Chapter Text
“Baker.”
When I answered the telephone one miserable, grey, Northeast-brand late September afternoon, I was sure it was all over. No one called this residence unless they meant business; the incident with that poor woman had haunted me for weeks up to this point, from sun-up to sun-down in a thousand miserable little recollections, and now it surely must have caught me by the ankle. Surely, I was about to be dragged off to prison for--well, conspiracy, or whatever it was that would get me put away for knowing what happened to Myrtle Wilson.
I knew in my right mind that I really shouldn’t worry. There wasn’t much that really tied me to what Gatsby had done. But I’d been lucky for a long time. It all had to add up, didn’t it?
So I did expect the police to be on the other end of that call. Really, I did. Every little sneaky thing I’d ever done must finally have caught up to me.
“Miss Baker? This is Jay Gatsby. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me if I swung by--”
I stopped listening right about there, my relief souring into a twisting sort of disgust. Who cared what a killer had to say, anyhow? Especially one who’d scared my best friend so badly, she’d run herself off to Paris just to feel safe again. Just to get away from--
“Are you there, Miss Baker?”
I sat upright from where I’d been laying on my aunt’s divan. “I suppose I am, but not for long, so talk fast. What the devil could you possibly want?” The venom in my own voice made me flinch. As righteous as I felt in my own fury, I knew as well as the day was long that keeping sharp caused more trouble than it was worth. I hadn’t heard from Nick or Daisy in over a month, though Daisy had the excuse of having run off to Paris.
Gatsby didn’t seem fazed by my tone, however. “Are you well?”
I blinked. “Am I well? What exactly do you think--”
“Good, good!” he jumped in. My grip tightened on the telephone handle. I almost slammed it down on the receiver, said good riddance to all this business, but I didn’t. I should have. Gatsby kept on talking. “I’m calling because I have something for you. A gift.”
“A gift.” Again came that vile tone of voice that I was sure the press would love to report on. Twice this week already, my snapping at reporters had become a point of focus in two separate sports magazines. As if what I had to say or how I said it had anything to do with how well I golfed!
“Yes. A gift.” I heard a strangely familiar symphony of ordinary sounds in the background before he followed up quickly, “I could come by immediately if you’re not otherwise occupied.”
I narrowed my eyes and laid back as I had when he had called. The wire stretched and drew taut. I fiddled with it absently for a moment before finally telling him, “I suppose I can make time for a gift.” It ought to at least be good. I couldn’t help but imagine what sort of miracles this man could produce at will. “But why for me, Gatsby? Why now? What’s this all about?”
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “No reason. No particular reason at all! I merely thought of you and it occurred to me we’d neglected our acquaintanceship after--” He came to a full stop. A moment passed in crackling silence before he added on all in a rush, “--well, I’m sure you understand what I’m going for, Miss Baker. Should I come by now?”
“Well, gracious,” I said, standing from the divan. In doing so I almost ripped the telephone from its table. I had to lean over the end table for the rest of the call. “At least give a girl some time to get ready. I wasn’t exactly anticipating having company today, Mr. Gatsby. As a matter of fact, the whole apartment is a mess.” The idea of Jay Gatsby, richer than God himself, seeing my aunt’s miserable excuse for a home, sent unwelcome heat to my cheeks. “The help is out for the day. I’d feel better meeting up elsewhere--”
“Oh, that’s no matter,” he assured me, as overly cordial as always. I wondered what exactly he took to keep himself on the up and up all the time. Whatever it was, I hoped he’d lowered the dosage since his explosion at the Plaza this summer. I made efforts not to be alone with men of his stature ever since. The very thought unnerved me.
“Well, all right,” I said after a moment. “I’ll see you…” I trailed off, unsure what time he’d meant for ‘now’ to mean.
“How does one-thirty sound for you, Miss Baker?” I could hear the smile in his voice. I caught myself scowling.
One glance at the clock told me he must have been insane. “Fifteen minutes? Where are you calling from, Gatsby? You know, it really, truly would suit me better to meet at the Plaza or the--”
“I’m calling from a telephone booth. If you want to get to the Plaza, Miss Baker, I’d be more than willing to give you a ride.”
“Excuse me?” I spat into the receiver. “Are you being fresh?”
