Four Years Later

By Anna Hardcastle
Creative Essay

          I don’t know why I decided to come back to New York that year. I suppose that four years away from the Big Apple had made me forget all of the useless drama and unnecessary infidelity that the city brought with it. But I returned nonetheless. By some serendipitous mistake of fate I was able to rent the same small house in West Egg as I had that disastrous summer four years ago and settled in quite nicely.

            I hadn’t any intention of revisiting my beautiful cousin in East Egg as the last time had proven to be quite enough. However, I found myself on her doorstep, despite myself, just three days after I arrived in New York. The same butler opened the door and the same grand chandelier hung from the entrance hall, a magnificent sign to passersby of the aesthetic pleasures that old money could buy.  

            It was remarkably hot on that day, just as it had been the first time I had shown up at the Buchanans’ doorstep four years before. Daisy lay on the same couch, fanning herself with her same dainty hands.

            “Nick,” she cried, with the same enticing voice. “It is so lovely to see you.”

            This time, there was no Jordan Baker on the couch opposite Daisy. Instead, Pammy Buchanan sat with her legs crossed.

            “Pammy, this is Nick,” Daisy said to her daughter. “You probably don’t remember him.”

            As the girl crossed the room and gave me her hand, I noticed that Daisy’s wish of her daughter growing up into a beautiful fool had been granted.

            “Hello, Nick!” I heard from behind me as I dropped Pam’s hand and turned around.

            It was Tom, looking as proud and vain as ever.

            We chattered in the drawing room for several minutes as iced mint juleps, still apparently a favourite, were brought in. As Tom spoke about how New York is going to the dogs and the immigrants, I nodded and “mhm-ed” occasionally, although I could not keep my eyes off of Daisy. She sat solemnly, her gorgeous orbs looking straight ahead as she feigned a smile of content. She had Gatsby in her eyes. I noticed this and suddenly, I realized that Daisy must have had him in her eyes every day. Daisy looked not at her graceful and striking daughter, not at her handsome and aloof husband, not at the room’s polished gold trophies. She looked into the yonder into the face of Gatsby. At his mouth which ached for her lips and his eyes which never stopped seeing anything but her.

            As I was ushered onto the patio for lunch, I still stared fixedly at Daisy, wondering what went on in her mind and in her heart. The conversation was bland and uncomfortable. This time, Tom was not beckoned away by some mistress. He remained present at the table for the duration of the meal, but I could not say the same about Daisy. She had been seated, but she wasn’t there. I couldn’t help but wonder if every day since Gatsby’s death had passed this same solemn way.

            There wasn’t a moment that Daisy and I were left alone until the governess came in to take Pam up to her room and Tom decided to fetch a new bottle of rum. I quickly turned to Daisy who looked at me and smiled.

            “This reminds me of the last summer we spent together,” she said. “The same weather, same drinks, same lunch.”

            She laughed lightly and put her hand over mine.

            “How are you, Daisy?” I asked, hoping that she would hear the urgency in my voice.

            “Oh, I’m fine,” she replied.

Her voice was no longer money-filled. She no longer had an air of superiority or useless foolishness. She had the air of someone who could not come to terms with herself. She looked up at me and smiled once again.

“But you know I’m lying, don’t you, Nick?”

I was surprised.

“You seem to understand things beyond their surface; no one else here can do that. But you know that I’m pining for him. I tried to leave Tom, you know. I told him ‘Tom, I will no longer sit here and be a trophy wife to you.’ But, of course, he told me that I loved him and how could I argue?”

There was a pause in which Daisy looked up to the sky.

“I killed her, you know. It was I who ran over Tom’s peasant girl. But Jay took the blame and because of me, he is dead now.”

“Does Tom know?” I asked.

“No,” Daisy replied shortly. “He refuses to believe it when I tell him. He just wants to think the worst of Jay.”

During the silence that ensued, I wondered where Tom had run off to for so long.

“I walk over there sometimes,” Daisy began. “I take a cab across the water and then walk to his mansion. It still looks the same, you know. But without the music and the parties. Without the promise of escape from this awful house.”

“What are you two talking about?” Tom asked as he walked back outside. “Let’s go to the city, why don’t we? It’s such a nice day.”

“I’m sorry, I’m feeling a bit tired,” I lied, remembering all too well the last excursion we had taken to New York. “I should probably leave.”

As I got up to go, Tom retrieved my hat and Daisy looked at me sorrowfully.

“I never did thank you for what you did for me and Jay,” Daisy said. “That was the happiest day of my life, when you invited the two of us over for tea. I will never forget it.”

With that, Daisy kissed me on my cheek and walked into the drawing room, resuming her lazy post on her sofa.

“Don’t be a stranger, now, Nick,” Tom warned me. “I expect to see you many more times during the summer.”

“Of course,” I replied, although I had already made up my mind to leave New York that same night. “Thank you.”

As I walked down the Buchanans’ long drive, I remembered Gatsby standing in the bushes, watching over Daisy. I knew that he was still there and that Daisy had a perfect view of him from her perch on the sofa.