Three Fathers
(Occurs seventeen years after the events chronicled in the novel The Great Gatsby)
Disclaimer: Just about everything and everyone in this story is the property of the estates of Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Anything that isn't belongs to me. This is my first shot at posting Fanfic. Please R&R!
"Jay, Daisy just died. We're going to the city immediately. Hurry up and pack."
Those words, spoken by my Uncle Nick, did not have the effect upon me that one might expect them to have when a sixteen-year-old boy is told that his mother has just died. I had rarely seen my mother, Daisy Buchanan, when I was growing up. She preferred to stay in Chicago with my sister Millie, while I lived with Uncle Nick and Aunt Grace in the rural town where they had both grown up. Mother had given me to them to raise when I was very small, even though she had more than enough time and money to raise both of her children. My father's death, before I was born, had left my mother very wealthy but very unhappy. From what I knew from gossiping relatives about her last five years, she had been hiding in the town house where she lived with my sister and refusing to see callers, even her own son.
My aunt and uncle, being the well-meaning folk that they were, took me to see my mother often when I was small, but the visits would always come out the same way. After awhile Uncle and Aunt just gave up, which relieved me. I hated the feeling of those haunted, hunted eyes staring at me from the lovely face that was my mother's, knowing that in a few seconds tears would start steaming down her smooth cheeks and she would flee the room sobbing hysterically. My sister would chase after her, rolling her eyes at me in a way that always cheered me from the misery of knowing that my mother didn't want me. Millie would come out in a few minutes and hug me, saying, "She does this with nearly everyone who comes to see her, I think she can't stand anyone who reminds her of Father." I took some comfort in this, especially when I witnessed it happening during Uncle Nick's visits with Mother.
And now Mother was dead, I reflected as the car pulled up to her imposing town house in downtown Chicago, along with my uncle, aunt, and their two girls Mary and Sarah. As the car lurched to a stop, I thought about Mother. I hadn't seen her for at least six years. Millie would come to visit with us during the summer, but Mother retreated even more into her private world of misery with each passing year. I wondered how Millie would feel about Mother's death. Millie had taken care of Mother practically all her life. Even before she was speaking properly she was comforting Mother after a hysterical breakdown. Millie never tired of wiping away Mother's tears and holding her as a mother should hold her child, not the other way around.
And now here was Millie, hurrying down the steps of the house to greet me, slender, pale, dressed in black, beautiful as always. She hugged me so hard I thought she would break a few ribs in the process. Suddenly, she and Uncle Nick were exchanging glances, hers questioning, his understanding.
"Yes," he said, "Show him now. I'll see to the bags." And he was walking away around the back of the car to help Aunt Grace get out, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passed. Our eyes met for a moment, and I saw something that looked like pity in his. Of all the people I knew, Uncle Nick was the least likely to feel sorry for me. Puzzled, I let Millie take my hand and lead me into the silent house.
I thought she was taking me to see Mother's body where it lay in its coffin in the front parlor, but she led me upstairs, to the room where my mother had once received visitors. It was slightly dusty, and had an unused feeling in the musty air. Millie went straight to the chair where Mother had been sitting when I last saw her, more than six years previously, and picked up a white envelope that lay there. It was unsealed and blank, but thick.
"Mother dictated this letter to me the night before she…died, Jay," Millie choked on the word "died", but she took a deep breath and steadied her voice. "She wanted you to read it the moment you arrived today. There is also a manuscript in this envelope that Uncle Nick wrote years ago. Read the manuscript before you read the letter, and then you'll understand." A tear leaked out of her eye, and she gave me a gentle hug. "I'm sorry, Jay. I love you," she whispered, and then she was gone, the soles of her black shoes making a tap-tap noise on the floor that faded down the stairs. I opened the envelope and pulled out the manuscript and the letter she had mentioned. The letter, in my sister's careful handwriting, I set aside and took up the stack in Uncle Nick's precise hand. The first line read "The Great Gatsby".
How long I read Uncle Nick's story I don't know, but the feeble sunlight in the room was fading when I finally put it down. I sat and reflected upon what I had just read for a moment. Seventeen years ago my parents had been living in New York in an opulent house on the Hudson. My father had been unfaithful to Mother with another woman named Myrtle, which nearly broke my mother's heart. At the same time, my mother's old love, Jay Gatsby, had come back into her life just when she had been about to go crazy with loneliness. Gatsby and Mother had been driving in Gatsby's car together, trying to get away from Father and Uncle Nick, who were following in another car, when Myrtle had run into the road right in front of them. Mother was driving, and had been paying more attention to Gatsby than to the road. She ran Myrtle over. Father, in his rage, told Myrtle's husband that Gatsby ran his wife over. Myrtle's husband had been so furious that he'd snuck up to Gatsby's house a day later and killed him, then shot himself. Father and Mother quickly moved to Chicago, along with two-year-old Millie, where Uncle Nick lost track of them. That was the end of the story.