Silence. A moment passed while I stared across the room at a miniature tin-type of some distant, unknown family member, coated ever so disrespectfully by an inch-thick layer of dust atop the mantle.
“Why, no, Miss Baker. I’m not.”
His voice had become so diluted I almost doubted for a moment that it had been Gatsby speaking all along. How quickly my perception of him changed at the slightest shift in his facade. Who was this man, really?
A poor boy turned rich, I knew that much. A killer for certain. And a liar, much like myself.
I took a deep breath through my nose only to be assaulted with a barrage of the very dust I had just cast my gaze upon mere moments ago. In an effort to keep from sneezing into the receiver, I forced out, “Well, then, I suppose if you’ve got my aunt’s number, you’ve got her address already, too. I’ll see you at half ‘til, won’t I?”
“Count on it.”
I spent the next several minutes doing as much as a girl could do before company arrived. Aunt Howard sat in her invalid chair at the kitchen table and watched with the same grey eyes as mine as I rushed about to clean up the dishes from where I’d made us breakfast hours before. I supposed idly that I really ought to keep this place more ready for guests if I ever intended on marrying, seeing as the one man I’d seen fit for myself hadn’t called on me in over a month and threw me over for little reason at all.
Odd it was, then, that Gatsby ought to enter my life again then, as it brought back painful recollections of a time when I’d allowed myself to hope. Maybe through him, I could reach his neighbor. After all, Nick and I had good reason to stick together rather than go after anyone else.
But enough with Nick. He clearly wanted little to do with me. I stood before my bedroom mirror in the last moments before Gatsby arrived and powdered thoroughly over the minuscule scar above my left brow, left there by someone else’s careless mid-iron.
I didn’t have much time to paint on a face after that, so I had to greet Gatsby at the door with not much more than powder and rouge to my lips and cheeks. I’d never cared all too much for the doll look--left that much to Daisy--but given the state of my surroundings, I figured I ought to keep up as much of a refined appearance as possible.
There was no security on the way to my aunt’s front door, of course, so Gatsby only had to walk up the stairs and down a short hall to reach us. When the knock came I took my sweet time in going to answer.
“Miss Baker!” Gatsby greeted just about as soon as I opened the door a crack. The man stood before me in the most hideous lavender suit I’d ever laid eyes on and stared straight ahead at me with the glassy eyes of someone who wasn’t entirely present, if you catch my drift. I waited for him to blink before I ever thought about responding.
It took a moment.
“You got all dressed up just for me, Mr. Gatsby? Should I be flattered?” I stepped out of the way so he could brush past me and into the musty depths of my aunt’s dark apartment. He stood out like a flower on the forest floor against all the dark wood and emerald velvet.
He scarcely glanced around the room before clasping his hands together and smiling at me. Empty hands, I noticed with disdain. I tried not to let my lip curl too much.
He must have noticed the shift in my courtesy, because his own all-too-pleasant candy-coated vitality dimmed like a dying bulb on Broadway.
I huffed and settled in on the sofa across the tight space of the den. “You’re a lucky fellow, Mr. Gatsby. You almost missed out on an audience with me after all. I was on my way to my room at the Plaza when you called.”
“Oh, then you’ll love what I have to offer,” he said, reaching up to brush back his hair. His hand shook as he did so. I chose to ignore it.
My chin lifted a fraction higher into the air, and though I sat while he remained standing, bound like an obedient dog to what little convention I was sure he’d been able to glean by watching born gentlemen interact with women of the wealth he no doubt assumed I laid claim to, I felt a little bit bigger than him. Of course I was tall, taller than most girls, but Gatsby had me beat on both the vertical and the horizontal. That didn’t matter if I could place myself above him, though.
He came to settle in next to me on the couch, our knees touching in a way that would’ve sent me scrambling back an inch or two if I were raised better. “That gift I mentioned to you,” he said in that god-awful peculiar way of his. He reminded me of half the guys who’d ever cornered me at a party: just about doused head to toe in self-importance.
Before he could finish his thought, my impatience got the better of me. “I don’t see any gift, Mr. Gatsby. Unless it’s jewelry, and it’s in your pocket, in which case--”
“It’s a job offer, Miss Baker.”
“A what?”
