even if it’s none of his business, he doesn’t want Tom to hit her again. He won’t allow it, he decides, and it’s like icy wind rushing over his face. He won’t allow it.
Pammy is still looking at him, so he says, “I know your Papa, honey. Don’t worry. I know him.” He pats her shoulder, but he notices that when he does that she sits very still, too still, so he sits on the other side of the room and says, “Do you want to hear a story?”
Today he will keep her distracted. Tomorrow he will speak with Daisy. Sooner or later he thinks he’ll have to have a talk with Tom too. But he’s not going to back down again this time.