SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS
by sage kitten
Disclaimer: If I wrote this story, I'd be a hundred years. And hot DAMN I look great!
LIFE, DEATH—AND THE DELUSIONS OF A QUAINT MAN
It was the dimly lit cottage of Kansas' Okkervil River where young Gatz took his first breath. His life began with the cool rush of oxygen through his lungs which caught in the tricky net of woven mucous. And endless lilting bawl from baby Gatz covered a wide range of soprano notes all capable of making any woman green with envy. The source for this cry were the heavy rubbery hands rubbing him over with an unfamiliar blue cloth, now smeared in a thick, smelly cream rapidly drying into an unpleasant looking clay-like brown tinged in blood. The rough fingers dug into his mouth, forcing the fragile jaws to open gently. A thin blue tube pushed into Gatsby's mouth and wheezed, suctioning the excess mucous still inside his esophagus. And then suddenly and object of great magnitude flashed into his eyes blindingly. Gatz's cries shuddered to a murmur and something soft soothed him, rubbing him gently to a sweet, dreamless slumber.
"Did you hear?"
"About Gatz's kid?"
"Yea, and Dorothy?"
"Poor thing never made it."
"Doctor said hemorrhage."
"Too thin. Too weak. We all knew having a kid was bad for her."
"Yea . . ."
The funeral that took place the following week was optimistic for no one who lived in Okkervil River (although here in the middle of Kansas no one had ever seen a river before) had ever had such an exciting occasion such a death since the mayor's heart attack nearly twenty years ago. They were a simple people, kind yet naïve and not entirely sure what sort of gifts were normally given during death. Even so, lines of sympathizers waited outside the door of the Gatz family house; it was a well furnished home maintained by the ever popular Dorothy Gatz. But as the line stretched endlessly through Maple Drive and Main Street the door never opened and Gatz never appeared. They all expected a happily drunk man parading wildly—instead nothing. When on bright boy pointed out that perhaps they should just go in they found the house completely empty and devoid of human life. On the other hand, the floors were littered with crumpled paper and splintered chairs that marked the rage of Henry Gatz.
It was assumed, therefore, that Gatz had left Okkervil River and taken James Gatz with him. Curious, the residents pointedly turned to the Gatz family's long time friend and entrepreneur, Jack Nicholson.
Jack, being a quaint man and quite privy to his secrets absolutely refused to respond to their endearing questions. He was by no means young, already forty-six. But he was a hardy fellow who loved to shake his fathers old Civil War rifle at anyone who happened to annoy. And he did so at the mayor, the sheriffs, even his own children whom the townspeople persuaded to take up the issue with. "Tis none o' yo beesniss. I say! I say!"
The truth was (although the citizens of Okkervil River did not know this) that Jack Nicholson did not know the answer. And he felt betrayed that a family, who he had come to love as a second home, would leave without at least a goodbye. And he was too proud to admit his feelings to anyway but Henry Gatz. And although he may have been a quaint man, he was also mule stubborn. So help him God he was.
RUMORS
He was a very quiet boy, so the villagers noticed, and had never been heard to utter an insult from his pale tight lips. But there was an oddity around Gatz that stirred trouble and curiosity in the minds of the townspeople. The children would whisper that he was a British (sometimes Yankee or French) experiment with superhuman strength and flying abilities. They also said that his eyes could shoot fire and that he was here as a weapon for the military. None of them wondered why he had not done so already. Those with less imagination concluded that the father had killed someone and bluntly shut the family away from their lives in fear that they would meet the same fate as whoever had died. And then there were the people with tact, those who knew the eyes of a haunted man and his ghost. They did not inquire but left him alone to grieve. Yet the rumors never stopped flying, and always they were about the mysterious man and his little boy who appeared all those years ago.
Rainer City was not a real city, nor was it a town. It consisted of many small farms all privately owned by an even larger edifice. The man who owned Rainer city was constantly referred to as Jones Berwick, AKA the Bogeyman. Children's stories always told of him stealing other little children away to work in his factories. The mothers always told their versions in much the same fashion and true to the simple nightmarish tales. And unbelievably, any child younger than ten years always believed these tales. No one ever questioned why there were no disappearing children. Neither do they know whether or not Jones Berwick existed, or if he was a fairytale threaded with make believe truths. There were plenty of rumors suggesting he was now dead. Regardless, they still operated as a town and not a company. They were happy, congregating together by the masses and electing "mayors" and "governors"—but Rainer City was never a real city.
