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Gatsby descended into his glistening swimming pool, sinking into the glassy water with a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and allowed the liquid to lull him to relaxation. A man, driven into the shadows of grief, lurked in the brush surrounding Gatsby’s artificial lake, perched in an alert, mad readiness.
The stillness of the scene was broken by footsteps clad in heels, their click, click, clicking disrupting the tranquility of that August afternoon. Daisy was swathed in white, an ivory little thing draped in pearls and lace, and she strolled to over to the pool. She opened her delicate mouth in a slight, nervous smile as she gazed at Gatsby with a reflective look of clarity in her vulnerable eyes. “Jay,” she whispered, “look at me.” His eyes opened in an almost comical look of disbelief, staring wide-eyed at Daisy.
Daisy continued her light, quiet speech, “We need to talk – “. Her words were halted by the sound of a shot, a sound that broke the air in half. Her pretty little dress was suddenly stained by scarlet, seeping from her torso like a horrific spring. Gatsby clamored out of the pool, wrapping his lover in his arms, stroking her hair frantically as if it would save her from the clutches of death.
Wilson, draped in the gray ashes of shadow, having taken Hammurabi’s revenge, shifted the pistol in his hand, placed it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. One more thunderclap of bloodshed rippled through the air as the lifeless man finally made his description true.
Daisy’s body grew cold in Gatsby’s arms, as she lost her golden light. Something changed in Gatsby as he stared, between tears, at the mutilated form of his golden girl. His illusion was shattered, as his angel proved herself mortal after all, her value depreciating as the light left her eyes. Once an ivory flower, Daisy now lay before him, a damaged weed in the middle of a harsh winter. Jay Gatsby transformed back into Jimmy Gatz that day, returning to a simpler time, a time before his lover, a time before obsession, a time before loss, an uncomplicated time.
In a twist of just irony, George Wilson had unwittingly played judge, jury, and executioner in his wife’s murder trial, convicting the true perpetrator. Daisy never had the chance to plead for her life, Gatsby never had the chance to take the blame for her, and Myrtle never had the chance to seek justice for her death.
As Gatsby stared numbly at Daisy’s shell, flashes of light captured his eyes in a rare moment of vulnerability; this man who had created a persona of mystery and vitality now seemed as dead to the world as poor Daisy. Gatsby seemed as if he would just be swept away in the wind like an ash.
.o.O.o.
I remember the call I received at work that day; though I was amidst the bustle of my chaotic office, the world went quiet and my colleagues appeared to be moving in suspended motion. I slammed the receiver into its nest and sprinted out of my office, down four flights of stairs, and out onto the street where I hailed a cab, waving my arms hysterically. I leapt into the cab, my knees bouncing up and down with dread and anxiety. We passed the colossal eyes of Doctor Eckleburg, his lazuli, faded orbs casting judgement upon us like a distant, unforgiving God, who had lost connection with his subjects. At last, we arrived in Gatsby’s lengthy drive. Despite the seemingly miles and miles of road leading to Gatsby’s gothic monstrosity, every inch of pavement was crammed with reporters, photographers, and spectators, watching their fellow man’s anguish just as they’d view a circus, with awe, fear, and morbid curiosity. I shoved past the gossipmongers to reach the object of their fascination: Gatsby. He stood by the pool, still wearing his now-crimson swimsuit as he spoke to the police with a glazed, distant look on his face. Gatsby suddenly noticed my presence in the crowd, gone was the comforting, all-knowing smile that once honored his face. It had been replaced by the empty stare of a man who had gained and lost everything in the matter of seconds.
Over the next few hours, the crowds dissipated, doubtlessly off to feed on another tragedy that had been deemed by the public as more “interesting.” Gatsby and I just watched, watched as Daisy’s corpse was carted off, watched as the police scoured the scene for evidence left by an unconvictable killer, watched as the servants cleaned the blood from the pristine pavement, their only worry that the crimson pool would stain the concrete. Eventually, I shuffled awkwardly to stare at the great mystery himself, “She wouldn’t want you to mourn her like this. Daisy would want you to move on-“, I hurried.
“Quite the contrary, Nick. I believe that she would have wanted me to worship her, like a divine martyr, a saint. Daisy was selfish; she would have wanted to be remembered by all as the golden goddess. No, I don’t think she would have cared about the destruction she left in her wake.” Jay stated these bitter words in such a cold, matter-of-fact manner that I couldn’t help nodding my head with him. Daisy wasn’t evil per se; she wouldn’t kill a child or intentionally hurt an admirer. Daisy was carelessly cruel, she stormed into a person’s life, captivated, demanded their adoration and love until she decided that she had tired of her plaything. Gatsby was just a distraction for an alluring girl who was terrified of leaving her aristocracy of beauty and comfort.
