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“By all that’s holy, you should be dead,” the doctor told him. “If the bullet had hit you a half inch to the right, it would have sliced through an artery. If that Finnish woman hadn’t pulled you out of the water when she did, you would have drowned. You’re one very lucky man.”
Jay Gatsby was not dead. Rocked by the bullet in his shoulder, he had slid off the pneumatic mattress and fell into the swimming pool. Luck in the form of the Finnish housekeeper, who was closing up the small house next door, intervened. She dragged him out of the pool, staunched the bleeding, and called an ambulance.
Convalescing at the Bayport hospital, Gatsby realized he had to reinvent himself—once again. Daisy was gone. Her husband had exposed his schemes. The police would likely come after him. After settling his hospital bill, he took a cab back to West Egg. He asked the driver to wait while he collected a few things.
The spare key was where he left it, under a flowerpot. The place was a mess, with dishes piled in the sinks, clothing strewn on the floors, and a fetid smell pervading much of the house. That was no surprise: Wolfsheim’s crew had never been interested in cleaning or caretaking. What struck Gatsby—and he been away only three days—was the wholesale thievery. They had cleaned out the flatware, except for a single fork and knife. They had snatched the Tiffany lamps and his gold toilet set. And they had removed pictures and overturned mattresses in a vain attempt to find where he kept his money. It was a scene from hell’s seventh circle—where murderers and thieves are punished.
But they had not found his cash, which he had carefully hidden for just such an emergency. He retrieved a set of tools (fortunately not stolen) from the kitchen, ascended the grand central stairway, and entered the Marie Antoinette music room. His reflection shimmered in the large mirrors set in their rococo frames. For a moment, he disappeared in that antique glass. A chill ran through his body. Was he a real flesh-and-blood figure? He shook his head, dismissing those thoughts. Then struggling, because he had to do everything with his one good arm, he rolled back the carpet and pried up a loose floorboard. Stashed there were two pouches with money and another with bearer bonds. Those he left, uncertain if they were forgeries. He put the loot, along with shirts, pants, and shoes, into the one suitcase the thieves had left him and lugged it out to the cab.
He told the driver to take him to The Plaza on 59th Street. It had the best restaurant and the most elegant bar. He admired the flickering gas lights, high on their stanchions, illuminating the façade. And he delighted in the view of Central Park, with horse-drawn carriages lined up across from the hotel, phaetons that seemed ready to whisk you away to an older New York.
He registered as Robert Lonsdale, paid the first week’s rent, and secured a room facing the park. He transferred the money from the pouches into envelopes, sealed and signed his name across the tape, and had the manager deposit them in the hotel safe. Then he dressed for dinner in a white linen suit, with a light-blue silk shirt and a dark tie. He sat by himself at a table for two, and ordered the trout, selecting a dish he could cut and eat with one hand.
At the next table, sitting by the window, were two young women, Gatsby guessed they were in their early twenties. A bottle of champagne in an ice bucket sat by their table; oyster shells were piled high on their plates. They might have been sisters but were not. Both had short hair—one a brunette, the other a redhead—and sported bright red lipstick. They had knee-length dresses with necklines that scooped dangerously low. They were giggling when Gatsby sat down, and they immediately glanced at the strikingly handsome man dining alone. Then they looked again, and then a third time.
Defying all proper decorum, the redhead came over and sat down in the chair facing him, and the brunette pulled over her chair. Gatsby glanced at the head waiter, who rolled his eyes in sympathy—he knew these women.
“Are you waiting for your girlfriend?” the redhead asked.
“Or your wife?” the brunette chimed in.
“No, I’m dining alone,” Gatsby replied.
“Can we interest you in some champagne?” the redhead asked. “I’m Sally.” Without waiting for an answer, she caught the waiter’s eye, and when the third glass arrived, filled it. The waiter dragged the ice bucket over to the table.
“What happened to your left arm?” the brunette demanded. “And please call me Eloise.”
“It’s an old injury that sometime acts up,” Gatsby explained. “During the war I led a company of soldiers in the Argonne Forest. We captured a battalion of Germans. Unfortunately, my left shoulder got shot up rather badly.”
“How brave,” Sally said. “Come with us tonight, we’ll be your guardian angels.” Gatsby looked at them. The gas lights flickering behind them provided halos.
“We’re going clubbing,” Eloise stated. She leaned over to share a confidence and lowered her voice. “Sally’s father owns a railroad,” she whispered.
“It’s a divine railroad,” Sally added. “A heavenly one.”
