The Great Gatsby | A Winrina Story

Terminus

Gatsby was pacing in my living room.

"Jaye, you have to leave Long Island, maybe even the US. The police are going to arrest you. You're a murder suspect. Please, please don't take the blame for Karina. She's my cousin, and of course I care for her, but she needs to take responsibility for this. Maybe they'll see it as manslaughter and not go for the --"

"I can't do that, old sport. What kind of woman would I be if I deserted her? No. She needs me. My life is a small price to pay. Even if I'm to be hanged, I'll go in peace. She's everything, RJ."

I sighed. Gatsby would never understand that the world needed her capacity for love, dreams, and perseverance. We needed a beautiful little spark of goodness, if only so we'd know that at least one relentless dreamer existed.

"I'll do anything to help you," I said. "But, as your friend, I'm begging you: please go. Go somewhere far away. I'll come to visit." Tears started to flow down my cheeks. "But dear God, Jaye, don't give your life for Karina Buchanan. She's not who you knew in 1919, Jaye. Money and polite society ruined her. She told me everything, how she rejected you because you were poor, and how she married Tom for his money. That says a lot."

Gatsby put her hands on my shoulders. "I'm sorry, but you're wrong. Her and I will be together, just like 1919. The other night she asked me to dance with her. I still have my AEF uniform, and I wore it as we danced. It was like space itself parted, and all we had to do was walk through it. I love her, RJ. I'm going to marry her, even though we're practically married now." Gatsby smiled. "I've never had a friend like you, and I'm grateful, and I always will be. My hope is that we always remain friends."

I was crying. "Me too, Jaye. Me too. Just don't give your life."

"When I met Karina, I had nothing whatsoever. My uniform, a few dollars, but otherwise, nothing. Giving my life would be a return to that time."

Desperate, I changed the subject.

. . . . .

Months later, the police had pieced together the story. Tom visited Wilson that morning, who was practically in a religious delirium.

Tom made sure that the grief-maddened man knew who the driver of the yellow car was.

Not Karina Buchanan.

Jaye Gatsby.

On a hot Sunday afternoon, Gatsby was floating in her lavish pool, asleep on her stomach. Wilson wandered around the estate, including the house, until he saw her in the pool. From a dirty paper bag he withdrew a rusty pistol, the kind soldiers are issued.

He shot Gatsby in the back three times. She slipped, lifeless, from the floater she'd been sleeping on. The police would find her on the bottom of the pool, face up, her eyes open as if looking to the heavens.

When an officer knocked on my door inquiring about Gatsby's next of kin, I collapsed.

"Oh Jaye, where did it go wrong? How did this start with a party?"