We both sat in silence for a second until a usual commotion from the family next door rumbled through the walls and jolted us back into the present. I leaped up from the divan and crossed my arms hard over my chest.
“Now, see here,” I started, leaning over Gatsby while he stared up at me with all the confusion of a child someone forgot to raise. I almost felt guilty at taking such immediate offense, but appearances had to be upheld, didn’t they? “I’m in no need of a job, Mr. Gatsby, and certainly not with your sort. I’ll have nothing to do with your--” I glanced sidelong at the paper-thin wall behind which the familiar sounds of neighbors had only just erupted, then quieted myself to a hush. “--liquor, or your--”
“But you drink my product, don’t you, Miss Baker?”
Gatsby smiled up at me then in a way that made me feel sick to my stomach. I swallowed hard and hit the velvet of the sofa once more.
“Yes, I suppose I did once,” I admitted after a moment had slipped on by. “But I don’t necessarily want a hand in its production, Mr. Gatsby. A girl’s got to keep her hands clean, hasn’t she?”
“And you’ll have nothing to dirty your hands with, Miss Baker, because this job is, if I’m supposing correctly, exactly what I’m sure you would be looking for. It’s easy. It pays well. It’s discreet. Won’t take up too much of your time--”
“I don’t need a job,” I interjected with as much pride as I could muster. “I may not be as wealthy as you--”
“And it means spending more time with my good neighbor, Mr. Carraway.”
Now, this did admittedly catch me off guard. I clutched at the fabric over my chest. “And what makes you think I ever want to see that cad again? Or that I ever wanted to see you again, for that matter? After what you did. And after how Nick treated me. I’ve got plenty of gentlemen calling after me day and night, and plenty of things to do besides. Least of all any sort of work from you, Mr. Gatsby. Not against Nick.”
“Oh!” he cried out, waving his hands in front of him with an almost convincingly genuine expression of apology. “Oh, no, never against him.” He settled back down with a smile and a weak chuckle. “This will actually benefit him, I think. And me, and you, through him.”
“This is starting to sound less like a gift and more like a burden, Mr. Gatsby.”
I watched him crumple ever so slightly under the ever-growing silence and before I could even muster the will to carry on, his knee started a jerking sort of bounce where it had once rested still against the front of my aunt’s poor old velvet couch. It was almost as though, hidden somewhere in his coat, there was a ticking clock that counted down each miserable second before he had to…
…well, I wasn’t quite sure what hideous sin he’d dread so much as to race toward it and then right on through it. His dread seeped into the air like the first hot breeze of summer back home. Nothing much pleasant seemed to hover on the horizon.
I took a deep breath and stepped farther back from him then to stand by the door, in case that dreaded event just so happened to be another fit like the one he’d undergone at the Plaza. The cooling air of the oncoming autumn reassured me that we were at least somewhat removed from those particular conditions.
“Gracious,” I finally exclaimed in a sudden, quiet way. “Will you elaborate before I give an answer?” I settled back down next to him on the sofa and looked down, my fingers moving to worry a worn spot in the silk of my dress, where the orange had stitched in too close to the umber and pulled apart as a result.
“Of course, of course,” Gatsby said softly. As he spoke, he leaned down, almost doubling at the waist as he made the pitiful effort to crush himself into my line of sight. It worked, at any rate. I couldn’t help looking up at him.
Gatsby held my gaze for long enough that I thought he had lost his train of thought, and then I lost my own until he finally continued, “Nick, he…doesn’t talk much about himself, does he?”
“To you,” I reminded him, tearing my eyes away. God, he was like a snake! A bonafide king cobra, hypnotizing me in my own living room.
In my aunt’s living room, I meant to write.
That light of his flickered again before he managed to respond. “Yes, well, I’d like to remedy that. I’d…well, I’d like to get to know him better, you see, and--”
“Are you not his neighbor, Mr. Gatsby?”
“Well, yes, but--”
“And you are indeed a man nearing middle age.”
A puff of shocked, or offended, air escaped his nose before he regained what semblance of composure I was sure he meant to perform. “I suppose you wouldn’t have to stretch too far to call me that, no.”
“And you’ve got nothing wrong with your legs, seeing as you made your way up to my front door.”