“Join us,” Eloise said. “They let us in everywhere.”
“Not tonight,” Gatsby said. “But I will be staying at The Plaza for a while.”
“We will become friends, very good friends,” Sally asserted, and Eloise nodded.
They got up to go “clubbing,” and then in another move that surprised Gatsby, they kissed him, both at the same time, one on each cheek.
He smiled at them, thanking them with his lovely, reassuring smile and saw the head waiter shake his head in pleasure and astonishment.
Back in his room he felt dizzy. He didn’t think it was the few sips of champagne that he had. Everything was happening too fast. The gunshot, his rescue, the hospital, his plundered mansion, and now New York—Eloise and Sally kissing him. His heart raced.
He took out a sheet of hotel stationery from the top drawer of the desk. He needed to bring order into his storm-tossed world and assemble a life plan, much as he had done when he was young. In a neat script, he listed four steps.
1–Get a new identity.
2–Move to another city.
3–Find a suitable profession.
4–Get rich again.
Points one and two seemed to be the easiest ones to achieve. He could no longer remain Jay Gatsby. Even Tom Buchanan’s casual enquiries had uncovered too much. “Robert Lonsdale” was also a non-starter. Conjured out of thin air, it seemed to disappear as easily. Curiously, Sally and Eloise, while quick to give their names, had shown no interest in his. They appeared certain they would find him again, named or unnamed.
For another city, he chose Chicago. He had come from the Midwest and knew Chicago. In the 1920s it was bursting at its seams, angry, troubled by gangsters and brawlers but, he was sure, filled with opportunity.
As for a profession, he had found out how short-lived were the gains from defying the law. But what else could he do? He had two weeks of college at St. Olaf’s and five months at Oxford. He circled point three. He would get back to that later. He did the same for point four. If he solved one, two, and three, that fourth point—wealth—would take care of itself.
But first, his identity. That meant a birth certificate, which later could become a driver’s license and a passport. He would make a visit to a cemetery to find a short life that began in 1892, the same year his did.
He crossed the street to where the carriages stood. A driver in a near-comical uniform with braid, epaulets, and a captain’s hat, leaned over to him. “Fancy a tour of the city, guv’nor?” he asked with a trace of cockney in his words. “A swing through Central Park, stories about Frederick Olmsted, and a run by the Metropolitan Museum, all for four dollars.”
“Would you be able to take me to Saint Andrews Episcopal Churchyard?” Gatsby asked.
“That’s Harlem,” the driver replied. “I aren’t going there, mate. I’m a tour guide, with a specialization in Central Park. Better to take a regular taxi. The subway will get you there in ten minutes.”
“It’s the fresh air I want,” Gatsby said. “I’ll give you eight dollars for that trip—and you can save your stories about Mister Olmsted.”
“OK, Mr. Rockefeller,” the driver quipped. “Climb aboard, but jump out right quick when we arrive. I’m not lingering around to take you back.”
It was late afternoon when Gatsby got out on West 128th. Fashionable African Americans walked down the tree-lined street. He could hear a gospel choir practicing in a nearby church and quickened his steps to strains of “Nearer My God to Thee.”
A grizzled attendant welcomed him at the cemetery. “There’s forty minutes before I close these gates. You lookin’ for someone in particular?” He held out a well-worn directory of the site.
“I’m visiting my aunt,” Gatsby said. “I know where she is.”
He walked down the rows of grave markers, examining the dates. Although in Harlem, the graveyard was a burial ground for whites. On the second row he found what he was looking for. It was a slab, not an upright marker, a lovely rectangle of veined marble. He brushed the leaves off and read:
JAMES ANSELM FORDYCE, 1892-1895
Below the name was an inscription, chiseled in elegant cursive letters:
HEAVEN COULD NOT WAIT
And below that, an angel, really, a baby with wings.
He carefully copied the name and date on the hotel stationery he had brought with him. As he finished, he looked down at the marker and jumped back. There, sitting cross-legged on the slab, was a three-year-old, dressed in rather formal attire—shirt, pants, and shoes. The figure was not solid, but neither was it entirely transparent. Bits of the marble, illuminated by the setting sun, sparkled through its body.
“Do not use my name,” the child, who was now standing, intoned with an adult voice. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Don’t do it.”
Gatsby rubbed his eyes. He was too shocked to respond. He looked up and down the row to see if anyone else witnessed the apparition. There were no other visitors. He shook his head to rid himself of the phantasm. Then with a defiance that had served him in life, he said to the figure which he hoped wasn’t really there, “It’s no business of yours what I do.”
