Too Late
Disclaimer: The Great Gatsby and all characters belong to F. Scott. Fitzgerald.
A solitary woman walked up to the grave. She knelt down, and gazed, as if mesmerised, at the stone. Extending out a finger, she reached out as if to touch the surface . . . and then pulled away. For she knew that she had no right to touch that stone, no right to even be here in the first place.
* * *
I don't know what I should say, nor even why I'm here, but I'm sorry, Jay. I'm sorry for all the things which I did. I was young and foolish then, and perhaps I am - will remain - young and foolish forevermore, but I just felt I had to give you a reason. Maybe there is no reason I can give. Maybe my actions are completely unjustifiable. But I have to try. I remember that first day when you came driving up. You looked so elegant, so refined. In a way you were just like those other soldiers who came, just like you, but at the same time . . . you weren't. I felt that you genuinely liked me for who I was.
That was new to me, you know. Nobody else liked me for who I was. They were never able to see past the surface. Funny, I was never able to either. Maybe I still can't. But I'd like to think that I've changed - become more than the superficial social butterfly I was.
It was hard for me too, you know. I was brought up under the idea that the sole use for a woman in life is to get married and get a good status. It didn't matter what other characteristics a woman had. I always thought that the best thing a woman could hope for was to be beautiful. I suppose I was beautiful. That was all I cared about, before. A beautiful little fool.
Tom completely dazzled me, you know. It wasn't only that - you were away for so long! And although they weren't physically there, my family were always at the back of my mind: Get married, Daisy, settle down with somebody. Why haven't you married, Daisy? Don't wait for him, he won't return. Pick him - no him - no wait, he's richer, pick him! It was difficult - I never had such a difficult choice to make before! And Tom - he was continuously present at my side, giving me gifts, saying such sweet words, and most of all, he was there! Maybe you think I'm weak. After all, if I can't even wait a few years for a man I had claimed to love, am I really worth anything? I wasn't worthy of you, Jay. You died for me. And you shouldn't have - I don't deserve somebody as loyal as you.
Tom's died now, you know. He died a couple of days ago, and I remembered that it was the ten year anniversary of your death. And I just felt compelled to come here and say something. Anything.
That day at the hotel was a nightmare for me, you know. I was so scared that the two of you would confront each other - and of the result should it happen. You - you scared me, Jay. You really did. I was absolutely terrified of the strength of your emotions. You see, I've never had such intense feelings directed at me before. Have I said that before? I think I must have - but I can't think clearly now. Where was I? Oh yes - you and your emotions.
You wanted too much, you know. After all, I was willing to love you then, wasn't I? But that wasn't enough for you - and now I see why. You wanted me to leave Tom, and to go away with you. Funny, thinking back about it now I don't even know why I didn't agree on the spot. But you were there, pressurizing me, asking me to say I'd never loved Tom, and that wasn't true! I did love him - it was different from my love for you, but you'd been away so long and my feelings for you had dimmed so much –
I was completely messed up after that scene, you know. I thought driving would help steady me - and I suppose I don't need to mention the complete irony of that. I don't know how to even begin explaining for my actions afterwards - it all happened so quickly. I remember feeling absolutely terrified when I felt the impact, and I knew immediately that she had been killed. You looked so calm and collected then - but you always look calm and collected, except when it came to me. And after that - I didn't tell Tom the truth. Why didn't I? I don't know. I know that's a pathetic thing to say, but I truly did not know how to tell him. I knew that she was his mistress, and I suppose I was afraid of his reaction if I told him I was responsible. I see now that was completely idiotic and irresponsible of me. After all - even if he was absolutely furious with me (and I don't think he would have been - she was only one out of hundreds, after all), the worst he could do would have been to leave me. And Tom wouldn't have done that. He might have hit me or something - but you would have saved me.
You didn't have to keep watch for the whole night, you know. Oh, yes, I was aware that you were there. But I couldn't signal or communicate with you - Tom would have seen. And . . . perhaps I'm just making more excuses. I did want to try and be completely honest with you here, but it's not working. We left immediately after that. Me and Tom. He changed afterwards. He was . . . humbled. Or maybe that was just an act too. Maybe he realised that there was a risk that I might leave him, and decided to be nice. When did I become so cynical . . .?
I didn't even come to your funeral, you know. I don't think there's any sufficient reason whatsoever I can offer for that. I blame it all on myself, and my state of mind at the time. I was scared - oh so scared! Scared of Tom finding out (again, why didn't I just tell him?), and scared of taking any responsibility. Coming here to your funeral would have meant facing up to all my sins. And I couldn't deal with that - I was too immature and too lazy to try and face up to the responsibility. I hope I'm acting more responsibly now - even though it's too late.
It's too late now, I know. Too late for so many things. Like I said, I don't even know why I came here. Maybe because, for the past ten years, I've always had a shadow at the back of your mind. Was that your presence? Or my memory of you? I don't know. But there was always something there, and the persistent questions: You know what you did, Daisy? You left somebody else to die for you, you aren't worthy to live here, you know that, don't you? I took comfort in society, in a whirl of parties and endless dances. But it didn't work. I couldn't get rid of that shadow. Was that my conscience? I don't know.
I feel like I don't know anything now. I don't know what to do - Tom's died, and Pammy's gone off and married some rich businessman, and I'm all alone now. That's right. I feel . . . lonely. And I saw the date and with a rush everything I've tried to forget just all came back to me and I had to come up here. And I don't even feel like I've accomplished anything - if anything I feel more confused.
Here's the one thing I do know, Jay. I'm sorry. That sounds so small and pathetic, but it's all I can say when confronted with the full magnitude of my actions. I'm sorry. For everything.
* *The woman stood up, and brushed some dirt off her skirt. A hand came up and brushed impatiently at her eyes, and she turned away from the grave. The profile of a tall man came into view. The woman started, and hurriedly lowered her head as she recognised him. The man recognised her, too. There was no meekness to his countenance - he glared at the woman, fury clearly written on every part of his face. He said nothing. The woman said nothing. Both knew that there was nothing to say. The woman raised her head briefly and their eyes met - and as furious brown clashed with pleading blue the woman knew that there was nothing she could do. The one true friend of Jay Gatsby had rejected her. Did that mean that Jay had rejected her also?
The woman walked away, her body aching with the need to apologise for something no apology could remedy, and with the knowledge that for all her good intentions now, it was already far too late.
Fin.
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