Chapter 17
The next evening, I was too restless to be alone, and I ended up sitting on the bench at the end of Daisy’s bed, telling her
everything I’d found in Pierre’s place.
“You were right—the guys up here are the same as the ones down South,” I said. “They’re just smarter about it. On the surface,
what Buchanan’s doing is not illegal, so he’ll get away with ridding Harlem of Negroes just because no one will care enough
to stop him.”
Daisy pulled her knees to her chest, looking uncharacteristically exhausted without any makeup on. “You really think this
means Tom had something to do with the fire?”
“Why else would Pierre—Buchanan’s man—be keeping an unpublished article about his funding of this Negro-hating bureau?
Buchanan doesn’t want us around, but he can’t have everyone knowing that.
So, he works with Gatsby on West Egg, even though he hates what West Egg stands for, and sabotages it from the inside.
Whoever did the fire knew how to get into the building, how to stay hidden .
. . It had to be someone he hired and gave access to. ”
She nodded in agreement, and I could tell she was upset beneath her thoughtful composure. “Couldn’t it have been Charlie?”
“No, these Buchanans . . . They don’t get their hands dirty. They have people like Pierre and Artie for that.”
“You’re right,” she said. “This might have been about someone in this city or at West Egg doing something crazy to get ahead.
Which is what everything in this world seems to be about these days. I mean, what happened to morals?”
The weight of that thought pressed heavy on her the way it did me. She was frustrated, but also deeply weary of a world where
the most violent people came out on top.
Buchanan’s friends could control what people read and thought. It was hopeless to think of lies drowning out the truth!
“I can’t tell you how tired I already am of just waiting for justice,” said Daisy. “Sometimes I want to just rob the rich!
You know, like Robin Hood.”
Her words sparked something in me. “Wait, in a real way?”
“Could you imagine?” She laughed. “I can’t say I haven’t thought up my own revenge against Tom, stuck for hours in that kitchen
of his. I like to think I’ve cooked up a fairly decent plan: You may not know this, but Jay’s father used to host these grand
parties. He hasn’t had one in ages, but if he threw one, the whole city would come—all of the elites, Tom included. And while
everyone’s there, drinking and flaunting, I would search his place and steal all his money.”
I snickered as I processed her words—what she was suggesting was a joke, but it was also thrilling.
“You’d have access to most areas of the home because you work for him.
And if you added me into your plans, I could open the safes.
Together we could get a real look at his fortune and find proof he’s behind the violence at West Egg—and Harlem—at the same time. ”
“And we could bring in Jay to help!” Daisy said excitedly as she perked up, thrilled by her own brilliance. “Stage a proposal
for Jay Jr. and me, which would make Gatsby giddy to throw an engagement party. Buchanan would show up to support us, since
he works with Gatsby and I work for him—there would be no question about it. That would give us time to search.”
I felt some doubt as this plan started to feel more real. “I don’t know if Jay would agree to something like this,” I said.
Was this really all for laughs? It sure gave us a way forward that didn’t leave us waiting on someone else’s approval. This
was something we could take into our own hands!
“What do you think Jay would really say . . . if you asked?” Daisy said.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “You’ve known him longer.”
“Yes, but you could ask him,” she said, her tone sharpening some into seriousness.
“Why?” I asked. “I mean, why me?”
“He’s never had much passion for anything but you.”
I brushed it off. “He switches his affection between me and other people.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “This again. You can’t see how dapper you are, but it doesn’t change the truth. What he has for you is more genuine than what he has for them.”
I was slightly embarrassed but charmed more than that. “I could run it by him, I suppose? It might be a tall order to get
him to entertain it—he has love for his father. It’s risky to ask him to lie!”
“Riskier than waiting forever for this horrible world to change?” Daisy implored.
Silence followed between us. It was the quiet of possibilities. And I realized how serious she was about bringing justice
to the elites, who’d built their wealth in shady ways.
“What might happen if we stopped waiting for permission?” she went on.
“Well, we’d get what we wanted,” I said. “And probably go to jail.”
“And what if we fled before they could catch us?”
Daisy raised her eyebrows at me. It seemed she had considered this already and I was only just getting invited to the discussion.
“You’ve thought about this,” I said, meeting her eyes.