“Nothing wrong with my legs, no, Miss Baker.”
I could hear a tightening in his voice, and as much as I feared him, the control I had over the situation thrilled me. “So you’ve got all the facilities to cross your yard to Nick’s front door and strike up a conversation at any time, don’t you? Though Nick’s more liable to end up at yours, I’m sure.”
His worn hands twisted in his lap. “Ah. Yes. You would think that.”
I leaned back on the couch then, allowing my delight to finally show in a half-moon smile and narrowed gaze. I’d hope never to be called cruel but I did enjoy watching him squirm. He ought to, anyway, for all the discomfort he’d caused for everyone this summer.
“And how does this add up to a job, Mr. Gatsby? Don’t you even bother trying to talk me around and around. Just what sort of grift are you pulling? And what does it really have to do with me? You really ought not to waste my time. It’s very precious.” I paused. “And costly.”
A vein throbbed at Gatsby’s temple, just under the hair he kept under constant Brilliantine lockdown. “I understand that, Miss Baker. As a matter of fact, I did come with a gift, just in case my first one didn’t pan out.”
As he reached into his coat pocket, I reminded him, “You still have yet to find out if I accept your first gift, Gatsby.”
“Yes, well, hopefully this eases your decision-making,” he replied. From his coat pocket he produced a small but rather ritzy bottle of--well, I couldn’t quite rightly tell what exactly sort of liquor glittered behind the crystal but it had to have been something fine. It took more self-control than I was willing to admit to keep from reaching out and nab the bottle first thing.
I looked down at the bottle for a moment before sighing. “I suppose that’ll do…” I took it before he could think to take it back.
“Yes. Now, let me be completely clear with you, Miss Baker. I only come to you out of an exercise of the utmost care toward Nick and his feelings. If it weren’t for anticipating any discomfort it might put him through I would indeed simply, as you put it, cross my yard and strike up a conversation. I’ve already imposed on him enough, you see.”
He leaned once more into my line of sight. I reluctantly took the bait and listened as he continued, “I want this to feel natural. Almost as if it’s happenstance.” He paused, his eyes having gone distant. “Or fate.”
“You want what to feel natural, Gatsby? Get on to the point, if you don’t mind.”
“I want you to call Nick and invite him to lunch.”
“Again?” I stared him down until he backed off. “That’s all this is? Another excuse to get Nick to lunch? I’m not sure he’ll even go with me, Gatsby. We’re not exactly copacetic at the moment.”
“He will!” he fired off before almost immediately quieting down. “He will. He’ll come. Because he likes you, Miss Baker. I found you two together at my parties often, didn’t I? He wouldn’t cling to you if he didn’t find comfort in your companionship, would he?”
I pressed my lips down hard to keep agreement from slipping between them. For all his fumbling otherwise, Gatsby really had nailed us down there. Nick and I took comfort in each other--he didn’t have to worry about a girl who’d have a problem with him dropping pins everywhere in spite of his intention to remain unsuspected, and I didn’t have to worry about a man who’d come along and try to reshape me to his whim. We knew and accepted the worst parts of each other and I couldn’t help mourning that sort of opportunity for myself.
So yes, Nick and I had been comfortable together, for reasons I was sure he’d rather not admit. We’d had fun. We’d understood each other.
But that was in the past, wasn’t it? I ought to have just let it go, found my own way onward, and forgotten all about it.
Married one of the rich young bucks who’d I’d arrived at Gatsby’s parties with, let my little golf game slip away like the rather costly ghost of a pastime it had become, and forgotten this whole modern woman business. I was expected to, after all, if I was to retain any sort of respect in good society. Even once my aunt died and I finally received my inheritance, I’d have trouble if I didn’t keep with the right crowd--such as the Buchanans, who hadn’t called out to me since running off to Paris.
The prospect didn’t scare me as much as it should’ve. At the end of the day, I really did enjoy living like I had been, even if my monthly allowance had already run out and Gatsby’s parties no longer let me keep up appearances. No more drifting from hotel to hotel, pretending to be as wealthy as my family always had been.
I did keep with the right crowd that way. I was famous enough for my golf that I blended right in. Until keeping up the illusion took up a whole month’s allowance within the first week and I was left with dresses with holes in their silk.
