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For all that Gatsby's parties varied unpredictably from weekend to weekend, they always featured a splendid fireworks display. When I first moved to West Egg I was more than startled by the sounds of explosions coming from next door in the dead of night—but I quickly grew used to the myriad of colors bursting through my curtains late every Saturday. It helped that they always came at the same time: 10 o'clock sharp, and lasted never more than half an hour. This particular of those parties next door quickly blended into simply another aspect of the weekly commotion for me to attempt sleeping through.
I had a much better time once I stopped futilely holding pillows over my ears and started attending the parties. After the arrival of that fateful first invitation, I found myself on Gatsby's lawn almost every weekend. I came to rather enjoy the fireworks—he must've gotten his hands on ones at the bleeding edge of the pyrotechnics industry, as the sparks blooming above his gardens came in such a variety of color and shape I'd never considered achievable by mankind alone. I would stare so intently at those displays that I would be left blinking away afterimages for the rest of the night—and I don't think I ever fully succeeded. Even now, if I ever hear sounds of explosions all I see are those expanding rings of colored flame above the Sound.
I spoke to Gatsby at each party of his I attended—sometimes at length, and sometimes only in a brief exchange before the telephone pulled him away. I didn't find it odd that I'd never seen Gatsby himself admiring his fireworks alongside everyone else. He'd always pull himself away with one polite excuse or another shortly before 10 o'clock and I'd chalk it up to him simply being busy with whatever business had bought him those fireworks. It was only on the Fourth of July that I discovered his true reason for avoiding the displays.
That Independence Day was perhaps the only time he ever held a party on a weekday—that year the holiday fell on a Tuesday. It felt unfair during that year in particular that almost no holidays occur during the summer; it felt only right that Gatsby ought to have a reason to throw parties outside his regularly scheduled pleas for attention across the bay.
When July came the word spread that he would be hosting a party even grander than usual to celebrate the birth of the country we all called home. Upon crossing our lawns that evening I discovered this to in fact be the case. It was as if he had every square inch of the place decorated by only the most dedicated of patriots, under strict orders to stick to a palette of nothing but red, white, and blue. The thick smell of barbeque smoke permeated the air and surely emanated all throughout West Egg. The hired orchestra played all sorts of jazz as usual, but amongst those songs must also have played The Star-Spangled Banner more than two dozen times throughout the night—always arranged differently so it seemed like a wholly new song each time. Gatsby had surely bought out every American flag in the state, for they were hung from every object that could conceivably support one, and many more besides. Smaller, handheld flags stuck up from the grass in regular intervals—well, they were regular until guests started plucking them up to wave during the festivities. I admit to pocketing one as a souvenir that flew cheerfully in the grass beside my front door for the remainder of the summer.
The crowds were immense—this party was one of, if not the most well-attended of his entire career. I had thought to dress up a little for the occasion with a blue suit and red tie, thinking myself quite patriotic indeed, but quickly found my attempts paled in comparison to the outfits some of his guests brought that night—it's incredible the ways in which they had conceived to cover oneself in stars and stripes from head to toe. Every few feet guests such as these stood holding sparklers or throwing bang-snaps into the ground. If the president himself were among them I wouldn't have bat an eye.
After I'd sated myself on watermelon and champagne and finely barbequed meat, I set out to find Gatsby. I had failed at this task many times before, but this time I needed only to survey the garden from the vantage point of a slight hill to locate him, as today he donned a rather obvious red-and-white striped hat.
"Why, hello, old sport," he exclaimed once he spotted my approach, meeting me halfway with a firm handshake. "How are you liking the party?"
"Very festive," I told him. "I didn't think you would put so much into the theming."
"Why, of course I did! It's my favorite holiday." He said it so proudly that I thought perhaps it should be my favorite as well.
"I see! That makes sense, then. It's turned out quite nicely."
He grinned and gestured broadly around us. "What better way to celebrate this wondrous nation with which we are so blessed? The anniversary of this land of the free, where each and every man can achieve his wildest dreams?" I wouldn't have been surprised to find bald eagles flying overhead at his words, summoned by the sheer fervency in his voice.
As if on cue, a boom sounded from behind me and I turned to see the first firework of the night glittering into nothing. I stood transfixed for a minute longer, watching the most gorgeous fireworks display I'd ever seen bloom before my eyes. It was as if Gatsby, after so long fruitlessly straining his way to the stars, had determined to manufacture his own and launch them to join their brethren in showers of red and white and blue. I was sure the constellations would never regain their austere luster, after witnessing the glamor Gatsby had stolen from them and tossed back up in pops and bangs and sizzles.
I turned again to tell some fraction of this wonder to Gatsby, but stopped short. I'd assumed him to be happily watching the fireworks behind me—he was doing anything but. His eyes stared into nothing, unnaturally vacant and set in a face drawn tight and pale. He stood entirely still except for the uneven heaving of his chest and trembling of his hands. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost—a whole army of ghosts.
"Mr. Gatsby?" No response. "Are you alright?" Still nothing. I set a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and he jolted, shoving my hand off him and skittering a few steps back. He was shaking all over now, and he kept his hands raised defensively. He was looking in my direction, but I don't believe he saw me at all.
A particularly loud whistle sounded behind me and Gatsby flinched violently, ducking and covering his head, his hat fluttering to the ground. He took another step back and stumbled on a discarded glass—I lurched forward to catch him and he didn't throw me off this time. He clutched onto me like a man lost at sea, and I could hear his gasping breaths in each pause between explosions. I glanced upwards to the marvel going on above me, back down to the marvel I held in my arms, and knew which one I cared more to see.