I sighed, and covered my eyes for a moment. Poor Mother. Just when she'd found happiness, it was snatched away from her again. No wonder she refused to see anyone connected with her unhappy past, including myself. I picked up the letter.
"Dearest Son," it read.
"I don't know what to say to you. I've avoided you for so long that I know you must hate me for abandoning you. I'm sorry, but when you read this you will know that I had my reasons for letting Nick and his wife raise you.
"Sixteen years ago, I fled New York with my husband Tom and our little Millie to escape the scandal we'd caused there. Three months later Tom killed himself, leaving me alone with Millie and an unborn child. He never knew about the second baby. I felt overwhelmed with guilt, for the child I never told him about was not his. The baby I carried was Jay Gatsby's. I loved both Tom and Jay with all my heart, and it was finally in desperation that I contacted my distant cousin Nick Carraway, who had been with us for most of the New York scandal. The baby was only a few days away when he finally arrived. The moment Nick walked in the door and saw my condition, he said, "It's Gatsby's, isn't it?" I had been planning to tell him that the baby was Tom's, to save myself from more scandal, but found I could not lie to him. I told him the whole story, and at the end of it begged him to take the child. I wanted to save the baby from the unhappiness that was the constant plague of my life, permeating all I did. Nick agreed to do so, once he was settled in marriage with his fiancée. So you were born, and against my better judgment I decided to call you Jay Thomas Buchanan, as a tribute to both of the men I loved. Once Nick was married, he took you in to raise you as his own. I feel so guilty about abandoning you, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I just want you to know the truth, as much as I tried to protect you from it. I simply couldn't bear to see you grow up, to see how much you look like your father, the man I loved but could never marry. If you've read Nick's manuscript you know that I was supposed to marry Jay, but because of my own cowardice I married only to stop the loneliness in my heart. I have reaped the rewards of that mistake for the rest of my life. Now my life is coming to a close. Millie tells me you have grown tall and handsome, and my one regret now is that I can never see it for myself and tell you the truth from my own lips. Whatever you do in life, I am very, very proud of you.
"Love, Mother"
I sat stunned. So the Jay Gatsby from Uncle Nick's manuscript was really my father. That's why Mother had always begun to cry when she saw me. I reminded her of the other Jay, Jay Gatsby, and of her shame in what had happened. And so did Uncle Nick, since he'd been there. I got up and stared at my reflection in the dusty mirror over the mantel. Did I see my own face there, or the face of my unknown father? What would it have been like to know him as I grew up? I'd never even gotten the chance to see him, let alone call him Father. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was Uncle Nick, smiling as if he understood everything I was asking myself.
"You do look a lot like him, you know, Jay. But I can see Daisy there too, as I look at your face." He sobered, and put both hands on my shoulders. "She loved you, Jay, more than she could ever tell you. She knew her own weaknesses, and she realized that it would not be right for you to grow up in a house so full of unhappiness. Millie was already bound to this house, and their past, but you weren't. Daisy wanted to save you from an unhappy life."
"And my…father? Would he have…" I let the question hang unfinished.
"Yes, Jay, he would have been very proud of you. Your aunt and I are proud of you in his place." Uncle Nick paused, and his face twisted as though he were going to cry. I was taken aback. I had never seen my generally stoic uncle show a hint of such weakness. He continued, his voice rough, "You've been like a son to us, and a brother to the girls, and we love you very, very much."
I stood speechless. As I stared at Uncle Nick, I realized that I had always regarded him as my father, no matter what name I called him. He had been the one who was always there for me, the way a father should be. He had taught me everything I knew, save the book learning in school. It was Uncle Nick who had brought me up as his own son, and not as the son of a disgraced distant relative and a strange friend who had not even been married to the woman with whom he'd fathered a child.
I reached out impulsively and hugged Uncle Nick hard.
"In everything but name, you are my father," I whispered in his ear. He gave me an extra squeeze, and released me.
"Thank you, Jay. Shall we go down?" I nodded, and carefully wiped away the single tear that trailed down my cheek. Let anyone who saw its track think it was grief for my mother. Uncle Nick and I both knew better.
Millie met us on the stairs. Her eyes flicked from me to Uncle Nick, and back to me.
"All's well?" she asked.
"Yes. He's fine." Uncle Nick answered for me. I nodded encouragingly, but my sister still looked anxious.