With that, he marched out of the cemetery, reaching the gates a few minutes before they were closed for the night. There were no cabs, and the streets around graveyard were oddly deserted. They had been lively when he arrived.
He made his way back to the hotel using the new subway system, and for the first time in years had a shot of whiskey to settle his nerves. He was amazed how easy it was to get liquor in a high-class hotel. First, the champagne in the Oak Room, now this drink, with only a pro-forma question, “That’s for medicinal purposes?” Didn’t Prohibition apply to the rich?
Nursing his whiskey, he thought of the people he knew who had delusions, people who heard voices and saw figures who weren’t there. That happened to several of the men who had served with him in France. Shell-shocked, they took to drink. Their hands and bodies shook, and they talked to people no one else could see. It was one reason he had remained sober; the shot of whiskey was the rare exception.
Had the events of the past few days led his mind to snap? He wondered. So much seemed to rush upon him. He resolved to go back to the cemetery the next day and prove that the toddler-ghost was just indigestion. Then he would use the name at the Municipal Building to get a birth certificate and depart New York for good. No more cemeteries. No more ghosts. No more New York.
The next day was a Saturday and that afternoon the cemetery was busy, almost festive. Gatsby was happy about the crowds and the sunshine: together would melt away delusions and illusions. Cautiously, he went back to James Anselm Fordyce’s tomb—and stopped abruptly. There was the three-year-old, dressed in the same outfit as yesterday, standing up with his small arms on his hips and staring menacingly at Gatsby.
“Why have you come back?” he asked. “Why are you still thinking of using my name? I’m warning you.”
Gatsby looked around. Clearly, none of the nearby people noticed anything unusual. “Get away! Disappear!” he shouted at Fordyce. Now people turned. They looked at him as if there was a madman in their midst.
“Are you OK?” an elderly woman asked him. “Perhaps you should sit on the bench out of the sun.”
Gatsby fled the cemetery and made his way back to the hotel. He considered looking for another name. But who was to say that every other child’s grave would not be haunted in the same way?
No, he would carry through with his resolve. No more visits to cemeteries. On Monday he would go to the Municipal Building and get the needed birth certificate. Then it would be off to Chicago and a trip that would put many miles between him and angry spirits.
On Monday he took a cab down to 1 Centre Street, and descending from the car, stared at the newly erected, imposing structure. In designing the Municipal Building, McKim, Mead, and White had combined classical, Renaissance, and Roman styles. Gatsby was unsettled by the frieze above the doorway: an infant was holding the seal of the city. Was the child shaking his head the way Fordyce had? Gatsby walked in and felt dizzy as he stood in line to submit his request.
He filled out the application for a birth certificate and pushed it forward across the desk. He was woozy, although he had had no more drinks after that one whiskey. The face of the clerk came into focus, then dissolved, then flickered, like the gas lights at The Plaza. The solid masonry structure grew less substantial. He felt himself falling, hurtling downward, with no solid ground beneath him.
His mind raced. What was happening? Was he a ghost? Had he died in the pool and now was haunting the earth? That didn’t make sense: he had interacted with too many people. Was he going insane? Or had he fallen into some state between life and death? There was no time to puzzle out the answers.
He glimpsed James Anselm Fordyce sadly shaking his head. He felt Sally and Eloise’s warm, loving, but surprisingly strong, hands lifting him up. For the briefest moment he saw himself lying face down in the swimming pool.
And then, nothing.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Marc Egnal is a retired professor, living in Toronto, and author of several history books on the US and Canada. His fiction has been published (or is forthcoming) in Freedom Fiction Journal, Lowestoft Chronicle, Black Cat Weekly, and DarkWinter Literary Magazine. When not writing, Marc can be found playing with grandchildren or walking his French bulldog, Holden.
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WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “Afterlife”:
Writing an epilogue to a classic novel that already has a great ending is not something most writers would attempt. Not only is it risky, but it requires a great deal of imagination to pull off a satisfying one. Author Marc Egnal chose to take the risk with The Great Gatsby, and we believe he succeeded. He gives us a magical realism type of epilogue that is, in our opinion, both imaginative and satisfying while not doing a disservice to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s original.
We applaud Marc Egnal for sending us a story that embodies our goal of publishing pieces that are different and unexpected.
(As a side note, if you want to read two other pieces where the authors chose to add to existing classics, check out the stories by Maya Alexandri and Samuel Barnhart in our January 2020 issue #29.)