“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 theChronicle,” 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 thechance 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.”
“Youworkthere.”
“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 thenext 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? Itwas, 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.”