I had never been a desperate sort of person but I felt it then, like a cold hand on the back of my neck.
“Just how well will this lunch pay?” I kept my voice as cool as ever, looking down my nose at Gatsby. “Be careful how you answer, Mr. Gatsby, as this may very well change my decision on the matter.” I peeled off the wax from the top of the bottle he’d brought me and put the mouth to my lips.
He seemed to relax at this. “How does one hundred sound?”
I choked on a mouthful of hard, hard liquor. It burned down my throat and Gatsby had to reach out and clap me rather violently on the back to save my lungs from whatever it was he’d handed me.
After a few moments of recovery, I managed, “For a single lunch?” My voice came out hoarse.
He nodded, his eyes intensely upon me and brow furrowed as he seemed to work through my simple question. “Well…yes. Unless you’d like to go for more--I mean, it really would mean very much to me, and likely to Nick, too, if you would join us regularly. I just think he would be more comfortable if we were out and about with the company of a woman. If it all goes well today I don’t see why it shouldn’t continue."
I sat with that for a while, struggling to keep my expression impassive while Gatsby kept staring, waiting like some sort of jungle creature in the trees--all tense and monstrous. But he wasn't wrong about Nick. That comfort in each other had been the whole basis of our relationship, anyhow.
And a hundred dollars would go a long way at keeping up appearances. Even if Daisy had run off without much of a word, the magazines and papers still wanted to see me out and about, shopping and dining and generally reminding the public that I existed between tournaments.
"You're right."
Gatsby finally blinked and sat upright. "...Yes. I would hope so."
I took a deep breath. "And I would do this at a rate of one hundred dollars per meal. In cash." And I'd get to reconcile with Nick, which I would admit relieved me more with each passing second. I'd never say I'd missed him. But I had.
"Why yes," Gatsby said. "We can sign on it if you'd prefer—"
"When can I start?" My monthly allowance wasn't due for another week and my purse was down to whatever coins rattled about its bottom.
Gatsby beamed at me, and for just a second, I thought I saw a glimpse of what Daisy must've seen. Just for a moment. And then it was gone, and he was just another conman with a big grin and bigger dreams.
"I don't suppose you'd mind calling him now."
"It's almost two o'clock on a Thursday, Gatsby. He's either already gone to lunch or is too busy to have already gone. Either way, I doubt he'll have the time today." Even my own want of money couldn't see a way around that.
Gatsby just shook his head with a meager smile. "He's not busy, Miss Baker."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"In his office. He's not getting any work done."
"How do you figure?"
"I've had an eye on him."
I was ready to dismiss this as a little joke but Gatsby's sheepish expression told me otherwise. He explained in as gentle a tone as I'd ever heard from him, "I'm not letting this one get away from me."
I stared down the divan at him until I could muster the will to push through my unease. He'd…had an eye on Nick? I mean, after Daisy disappeared to marry Tom and then again to Paris, I supposed I'd want to ensure some security, too. But I had to wonder—why Nick?
I went to ask him as much, but Gatsby had other plans. He asked, "So you'll go on and call him now, won't you?"
His tone didn't leave much room for debate. I pursed my lips and shifted in my seat to get to the phone. Before I could get to the rotary, however, I recalled the bottle of liquor sitting between myself and Gatsby on the couch. Even at room temperature and as offensively strong as gasoline, I figured it would at the very least provide me with enough courage to go onward through with what already sounded like a horrible idea.
I took another heavy swig of whatever it was Gatsby had given me, then rasped out, "Liquid courage." I tried to clear my throat to no avail. "I think I'll need it."
Gatsby didn't acknowledge me one way or another, distracted fellow that he was, so I shook my head and directly called the line at the front desk of the bonds office to link me to Nick's telephone at his desk. It didn't take long. I wondered briefly if he'd guess who was calling. Did anyone else ever call him?
The line connected and it rang for a while, long enough that I was sure he meant to ignore it. Perhaps Gatsby had been playing after all and he had no clue if Nick were busy. Could he really have someone in the bonds office, watching and reporting like some sort of spy? Even for all the popularity of my name in the tabloids, I couldn't imagine being watched without my knowledge. It would ruin me, actually, if anyone caught wind of my true financial status. Inherited money was the name of the game, sure, but it was worthless until I actually inherited it.
