Buchanan jumped up from the chair and smacked Clarencewith the back of his hand, as if cracking a whip, allowing his chair to fall indelicately behind him.
Clarence held his face, and the air fell into a thorny silence. Charlie and Myrtle both watched the table. Buchanan continued to watch Clarence, as if expecting another apology. His eyes were like the devil’s. Breath rose and fell like his anger had hijacked his lungs.
Clarence turned around again. I made painful eye contact with him. I felt as though I’d slapped him myself by even sitting at this table, and he looked embarrassed to have gone through that in front of me.
Clarence swallowed and walked toward the house in silence.
Keep it together, Nick.But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The farther Clarence strayed from the table, the more I felt a kick from within to follow him.
Buchanan picked up his chair, cleared his throat, and smiled at everyone but me. “Where were we?”
I didn’t ask to be excused. I got up from the table and trekked awkwardly toward the house—my stomach uneasy. Uneasy with the sound of his hand smacking Clarence.
The rich prized manners, but I had to recover in private. The image sat wrong in my system and was polluting my body like tobacco smoke.
I made it to the bathroom and sat on top of the toilet for a few minutes. Then I looked at the mirror, at my big lips. My hair had become kinkier in the daylight. I could slather straightening paint on it all day, but I’d still be disrespected by people like thatman. There was no end in sight for his hate. All because some people were born browner? I hated Tom Buchanan!I hated him!
Once I’d cooled off, I opened the door and found Clarence standing on the other side.
He stared at me. “You don’t have to walk all the way across the house and upstairs for this bathroom. There’s two others by the drawing room.”
“Oh... I didn’t realize. Are you okay, sir?”
“Just fine,” Clarence said, shrugging it off. “He don’t do that a lot, you know. He did it because you here. I seen you being respectful toward them, but I hope you know Mr. Tom ain’t a good man. His pop owned a cotton plantation, had slaves, all that—years after it was illegal. Then they freed ’em, paid ’em to stay silent.”
“If I can ask, why do you continue to work for him?”
“Same reason you dine with them. Make some money. Get in where you fit in. You seem like a smart young man. Raised right. Just like Daisy. I seen her snooping around the place, trying to play it off. You have some relation, don’t you? She’s spoken fondly of a Nick before.”
My heart sank a bit. How much did he know? Was he loyal to Buchanan?
“Yeah, Daisy is wonderful,” I said.
“What’s the real reason you’re here?” he asked, suspicion in his eye as he leaned in further. “Because if it’s for private information?” Clarence went on and gave a nod toward the set of French doors at the end of the hallway. “That’s your destination.Stay quiet.” With that, he walked off.
The doors were closed, the curtains inside pulled over the glass windows. I had to make use of this time alone in Buchanan’s house. Now was my chance to learn something, anything valuable, but my stomach rocked with nausea at the thought of getting caught.
I made my way to his study at the end of the hallway anyway and opened the door. Inside was a big reddish-brown desk. It was so clean that its owner might notice any tiny switch in how the pens leaned, or where the plaque sat.
I opened the drawers and found nothing interesting. And then I moved to a file cabinet in the corner, sorting through delicately. A tab was labeledRecords.
I sorted through a few of them—real estate deeds, construction developments—boring! I finally pulled out a sheet of paper that caught my attention because Gatsby’s name was on it. It read:
Dear Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Gatsby,
This letter is a confirmation that your insurance claim on the institution of West Egg Academy has been processed and accepted. In recognition of the damage of the building structure, colloquially called the Blue House, we have approved a payout of $30,000 to be issued on November 1, 1921.
I couldn’t keep reading. November 1 was months ago and not one repair had been made to the Blue House. What was the $30,000 being saved for? Had it already been used for somethingelse entirely? This much money could renovate West Egg, with some left over. So why wouldn’t they do that?
Jay had said that his father wanted to make more money through real estate. Perhaps Gatsby was adopting Buchanan’s business strategies for money. Jay had made it known they weren’t flush with cash. That’s why they got into bootlegging in the first place.
Could Gatsby be more intertwined with Buchanan than I’d ever thought? Using his share of the insurance money to fund his business ventures? Did Jay know about this?
As my questions began to leave me even more sick, I left the study, closing the door gently behind me. That was enough searching for one day. I was so tired of the rich acting like they didn’t have money for things when they did. They just wanted to spend it on themselves, and I couldn’t smile in their faces anymore. I had to leave this place so I could feel well again.
I’d seen more of the house than I ever had before and that’d have to be enough for now. I’ll have Daisy’s map memorized like the back of my hand to make up the rest.
I tiptoed down the staircase and back to lunch. Buchanan and Charlie were talking at the table and didn’t see me as I walked to the door. I creeped up to the closed door just before the patio and stood off to the side, pressing my ear to the wall to listen in.
