I am completing my daily chores, as well as preparing Mr. Carraway’s home for Mrs. Buchanan’s arrival. I’ve now worked for Mr. Buchanan and his wife since the birth of their daughter. I’ve been blessed to have such a position in a well-mannered family. I couldn’t ask for much more. I start to arrange the platter of lemon cakes, twelve to be exact, which was specifically requested; I hear the front door open cautiously. The old door creaks… reflecting the age of Mr. Carraway’s estate. I think to myself what a charming home this is; it is refreshing to see such a modest home in this time. Endearing.
I peer around the hallway- and notice Mr. Carraway come in with the infamous Mr. Jay Gatsby at his side. Mr. Gatsby really is as dashing as they describe. I overhear him mutter something about the “grass in the front yard” but his eyes seemed to look vacant, as if he wasn’t truly here. I looked outside the window and noticed how dreary the weather looked, and silently wished it would clear up soon. I recall Mrs. Buchanan’s distaste for this kind of weather; it always seems to ruin her social outings. I proceed to walk into the pantry as I hear the two men walking this way. As I prepare the carefully selected lemon cakes, the two men approach me. Mr. Gatsby gives me an irrational look. This type of behaviour is expected… as men don’t appreciate the work that people like me do. Especially men like Gatsby, he seems peculiar, just as the rumors describe. Mr. Carraway and Mr. Gatsby look upon the lemon cakes, as if they were analyzing a military document, fresh from the war.
Mr. Carraway asks Mr. Gatsby if they “will do” and he anxiously replies “Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and mutters something I can’t decipher. As the hours continue on, I finish my chores around the home. I take notice that rain has changed to a muggy mist, which occasionally begins to precipitate down the windows. My workplace was a complicated one, as Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan had an unusual relationship, something that was common in this day and age. The complexity of old money had implications on them, and Mr. Buchanan’s prestigious reputation as well. I began to grow accustomed to their dynamic, and the discord that came with it. I’ve always admired Mrs. Buchanan, as she has always been courteous to me. My thoughts come to a halt, as I hear the all too familiar sound of Mrs. Buchanan’s engine roaring down the driveway. I imagine that Ferdie has taken great care driving, as the roads in this weather could be dangerous. He’s always been a reliable worker for the Buchanan family, as well a great colleague. An automobile was still a luxury that most couldn’t afford, let alone something as remarkable as Mr. Buchanan’s collection of vehicles. I start to prepare the refreshments for this meeting, and prepare the tableware. I hear a door shut, and sounds of someone pacing back and forth on the hardwood floor. It’s deafening; it sounds like there is a stampede. Just when I think the footsteps have ceased; the back door shuts loudly. It echoes throughout the abode, I try not to think about it, I have a job to do.
Moments later I hear Mr. Carraway walk in and exclaim “Well, that’s funny” with Mrs. Buchanan close by.
Her voice is unmistakable when she asks, “What’s funny?” with a questioning tone. I vaguely hear a light knock on the door; it’s followed by absolute silence. I assume it’s just one of the charms of this old cottage.
I continue my duties until I hear a choking murmur, followed by Mrs. Buchanan’s radiant laugh. Something that anyone could recognize: it’s as if her voice radiated opulence. At this point, I try not to pay attention to the exchange in the living room. I spend the next few minutes finishing preparing the food, and making sure it is in pristine condition, just as I was directed. I come to the realization that this platter is brimming with Mrs. Buchanan’s favourite refreshments. As I finish up, I notice continuous pauses in the conversation, eventually the muffled voices ceased. I am startled when I hear rumblings in the living room, and something about the “clock”. Understanding of the uncomfortable situation, I stand ready with the refreshments, and jump at the chance when Mr. Carraway inquires his guests about making tea. I hastily march into the living room with the prepared tray in tow, as I see the tension that has built in the room. It felt as if the room was consumed by smoke, waiting to be set aflame. I serve Mr. Carraway, Mr. Gatsby and Mrs. Buchanan, and go back to the kitchen, as I can tell I am no longer needed at the moment. What felt like decades later, I wait for them to conclude their affair as I finish cleaning the kitchen.
I hear Mr. Gatsby exclaim, “Where are you going?” almost as if his life depended on it. I could hear two individuals’ footsteps, inching closer to the kitchen. I take this as a cue to remove myself, before I get intertwined in this altercation. I hastily take a new pot of fresh water with me to check on whoever was left waiting. I stride into the living room, and see Mrs. Buchanan playing with her wedding band aimlessly. Almost as if she was looking at her ring to provide the answers she hopelessly sought. One could say she was looking for her reflection in the sparkling diamond, where as I looked at her, and saw a lost young woman.
Written by Olivia Mickus
Comments