The gentle creak of Aunt Howard's chair in the kitchen roused me from my thoughts right as if on cue—Nick picked up the call almost immediately after.
"It's been a while, hasn't it, Nick."
I flinched at the sound of my own voice, husky from the liquor, and the tone it carried with it. As cold as ever. But I supposed that made sense, given where we had stood last time we talked. Still, some part of me wished I could be warm like Daisy. But no one truly liked her, either, did they? Besides myself.
"I suppose it has, Miss Baker. If it’s still ‘miss’, that is."
"Of course it is," I said a little too eagerly. "You think I'd let any old fool tie me down?" And I wouldn't. I'd rather die a spinster than marry some brute. Daisy had been warning enough—if a girl could stand as a cautionary tale, she was enough to keep me from men forever if I thought too hard on what had become of her.
I shifted on the divan so that my head fell back against the dark filigreed wood along the edge of the backrest. "No. I'm not calling to gloat of any engagement. I thought we could go to lunch."
I spoke it so casually, I almost surprised myself. But I ought to have more faith in myself. I'd been playing it cool since I could talk.
Nick asked, "Lunch?" As if I'd given him a riddle. I heard him shuffling papers around, no doubt pretending to keep busy—if Gatsby was telling the truth. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Jordan. I'm all booked up for days. What with the, ah, market and all."
I looked up at the ceiling and asked God for just a smidgen more patience than I'd been given. This must've struck Gatsby as catastrophic, because he laid his hand on my arm and asked in soft terror, "What's he saying?"
I waved him off, leaning away from the receiver to hiss, "Quiet!" before turning my frustration unfortunately toward Nick.
“Are you sure you don’t want to get out of that stuffy old office for a while? Surrounded by all those men working harder than you? It must be crushing, I’m sure.”
For a moment I was sure I'd lost him then—both out of my own temper and Gatsby's bad information. What if Nick really had been hard at work, and that was why he hadn't answered immediately? He'd never struck me as a layabout.
"Right," I heard Nick sigh with the greatest of resignation. "The Plaza, then?"
Relief hit like a cool wave. I shut my eyes as a dozen afternoon teas with Nick in the palm room returned to the forefront of my mind. Of course he'd naturally choose the Plaza.
"I can make it at half past two." One glance at Gatsby confirmed that his maniacal driving, what I had witnessed on the way to the Plaza that god-awful summer day, would indeed get us there in time.
Nick said, "See you then," and then the call died with no further pleasantries.
I kept the telephone up to my ear for a moment after he'd hung up, listening to the gentle hiss of the static. It reminded me of rain on city streets.
By the time I had put the receiver down, Gatsby had gotten to his feet with the hand he'd rested on my arm now shoved deep in his pocket. He stared at me from partway across the room with the most peculiar expression I'd ever seen—the sort of stress usually displayed by a man barely cheating death. And then he smiled and almost wiped that all away.
"Ready to go, Miss Baker?"
I nodded at him once before jerking upright. "Oh, give me a minute and I will be." I flew from my seat and into the kitchen to check one last time on my old Aunt Howard.
She seemed as swell as an infirmed woman could be, sitting there and staring through the kitchen wall, so I tucked her blanket well around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"I'll be gone just a bit, auntie. Never too long."
She gave no indication of having heard me, but her chest continued to rise and fall, so I supposed she must have heard what I'd said in whatever capacity remained in her grasp. She wasn't deaf as far as I knew but I'd have no real way of testing such a thing anymore.
Gatsby awaited me with an uncomfortable posture that reminded me he'd been a military man once. I wondered what his battalion mates would've said about his lavender suit.
"Well!" I said, grabbing my purse off the little table by the door. I stood next to Gatsby by the door for a moment while he seemed to struggle in filling in what had just gone unsaid. Merciful as I was, I expanded on the way out the door, "Let's get on with it, then. You'll have to run down half the city to get us to the Plaza on time."
But something told me that wouldn't be a problem. I'd think Gatsby wouldn't let some little old New York street get in between himself and Nick. As a matter of fact, I would bet he wouldn't have let anything in between the two of them.
Unfortunately, I'd be found correct.