I looked straight ahead at the green light, the enchanted object that had absorbed and destroyed my summer. Gatsby stared with me until he exhaled deeply as if he were trying to dislodge an infection from his lungs or perhaps his heart, stood up, and walked back into his Versailles without a sparing a backward glance.
.o.O.o.
I was startled when I heard a knock at my front door a few days after the storm. I opened it to a footman in mourning, holding up a black envelope with a gleaming bronze ribbon tied loosely around it. “For Mrs. Buchanan’s funeral reception, Sir. It will be held next Tuesday. Mr. Buchanan hopes that you will be able to attend.” The manservant spoke in a hushed voice, which held an air of false sympathy. I quickly thanked him, took the invitation, and closed the door to prevent any more of the cool Autumn breeze from entering my drafty cottage. I sat at my mahogany writing desk, my fingers fumbling as I untied the ribbon and let the silken strip drop to the floor.
There it was, in black and white, “Mr. Thomas Buchanan wishes for Mr. Nicholas Carraway to attend the funeral reception of Mr. Buchanan’s dear wife, Daisy.” Daisy’s death hadn’t seemed real until now, as strange as it sounds. Despite having seen the blood, so much blood, on her white skin, I hadn’t even allowed myself to ponder on her leaving us. Daisy had been flighty in life and continued to be so in death, leaving us without the thought on consequences. I hastily wrote my positive answer to the invitation and had my man take it over.
.o.O.o.
The chapel was peaceful during the funeral, but Daisy would have hated how still it was. The whole affair was so opposite to my cousin. Where she giggled and flirted, there was only a solemn, respectful quiet. Where she glowed and beamed a bright gold, the chamber was covered in a charcoal limestone. She would have despised the whole affair, of that I have no doubt. Gatsby did not attend, it seemed that he tried to rid himself of any memory of her. His yellow monstrosity was gone, his silken shirts were no more, and his pool had been covered up and I did not believe that it would remain on Gatsby’s patio to see the next summer. It was a great irony; the man who had once been so obsessed with the past that he traded his morals and happiness for riches, now gave up his only companions of five years in a futile attempt to rid himself of reminders.
We departed the church in silence, unsure of how to feel at the death of one who raised and razed without regard for other people and their happiness and peace. I glanced at Jordan, who seemed to be having difficulty collecting herself. It was the first time in our acquaintance that she had not held a look of pride on her face with her neck tilted upward as if she were watching a firework show. I took her slender hand in mine, squeezing it gently, and she looked at me, startled like she had forgotten that she wasn’t alone.
Jordan seemed to gain strength from my attachment and her slate eyes gazed into mine with a look of profound compassion and despair. All the masks, the protection against the world was gone. For the first time in our acquaintance, Jordan was vulnerable. The cynicism and dishonesty that had protected her from hurt had died along with Daisy. We continued our walk behind Daisy’s casket, and despite the pain we carried with us, Daisy’s death seemed to have created a new sense of life, a vitality, that we shared.
.o.O.o.
In the weeks following the funeral, theatrical headlines were slammed in front of our eyes, their letters dancing with such nonsensical fabrications that I sometimes fancied myself in a Shakespearean tragedy. Gatsby was painted as both a modern Romeo and a new-age Macbeth, although I am not sure which one is more accurate. Daisy was called everything from harlot to star-crossed lover to insane. All the attention descended upon us like vultures, and we began to long for a way out of New York, a city that had lost its fascination and now seemed too loud, too bright, and too fast for the three of us. Jimmy, as I now called him, decided that the East no longer held the appeal for him that it once had, and he sold his house to a man by the name of Ridley from Chicago who, to quote my new neighbor, specialized in the trade of “bottled happiness.” The once-Gatsby wanted to resume the life of Jimmy Gatz: the hardworking, clever boy he had left behind in the West along with his values and happiness. The golden allure of Daisy that had followed Gatsby to France in the War, to Oxford, and, at last, to West Egg was gone. It was as if Gatz had rejoined the world after five years of hard time, and he was sure to appreciate his new freedom.
The green light was gone. Taken down by a servant, mourner, or perhaps even Gatsby himself, all I knew was the star on my skyline had disappeared. The glorious beam that had transcended storm and hardship to reach Gatsby’s sight was gone. The force that compelled him to search for the past had been lost forever. A connection to long gone memories was now just that: a bitter memory of rejection and loss. The emerald memento had disappeared, and with it the longing for what might have been. Despite the loss of a dream, we learn not to dwell on the unchangeable. We learn to run faster, stretch out our arms farther, push harder to seek the promise of eternal opportunity. We learn to endeavor forward each day with fresh defiance and strength in a blind, raging hope for the possibilities of what the future may bring.