She shrugged. “Maybe a bit. Only because I know Tom is corrupt and has a lot of money.”
How much money? I wondered. More than the Gatsbys?
“I do think a lot . . .” Daisy went on. “Maybe too much, about how wrong it is that Tom is rich in the first place. His family
owned slaves before the war. They made a fortune off the backs of our people. The money in his house? It only scrapes the surface of all that he has, written in the wills of his father and the fathers before, and yet he tips the scales more in his favor every day.
“Not because he needs it—just because he wants it.” Daisy locked eyes with me. “All I’m saying is . . . Tom is indestructible. But we’re not. And
he knows it. So, he gets this sick satisfaction, watching me work around the house. Clarence handles all his odd jobs and
he bosses the man around like he owns him. Funding the Egg only because he knows it will create more servants. And just as easily, he burns it all down when it strikes his fancy.”
My mind opened up as she spoke, to the horrible reality of Buchanan’s manipulation.
She’d made a good point. If he really was as rich as Daisy said, what harm would it do, really, if he lost some of it? An
amount that could change our lives?
The Blue House was the worst of what Gatsby had inherited from Buchanan’s property—a crumbling piece of architecture they
turned into a dorm. Not a place for students—just a building desperate to disintegrate from the weight of the seasons, where
Negroes could be corralled, locked away in case someone wanted to kill a bunch of us at once. It felt like the home I’d fled,
its constant memory shooting through my brain, reminding me of how quickly we could be destroyed, forgotten.
I was queasy at the images that pulsed through my mind, of Buchanan watching from a distance as we all fell for the trap and
found our demise. That didn’t explain why it was so easy for everyone to get out though. If someone really wanted to harm
us, wouldn’t they have bolted the exits?
Well, maybe it was because it wasn’t death that they wanted but the power to control us through fear. And that required us to be alive.
“Jay is in the middle,” Daisy went on, her voice soothing me out of my thoughts, some. “Rich, but he hates it. Maybe it’s
time we use him to help us level the playing field. You might be surprised what he would do for you.”
Part of me believed her. My bond with Jay was strong, despite our ups and downs. I couldn’t imagine Jay taking it so far that
he’d actually steal from Buchanan. I’d have to talk to him.
What else could I do? What other option did we have? We tried for fairness through protest and it got us brutalized. Buchanan
and his kind never had to feel their faces pushed to the concrete, and they did so much worse. We were running out of ways
to take back our power.
Daisy and I sat in a silence that became increasingly thoughtful, holding on to this dangerous, desperate plan as if it were
the only hope we had left. And perhaps it was.
I thought and worried about convincing Jay to do a major job in the coming days. Aphrodite was one thing, but actually targeting
Tom Buchanan? The big guy? Stealing? I wasn’t sure.
My time with Jay already had to be more private now that I was on Mr. Gatsby’s list of bad apples. But Jay insisted I visit
his home on Long Island again when his father was out of town, as if he wanted to break the rules.
It was an unusually warm spring day and he’d gone for a swim. He wanted to play Marco Polo, but I wanted to sit in my white speed suit, with its elastic rib, and just enjoy the warm wind. He matched me with a white pair of cotton trunks, with a navy trim. We didn’t plan it. It happened naturally.
“What would it take to convince you to say . . . rob a rich person?” I asked, as I sat on the edge of his pool, teasing my
legs through the water.
Jay popped out of the pool water, threw his hands backward over his hair. “What?”
“What would it take to make you rob a rich man?” I asked.
He pushed himself up on the side of the pool, his body raining like a heavy storm. “You’re not serious.”
“I am! What would it take?”
“A complete plan, for one,” he said, still brushing it off. “Like, who would we rob?”
“Okay, how about Tom Buchanan,” I said. “Hypothetically.”
Jay sat beside me, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Daisy could scout the safes in his place, and I could break them open. You could have a party at your place and entertain
the guests long enough for us to finish the job.”
“Sure, because I love talking with all my father’s lovely friends,” Jay said. “If we were to do that, what would we do when
Buchanan notices his cash is missing?”
“Take air,” I said. “You said you want to get out of here, didn’t you?”
The way he paused showed me that he’d really meant it when he said it. “Where do we go after New York?”
“Chicago might be nice. I hear all the G-men are corrupt and the city breaks into total mayhem a couple times a year.”