Those who lived in Rainer City, but did not work there, were most likely to be found working south in Earleville. Coincidentally, Earleville was not a village (nor a town) or even owned by an Earl (which completely defiles the point of calling it an Earl's Ville). It was a moderately successful sea port, also privately owned—but known to very little people. Henry Gatz happened to work there and spent many hours riding his beat up Ford ten miles back and forth from Earleville to Rainer City. He never brought James Gatz with him, but left the twelve year old boy at a tactful neighbor's house. She harbored him and nurtured Gatz from when he was a baby with as much loving care as an eighty-two years old woman can give. A witch, the townspeople would call her, but "Dolly" was Henry's affectionate nickname for her.
It was the spring of 1908 when Gatz's nanny finally succumbed to the brittle will of old age. The funeral was quick, inexpensive and held in the Trading Square which was the center for all of the farmers produce. Only two people appeared to witness Dolly's burial rights: Henry and Jams Gatz, and then the years after. By then James was a handsome sixteen years old. He was still the soft spoken child yet with a body that had filled out over the years and still looking to add pounds and height. In the spring of 1908, Gatz's view of Rainer City's people had changed. He was not particularly fond of the townspeople; they were a naïve and trick-some lot—the very sort of people who he avoided although in that particular place it was never easy. Henry, however, caved easily to the people of Rainer City, and hoped his son would do the same. But Gatz wanted to be bigger, and Henry saw that. So he began to take his son to the sea.
SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS
"QUI-et! QUI-et! Ah'm coming!" When Jack Nicholson heard the insistent pounding on his door he did not expect to see what he finally did see. The figure standing over the threshold of his door was an unwholesome man; pale and heaving his chest up and down in heavy gasps. His eyes seemed ready t pop from its sockets, and no wonder . . . inside and dressed in warm sheep pajamas even Nicholson felt the bitter chills of the wind. There were glistening tears now dried (and Jack suspected they would freeze as well) streaked across the man's red puffy face. But what drew Jack's attention, however, was the piece of paper clenched tightly in Henry Gatz' balled fist.
"Henry? S'that you?" Jack peered, as if still needing confirmation and hesitated before jerking his hands towards the interior of his house. "Didn't think you'd evah come back to us."
"I'm here."
"So ye are. So ye are." Jack's eyes scrutinized the clenched fist, pausing then leaving Gatz alone by the hickory wooden table in his kitchen. His willowy figure still moved with a spry leap despite the tender age of sixty-two. "Gertie died, snuffed out last winter wit' pneumonia. Never bin the same wit'out her."
Silence. Paper skittered across the table, leaving residual traces of water from soaking in the snowy, windy air. Jack merely glanced at it while pouring the hot bubbling coffee for the both of them. Jack stared at the immeasurable distance between him and Henry. And it was not just the table that was dividing the two of them now. They were the best of friends—but now?
"Jack?" There was a pregnant pause and the nervous shuffling of feet.
"Gatsby left." Sound resumed in the kitchen and the pair oddly did not speak for a long time. They sipped their coffee in silence, opposite each other. And they did not speak until mere dregs remained in their mugs. Jack looked at Henry now, with a renewed interest for those eyes were not of a man in deep depression. They were not the same brown eyes that had lost his beloved wife. They were of pride then, he decided, not sorrow. Those were a long time coming. Jack sighed.
"To James Gatsby then."
"To Jay Gatsby."
A/N: Well, so much for sentimentality. So, did I squeeze your heart? I was really going for one of those fanatical endings that aren't sad but they're not happy either. They're sort of squeezing your heart and dangling it laughing while you're staring in absolu-favoritvely amazement. Anyway, yes this short little to-do was inspired by "Such Great Heights" Written and sung by The Postal Service. I think its pretty obvious why I think that song fits Gatsby's character so well. But I'd rather you figure out why. If you still can't after reading this then message me and I'll reply to you the answer. Cheerios.