"I…I had no idea, Jay. None at all. You're not…angry with her, are you? Or me?"
"Of course not," I responded truthfully.
"Oh, Jay, that's wonderful. I'm so relieved!" she cried, hugging me around the neck. I choked as her hold tightened, and she stepped away quickly. "I'm sorry. I was just so worried that you'd be furious with her for hiding it." I shook my head, and she smiled, relieved. Taking my hand, she led me downstairs and into the parlor.
That night I tossed and turned in the narrow bed I'd been given. Uncle Nick and Aunt Grace shared a double bed nearby, and in a small room next door my cousins Mary and Sarah slept. Uncle Nick was snoring softly, and it was partly because of that and partly because of the full moon's light shining on my face through a slit in the curtains that I couldn't get to sleep. On an impulse I sat up and quietly swung my feet to the floor. Expertly avoiding the creaky board on the stairs, I made my way down to the ground floor and through the front door. I had often done this as a child visiting my mother, slipping out of the house I felt was stifling me and into the cool night air on the front steps. The nearest dim streetlamp was far down the street, and I would sit in the cool shadows for a little while before slipping back into bed. This night was no exception to the peaceful nights of my childhood. I glanced up and admired the stars, glimmering high in the midnight blue sky. The sliver moon was just peaking over the top of the house across the street. I closed my eyes and lay back against the stairs, enjoying the silence.
"Evenin'," said a voice. I started and nearly fell off the step I perched on. On the sidewalk stood a man of medium height who seemed to be made all of shadow. That couldn't be right, I thought as I studied him closer. He was just in shadow because the ineffectual streetlight was too far away to reveal much about him.
"Forgive me for startling you, my boy," the voice said in a reassuring sort of way, "I simply stopped to take a look at you. I only have a few minutes, and I want to make the most of them."
I stood slowly, looking suspiciously at the figure. My surprise was quickly wearing off, and being replaced by caution. The only people I had ever seen walking about this late in my mother's neighborhood were drunks, too inebriated to find their way home. This man did not appear to be drunk nor, I reflected, did he speak as if he were. But if he wasn't drunk or full of some other drug, than what was he doing here?
"My goodness, you're tall. You must have gotten that from my side," the man said when I had straightened up to my full height.
"Who are you?" I demanded, unable to keep silent any longer.
"Haven't you guessed?" came the answer, "You've read the manuscript Nick wrote. Now that you know the truth, I can visit you for a few minutes tonight."
I felt myself grow cold, though the night was warm. "You're…but you can't be…"
"Yup. Glad you recognized me so quick. It saves awkward explanations. Listen, I'm not here to apologize or to make excuses for not being there for you and your mother when you needed me. You read Nick's manuscript and her letter; you know what there is to know. I'm here to tell you how proud I am to know I have a son like you. Nick's raised you well. I wish it could have been me, but since that was made impossible before you were born he would have been my first choice as foster-father for my son. He always struck me as the dependable sort of chap. He was a good friend, and I have no doubt he's a good father to you.
"I have something I've wanted to give you for a long time. Hold out your hand." I felt something hard and round and cold being pressed into my outstretched palm. My fingers instinctively curled around it.
"So long, old sport. Remember, I'm proud of you," said the shadow's voice as I carefully tucked the thing into my pocket.
The next thing I remember was waking up on the front steps of my mother's house. The steps were still cold from the night air, but the sun was warming my face gently from across the street. I blinked and squinted around, remembering the strange visitor from the night before. There was no sign of him. My eyes watered from the sun's light, and I reached into my pocket for my handkerchief. My fingers touched something cold and metal, and I drew it out carefully, curious. It was a small gold medallion, with well-worn designs pressed into it and a loop on the top where a bit of a tattered ribbon was still threaded. Engraved on one side were the words Orderi di Danilo, Montenegro, Nicolas Rex. Knowing what I would find, I flipped it over and read the legend Major Jay Gatsby for Valour Extraordinary. As I carefully examined the medallion, I felt strange, raised lines on the thin edge and turned it so that I could see what they were. In newly added letters, unworn by time like the other inscriptions, were the words: To J.B. With Love
I grinned and stood up, replacing the medallion in my pocket as I did so. Absently I ran a finger over the newer engraving, and suddenly realized how late it was. I hoped there was enough time to slip back into the house with no one the wiser as to where I had spent the night. As I pushed open the front door, I looked up and there was Uncle Nick, staring at me with an expression that was both furious and puzzled at the same time. He made so comical a picture, standing there in his nightclothes and rumpled hair that I had to laugh. I could hardly wait to see the expression on his face when I showed him the medallion. I grinned with mock sheepishness at my foster-father and reached into my pocket.