Chapter 18
A frigid wind tore through the city the morning of my lunch with Tom Buchanan, biting through my vest as I stepped outside.
New York’s lingering cold still had teeth.
I layered up in a plaid vest over a white sweater, baggy golf pants, and two-tone sports shoes—respectable enough for a wealthy
man’s table. After slicking my hair down until not even the wind could ruffle it, I caught the train to Long Island, bracing
for whatever the afternoon had in store.
I confirmed my identity for the guard out in front of Buchanan’s estate and a carriage took me down the driveway, where four
fancy cars were parked behind the glass wall of the garage.
Which one will we take with us? I thought.
I smiled to myself and then stopped when I saw Buchanan standing on the porch, hand in his navy-blue waistcoat, waiting. “How
wonderful to see you,” he said as I folded out of the carriage.
His cold eyes betrayed the sentiment. He was performing, but so was I.
I walked up the steps, trying my best to act naturally, and shook his hand. “Likewise.”
His grip was firm, the eye contact too long, but finally I looked away.
He turned and led me through the house, and the set of doors, to the patio. A dining table sat in the middle of the terrace,
with coal braziers set at either end for warmth. From the terrace extended a plot of grass. The lake was beyond it, and off
the lake, the tiny beach led up to Jay’s house.
Myrtle was sitting at the table, and Charlie was straightening the silverware and plates. The food was abundant—roast chicken,
salad, bread, olives, and carrots.
I took a seat next to Charlie, across from Myrtle.
“I always wanted to have you for a meal, Nick!” Charlie said with enthusiasm. “What’s mine is yours. So go ahead! Indulge
yourself.”
“That’s nice, Charlie. Thank you.” Why are you always switching back and forth?
It was odd how the rich kept their fronts for social benefits, no matter how tense things got underneath it all.
Buchanan was staring at Gatsby’s house for a while, mulling something over. Then he came to sit at the head of the table.
“I noticed some faulty lights at the Gatsby residence,” he said. “I’ll have to tell Gatsby whenever he’s back from his trip.”
Buchanan raised his water glass at me. “A toast to you, Nick, and your timely arrival.”
Timely arrival? Was that a subtle dig at Colored folks being late? I had to wonder.
“Thank you,” I said anyway, and sipped on water. I really wanted the flask of gin in my pocket, but no way was I losing my
wits at the table with these men.
“What made you apply to West Egg?” Buchanan asked.
“I needed something to do,” I said.
Buchanan and Charlie both laughed, and even Myrtle raised her napkin to her lips to suppress a chuckle. It wasn’t a joke,
but I was strangely satisfied they found me funny.
“As I mentioned, I’ve read some of your work.” Buchanan leaned back in his chair and sized me up. “It seemed like you didn’t
quite like everything about West Egg.”
I didn’t know how I should respond, so I just said, “Yeah.”
“I especially appreciated your sample piece for the Chronicle,” Buchanan said. “Did you know I mentioned to Gatsby that there ought to be an arts program? This was long before the classrooms
were built.”
“I think the arts are good for any school,” I said. “Music especially unites people. You can come from anywhere and be anyone
and still connect that way.”
“That’s very romantic.” Buchanan took a sip. “Are you a Communist?”
“What’s that?” I took a sip of water, directing my eyes to Jay’s house across the lake. Save me, please.
I wondered what he was doing. Reading? Watching me? Jay seemed frazzled when he ran out of the gala, and I never got the chance to check on him after that.
A butler ran from the kitchen to refill the water pitcher. His nametag read Clarence. He didn’t get involved with any of the
conversation—just silently did his work.
“Don’t be shy,” Buchanan said. “I’m a normal man! Ignore the chatter about how the Buchanans are trying to take over the city.”
“Haven’t heard that,” I said quickly. “But there are talks in Harlem that you plan to buy out Kirby’s. I was wondering what
you hope to put in its place?”
“It wouldn’t matter much, would it? The health score would rise no matter what.” He laughed hard at his own joke, and I had
to wait for him to stop.
“Kirby’s never got a health violation, sir,” I said, in a measured way. “Not that I’m aware.”
“Oh! Are you a frequenter of the diner?”
“I work there.”
“You work there.”
“Oh,” Myrtle said. It was a reflexive sound, like a sigh or a gasp.
“And you’ve never been mugged?” Buchanan squinted and smiled. “The area is a hotbed of gang activity.”
“Harlem used to be a Dutch city,” Myrtle said, her voice polite, operatic, and longing with nostalgia. “But it’s been quite
friendly to Negroes lately. It seems like everybody wants to settle there! Which is fine, but it crowds things.”