I adjusted my hold to take him firmly by the hand and cut us a path through the sea of guests pouring out of the house to gawk at the lavish display unfolding behind us. I looked back to see Gatsby numbly following, backlit by his own show of wealth. It cast stark shadows all around us as I took us through the doors to his house. The fireworks were still more than audible inside, and his grip on my hand tightened painfully hard with each explosion. I blindly took us a few deserted rooms in until I realized I'd only get lost that way and stopped in my tracks. Gatsby kept going and would have walked straight into me had I not turned and stopped him gently by the shoulders.
"Gatsby," I said as softly as I could manage while still being heard, "Where are the stairs?" When I was met with silence I repeated the question. I began to fear he would never answer, but after a long few seconds he pointed shakily to my left. I took his hand again and resumed my march in the direction he gave. Luckily it didn't take long for a grand double staircase to come into view. I took us downstairs, past the first landing, down switchback after switchback until the racket outside was muffled by layers of stone and concrete to nothing above a dull roar. Then I stepped through tile and carpet to a sitting room, where I finally set Gatsby down into a plush couch. I tried to let go of his hand, but his grip was unrelenting, so I took a seat at his side.
I took to watching him as intently as I would have watched the show outside. At first he was still deathly pale and fighting for ragged, shallow breaths. But gradually, his breathing evened out, color returned to his face, and life sparked back into his eyes where it belonged. Those eyes roved sluggishly about the room until they found our joined hands, traced up my arm, and landed on my face.
He squinted. "…Nick?" I was surprised to hear him use my actual name.
"That's right. Are you… doing better?"
He didn't respond, and I would've thought I'd lost him again if it weren't for the look on his face: a sort of deep-rooted embarrassment, even horror. He dropped my hand at once.
"I'm terribly sorry you had to see that, old sport,” he said quickly, “I do try to avoid—In fact, I thought I'd been keeping track of the time, I don't know why…" He checked his watch. I did too—it was only half past nine. "Ah. They started early."
"Who did?"
"The people that handle my fireworks. They usually keep to the schedule quite well, but they must’ve thought it didn’t apply during the holiday…" It was only then that I put the pieces together and realized Gatsby’s conspicuous absence at every fireworks show until that day.
I tried to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You make sure that the fireworks come at the same time each night, just so you can avoid them?”
He looked suddenly like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He said all in a rush: “Look here, old sport, you must understand it’s important for any good party to have some kind of structure.” A pause. “But, yes, that too.”
“If you don’t like them, why set them off at all?”
“I do like them!” he cried out indignantly. “I just get—startled, by the sound, now. It was always fine before.” I raised an eyebrow at his description of the reaction I’d seen mere minutes before as simply being startled, but I didn’t comment on it. I was quite sure I knew what he meant by before.
“You know you don’t have to have them, if they startle you. I’m sure most of the guests wouldn’t notice their absence.” I certainly would have, but I kept that to myself.
“Every good party has a fireworks show, I couldn’t possibly go without! I spare no expense, old sport, my fireworks are visible from anywhere on either side of the Sound. I made sure of it.”
“Audible, too.”
“...Indeed.” Muffled booms continued on above us. “It’s quietest in the wine cellar. Bit cold, though.”
The mental image of Gatsby excusing himself from my company each weekend just so he could shiver alone in the wine cellar for half an hour came unbidden into my mind. Gatsby seemed to realize what he had just revealed with that comment and swiftly backpedaled: “I don’t always go there, old sport, it can be quiet enough in my office, or if I get out early I can go on a drive, and even if I’m still in the garden I know exactly when they’ll start and I can prepare myself.” His detailed description of the lengths he had to take to make it through his own fireworks shows only served to further depress me.
“I would’ve gone with you, if you’d told me what you were doing.” In truth, I’d meant it as an empty assurance, but after it left my mouth I knew it was true. I’d already walked away from the most beautiful pyrotechnics display I’d ever have the chance to see just to ensure the comfort of the man before me.
At my words he smiled, and I felt as though I hadn’t missed much of anything by skipping the show. “I will next time.”
We spoke for a while longer in that basement. His enthusiasm for the holiday proved genuine—he seemed to harbor a love for every aspect of the traditional celebrations, and especially for the country it all represented. Even the fireworks he could no longer enjoy due to his efforts to serve that country.
We only realized that all had gone quiet outside when guests started filtering back into the basement, chattering about the spectacular show that had just finished up. We were soon swept up into a circle of talkative partygoers, and the two of us deftly acted as though as if we had also borne witness to the finale they were all so enthused about.
Eventually, Gatsby’s butler approached to tell him that he had a call from Pennsylvania on the line. He wore a harried expression—it seemed he had been searching for Gatsby for quite some time. Gatsby hurriedly excused himself after bidding me farewell.
I didn’t stay for much longer after that—after all, I had work in the morning. When I emerged from the house the stench of gunpowder was almost overwhelming, and carcasses of spent firework casings littered the ground. As I discovered, the debris extended even to my lawn, and a few had even managed to land on my roof. The show must have been something spectacular, I thought, to have left such extensive remains. What a show the Great War had been, to have left such marks on those who survived it.
Even today I wonder just what unfolded in Jay Gatsby’s pocket of sky that night. I later posed this question to many guests who had witnessed it, but their accounts were so varied and contradictory that I was left to rely entirely on the opening snippet I saw. I have replayed that memory so many times that it has become muddled and uncertain, yet still I continue to do so. Such is the nature of the past; it haunts us at every corner even as it itself becomes warped beyond recognition.