Gatsby, The Great & Powerful

Chapter Two

As we neared the monstrosity of a house, my wandering gaze fell upon the most realistic statue I'd ever seen. Posed on the lush lawn with her lean back to us, the statue's short hair and fashionable clothing moved with the breeze. She held a golf club poised up over one shoulder, like the world's most elegant woodsman about to swing down an axe.

"Jordan, darling! Come meet my new friend Nick!" Daisy called out. Though to whom she was speaking, I didn't know.

Suddenly the statue raised its lithe arms up over its head in a stretch.

I felt my eyes widened as the statue spun around, twirling the golf club between her long fingers.

"I'm stiff," the statue complained. Her expression and tone were stoic. "I've been standing in that position for as long as I can remember. But I must feel the shot before I take it."

"Nick, this is Jordan Baker," Daisy introduced me. "She's a famous golfer. Training, always training. So tiresome."

"Pleasure," I said to the non-statue. "And if I may, your posture is immaculate."

"I know," Jordan said in a bored voice. "Are you responsible for the mess?" She pointed her golf club at my deflating balloon.

I nodded, my cheeks warm.

"This is Nick Carraway," Daisy told her friend. "His transportation had a little accident and he's now marooned on Long Island, so we're off to see Gatsby."

At that, Jordan smirked. "Oh, of course. Any excuse to see Gatsby."

"Jordan! Really!" Daisy exclaimed, affronted. She took my arm. "Time is against us. Come on, Nick."

As we continued toward the house, Jordan fell in step with us.

"Daisy is besotted, Nick," Jordan informed me in a brash voice. "The sun rises and sets with Gatsby. Did you know that? He has completely taken over her brain. It would be romantic, I suppose, if Daisy weren't married. Of course, her husband has had his share of dalliances. He even keeps an apartment in the city for his favorite mistresses. All of East Egg knows."

My mouth ajar, I glanced at Daisy. Her face had turned a dainty shade of pink, but she said nothing.

"I know," Jordan drawled, eyeing my expression. "Scandalous, isn't it?"

I pulled to a stop and gaped at Jordan, incredulous. "The news, yes, but your delivery is more so! Are you always so callous?" I demanded.

Jordan took an involuntary step backward. "Callous? Why, I-"

"We've been acquainted for less than five minutes, and you've already aired your friend's dirty laundry to me," I said. "I don't mean to sound judgemental, but that seems...heartless."

Jordan recoiled as though I'd slapped her. She swallowed and looked away, attempting to compose herself.

"I have been accused of not having a heart," she murmured slowly. "Many times. By many people. Perhaps... Perhaps I should accompany you to see Gatsby."

"Why?" I asked, my skepticism plain.

"Because I was at a party of his a couple weeks ago," Jordan said. Her voice had lost its boisterous quality. "We...talked. He told me a story about his past that nearly brought me to tears. It was the first time in recent memory that I felt anything other than boredom or indifference. Maybe if I speak to him again he could help me find a heart."

My expression softened, touched by Jordan's laid-bare confession. I turned to Daisy. She smiled as though her thoughts mirrored my own.

"I think it's worth a try," I told Jordan.

"Yes, come with us," Daisy agreed.

Jordan smiled and followed us into the mansion.

We passed through a series of ornate, majestic rooms and hallways, each unimaginable to me due to my humble upbringing. Just who were the Buchanans?

As we made our way toward the front of the house, I explained my strange situation to Jordan.

"...so, I really must find a way home," I concluded as we entered the massive, two-story foyer.

"Which is why we're going to see Gatsby!" Daisy exclaimed.

A deafening, animalistic roar echoed through the foyer, and the three of us startled and huddled together.

A muscular man with an impressive mustache and an irate expression leapt between us and the front door.

"NO!" the man roared again. "You're not going to that damn Gatsby's, Daisy! I forbid it!"

"Tom!" Daisy cried, a hand on her heart. "You took ten years off my life!"

"Better than wasting your life with that conman Gatsby," Tom declared. Over the sound of my pounding heart, I noticed that he spat the name of his West Egg neighbor like it was a curse. "You're not leaving me for him! I'm your husband. He's a liar and a criminal, and I can prove it!"

"Oh, this again," Daisy said with an exasperated sigh. "You're beyond ridiculous. You carry on behind my back with God knows how many floozies, lie to me about it, then have the gall to be angry about my flirtation with Gatsby. But instead of confronting him directly, like a man, you bad-mouth him to every person in East Egg who will listen! You're a coward, Tom!"

"So, confronting Gatsby will give me courage, will it?" Tom asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. "You're a fool, Daisy."

"And that's the best thing a girl can be in this world: a beautiful little fool," Daisy declared. "Stop with the verbal assault and come with us, Tom. We're going for Nicky's sake. He needs to get home."

"Nicky?" Tom repeated.

I took a tentative step forward. Tom Buchanan was ferocious when angry. "Nick Carraway, Mr. Buchanan," I said, extending my hand.

He shook it.

"Nick, is it? Alright, Nick. Let's go see Gatsby the Great and Powerful."

Tom led the way through the front door and out onto the luxurious circle drive.

"How will we get to West Egg?" I asked my unlikely companions. "It's too hot to walk. And time is of the essence."

"Walk?!" Tom boomed. He ogled me like he'd never heard anything so absurd. "Walking is for the poor, Nick. Don't you worry. We'll arrive at Gatsby's in a flash. Just hop in the yellow Rolls-Royce."

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