Jay’s bedroom was softened with a Persian rug. He had a grand four-poster bed with a carved wooden frame, a red sofa, and a desk cluttered with papers, an inkwell, and a few sketches. I spotted a hand plane, chisels, and measuring tapes stored in a leather tool roll. There was a big unfinished wooden sculpture—like a canoe—in the corner. It looked like a hobby project.
I waited at the entrance as Jay opened the doors to a connected balcony, which overlooked the back lawn and a lake.
“Come outside!” he called.
So I joined him there. On the other side of the water was an enormous white mansion whose splendor took my breath away!
“Who lives there?” I asked.
“Tom Buchanan—Charlie’s father, as you know.” Jay tilted his head at the view. “But so different from my father that I find it strange they work together. My father respects him, so I guess I have to as well, but Tom’s got this cold way about him. I think he’s trying to take over Harlem and make sure regular people can’t afford to live there anymore.”
I silently nodded without surprise. Buchanan seemed awful by the way Daisy reacted to his name.
“My father does it differently,” Jay said, a little spark in his eyes. “He’s buying up more properties to rent to Colored folks because he believes we should all be able to share this city. But, sometimes you have to work with people you don’t exactly like to get things done.”
“Is that so?” I squinted at him. “Couldn’t your dad find someone else to work with besides the guy who doesn’t want Negroes living in Harlem?”
Jay refused eye contact with me. “I can’t answer for him,” he said quietly. “He does things the way he wants to do them. But it’s important to note the Gatsbys laid the groundwork.”
“Hello?” called a voice from downstairs, which made me jump.
Jay barely acknowledged it. He seemed to need a moment to release tension from his system. Then he called, “Coming!” in response to the voice.
He walked back down the hallway, and to the balcony that overlooked the entry way. Standing on the plush rug was a tall, strapping white man in a vest, observing himself in a mirror.
“Mr. Buchanan!” Jay said with fake enthusiasm. “Nice to see you.”
The man turned to smile, and his presence made me shrink back even from so far up. His hair was dark and his eyes piercing blue. His sharp jaw framed a face that could charm anyone, despite the person behind it.
“Good evening, Jay,” Tom said. “I was hoping your father might be back by now. The property investment group delivered his letter to my place by mistake.”
“He returns on Wednesday,” Jay said. “But if you leave it on the table, I’ll be sure he gets it.”
Buchanan looked at me suddenly like my presence had fished him out of the conversation.
“Oh, this is my friend, Nick Carrington,” Jay said.
“How do you do, Nick?” Buchanan said, stiffly. He gave me a look that made me shiver, though it was not technically friendly or hostile. It was as if he was observing a creature in the wild.
“Fine, thank you.”
He walked farther into the entryway, as if he were used to being here, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor. A golden pocket watch chain hung from his vest, a testament to his wealth.
“Does your father know you have boys over when he’s away?” he asked Jay, voice low and disciplinary, with a subtle accent from somewhere in New York.
There was an uncomfortable silence, as Buchanan watched Jay with suspicion, as if he’d been appointed as a nanny in his father’s absence.
“My father lets me make my own choices,” Jay said in a guarded way.
Buchanan raised his eyebrows. “He takes an interesting approach to fathering. We never could get on the same page with that, could we?”
Jay didn’t say anything, but I could tell he wanted to. The man had thrown him off-kilter.
And Buchanan seemed satisfied by his shakiness, and it madehim smile wider. “Good evening to you, Jay,” he said abruptly and left without looking at me.
When Buchanan disappeared from view, Jay snapped back from his temporary haze and smiled gently at me. “Shall we?” And he nodded back to his room.
I followed him and asked quietly, “Does your father allow anyone to walk in like that?” Buchanan was not here, but his presence lingered.
