Chapter Text
The day following the incident of Myrtle Wilson’s death, I became more worried about Gatsby than I cared to say. I knew him well enough to know he was not as well as he claimed. Anyone would have been shaken up by such an event; why he felt the need to pretend otherwise was beyond me. Although, I supposed he was used to pretending.
Needless to say, I didn’t want to leave him alone after something like that. So I called him at about noon. When the butler brought him to the phone, his weak “Hello, old sport” gave me some indication of how he was doing.
“Hello, Gatsby,” I said. “I wondered if you’d like to come over for tea today.”
Gatsby hesitated. “Maybe. I’m a bit tired today.”
“I thought you would be. I -- I worried about you, being alone in that huge house,” I confessed.
“You needn’t worry. I’ll be all right.”
“I’m sure you will. I just thought you might benefit from some company.”
He hesitated again. “You could be right. I suppose I’ll come by.”
I relaxed a little. “Good to hear it. Just come when you’re ready,” I said.
“I will. See you soon, old sport.” He hung up.
About half an hour later, I heard a knock at the door. I answered, and sure enough, there was Gatsby, standing at the door in a crisp light blue suit. Other than his outfit (which was perfect, per usual), he looked terrible. I told him so, though in nicer terms.
He gave me a tight smile. “I know.”
“Anyway, come in. You can go ahead and sit down. I’ll put the tea on.” Gatsby nodded at me and sank down into an armchair. I walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on, feeling distracted. I had hoped to ease my worry for him by checking in, but instead my anxieties increased. He seemed worse than I anticipated.
When the tea was done, I brought the tray out and sat it on the coffee table. “Sugar?” I asked.
He jerked up, as if he had been interrupted. “Oh. Yes, thank you.” He took the spoon and absentmindedly mixed in the sugar for longer than was necessary.
I took a few sips of tea. Gatsby kept stirring. My brow creased harder. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I put my teacup down, leaned over, and placed my hand lightly on his hand where it gripped the teacup. He stopped stirring and looked over. “I think… I think that’s enough stirring,” I said.
Gatsby laughed a little. He set the tea down. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I was doing that.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. Noticing that my hand was still on his, I quickly pulled it back, folding my hands in my lap. He looked so sad. I wished intensely that I could wrap my arms around him to comfort him. I brushed off the thought and instead asked tentatively, “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
Gatsby sighed and shook his head. “Not today, Old Sport. For now I think I’ll drink my tea.”
And so he did. We finished our tea quietly. Well, we intended to. While we drank tea in silence, the phone rang. My Finnish maid appeared in the sitting room doorway a moment later. “Mr. Gatsby, for you,” she said. He stood up and took the phone.
I gripped my teacup and watched Gatsby. “Hello,” he said weakly. I pretended to mind my own business, but I had to listen. “Yes,” he said after a few seconds. Then, his face went totally white.
He was silent for a few more moments. “Oh,” he said. His voice quivered as he said into the telephone, “Notify the police. I’ll be over soon.”
I felt like a jolt of electricity had traveled through my veins. I stood up quickly, grabbing the end of the coffee table to steady myself.
“Gatsby?” I said as I rushed over.
He set down the phone and turned toward me. His eyes were glassy, like he was about to faint. I reached forward and gently gripped his arm. He remained quiet. “Gatsby, what happened? Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said weakly. “I have to -- where’s my coat?”
I got Gatsby’s coat from the rack for him. He took it, thanking me weakly. Gatsby stepped to my door, but then stopped. Slowly, he looked back at me. I saw something in his eyes which was totally new. He looked afraid.
“Will you…” started Gatsby, almost in a whisper. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you come with me? I don’t exactly want to be alone… you see, a -- a man broke into my house--”
“Of course I’ll come,” I said.
“Thank you,” sighed Gatsby.
Gatsby walked incredibly slowly all the way to his house. I understood; I didn’t feel so confident myself. But I continued on, for Gatsby’s sake.
I remember walking with Gatsby into his house that afternoon. The rest was a blur.
First it was quiet. The sun shone through the big windows. Gatsby’s butler said something to us; I can’t recall what. And then we saw the body. We saw the gun.
Sirens rang loudly in my ears. Police swarmed through the house, examining the intruder’s body, questioning the butler, but never talking to Gatsby. He stayed by my side the entire time.
By the time anyone figured out what had happened, darkness had descended on West Egg. The police talked to us just long enough to say we needed to leave the scene for the night.
Gatsby’s house was officially a crime scene, meaning that he had to find another place to stay. Of course, I let him stay with me. The last thing I remember is making up the bed in my guest room for him, only to find him moments later, asleep on my couch. I smiled, tired and burnt out. I got a blanket and laid it over Gatsby’s shoulders.
“Goodnight, Gatsby,” I said, in case he could hear me.
His eyes fluttered open. Looking up at me, he muttered, “C’n call me James. That's my real name, you know...” then drifted off.