Buchanan threw down his napkin and leaned back in his chair even further. “What say you, Nick, about the theory that in the next hundred years the Negro will overtake the white race as the dominant group in America?” He rested his hand on his knee and flipped his dark hair.
I looked at his plate, half full of food, which he’d picked at but now seemed finished with. “I don’t think the goal of Negroes
has ever been to overtake anything,” I said.
Buchanan laughed, lightly now, and licked his teeth. He snapped for Clarence to pour him more water because he didn’t even
like the glass half empty.
“Have you met Jay Gatsby Sr.?” Buchanan asked. “He treats his Colored son like a trophy.”
“We have met,” I said.
Buchanan puckered his lips and then squinted as if he were recognizing me for the first time. “Was that you there in the house
when I arrived to deliver his mail? It was, wasn’t it? So, you know him well, then. I must ask you: Where is the Colored wife? Did she leave him? There are so many
rumors about the story there.”
This felt like a trap to get me into revealing information about the Gatsbys. I hesitated around my responses, but Myrtle
looked at me like I’d committed a crime when I was silent.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I answered.
Buchanan took a sip of his water and then placed it on the table, biting his lip like he was upset. “Clarence, why’s my water
so lemony? I said one lemon.”
Clarence had been lingering around the table. He arrived at Buchanan’s side and said, “Apologies, sir.”
Buchanan jumped up from the chair and smacked Clarence with the back of his hand, as if cracking a whip, allowing his chair to fall indelicately behind him.
Clarence held his face, and the air fell into a thorny silence. Charlie and Myrtle both watched the table. Buchanan continued
to watch Clarence, as if expecting another apology. His eyes were like the devil’s. Breath rose and fell like his anger had
hijacked his lungs.
Clarence turned around again. I made painful eye contact with him. I felt as though I’d slapped him myself by even sitting
at this table, and he looked embarrassed to have gone through that in front of me.
Clarence swallowed and walked toward the house in silence.
Keep it together, Nick. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The farther Clarence strayed from the table, the more I felt a kick from within to follow
him.
Buchanan picked up his chair, cleared his throat, and smiled at everyone but me. “Where were we?”
I didn’t ask to be excused. I got up from the table and trekked awkwardly toward the house—my stomach uneasy. Uneasy with
the sound of his hand smacking Clarence.
The rich prized manners, but I had to recover in private. The image sat wrong in my system and was polluting my body like
tobacco smoke.
I made it to the bathroom and sat on top of the toilet for a few minutes.
Then I looked at the mirror, at my big lips.
My hair had become kinkier in the daylight.
I could slather straightening paint on it all day, but I’d still be disrespected by people like that man.
There was no end in sight for his hate. All because some people were born browner? I hated Tom Buchanan! I hated him!
Once I’d cooled off, I opened the door and found Clarence standing on the other side.
He stared at me. “You don’t have to walk all the way across the house and upstairs for this bathroom. There’s two others by
the drawing room.”
“Oh . . . I didn’t realize. Are you okay, sir?”
“Just fine,” Clarence said, shrugging it off. “He don’t do that a lot, you know. He did it because you here. I seen you being
respectful toward them, but I hope you know Mr. Tom ain’t a good man. His pop owned a cotton plantation, had slaves, all that—years
after it was illegal. Then they freed ’em, paid ’em to stay silent.”
“If I can ask, why do you continue to work for him?”
“Same reason you dine with them. Make some money. Get in where you fit in. You seem like a smart young man. Raised right.
Just like Daisy. I seen her snooping around the place, trying to play it off. You have some relation, don’t you? She’s spoken
fondly of a Nick before.”
My heart sank a bit. How much did he know? Was he loyal to Buchanan?
“Yeah, Daisy is wonderful,” I said.
“What’s the real reason you’re here?” he asked, suspicion in his eye as he leaned in further. “Because if it’s for private information?” Clarence went on and gave a nod toward the set of French doors at the end of the hallway. “That’s your destination. Stay quiet.” With that, he walked off.
The doors were closed, the curtains inside pulled over the glass windows. I had to make use of this time alone in Buchanan’s
house. Now was my chance to learn something, anything valuable, but my stomach rocked with nausea at the thought of getting
caught.
I made my way to his study at the end of the hallway anyway and opened the door. Inside was a big reddish-brown desk. It was
so clean that its owner might notice any tiny switch in how the pens leaned, or where the plaque sat.