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fiCtion John SmolenS
The Superior Gatsby
By John Smolens
Then he drifted back to Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the day that Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows along shore. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Part I Dan Cody stood at the starboard rail of his yacht Tuolomee, watching the boy row across the flats off of Little Girls Point. Torn green jersey, a pair of canvas pants, and still in his teens, it was his smile that bored through Cody’s afternoon gin and tonics, alerting him to an unbridled ambition, a vulpine want that could not be denied. His youth and virility posed such a threat that Cody called down the deck stairs, “Billings, my carbine on deck!”
Grinning, the tanned, blond lad in the dinghy said, “This is not a safe anchorage, sir.”
Dan Cody discovered that he had a gimlet glass in his hand. The ice had melted. Still, he drained the contents, watered-down gin, compliments of the Bronfman family of Canada. The good stuff, not the bootleg poison that drove people to blindness, hallucinations, and death. “Why is this not a secure mooring?”
“The wind on Lake Superior is unpredictable. It can shift at any moment, and if it does, your fine boat could be driven ashore. She’ll break up in no time. Superior is full of shipwrecks.”
“That a fact?” Dan Cody’s bellowing laugh was designed to create fear in his interlopers. He elicited no such response in the lad seated on the thwart in this dinghy.
Billings came up on deck, silent and obedient as ever, took the empty gimlet glass from the railing and handed the Winchester to Cody.
Cody liked the heft of his rifle, the feel of the wood grain stock. “I have worked the Nevada silver mines, and the copper rushes from Montana to the Yukon, and you are telling me that my ‘boat’ is in danger. You think I don’t recognized danger when I see it?”
That smile persisted, a gift still offered. “I am only referring to the winds here on Lake Superior, sir.”
“The winds. What’s your name, son?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “Gatsby. My name’s Jay Gatsby.”
Dan Cody was a man of means who could satisfy his rampant impulses. (Where other men were suspicious of hunches, he had learned long ago to follow every whim and fancy.) Something about the boy, his strong shoulders and arms, his sun-bleached hair told Dan Cody he was lying. Why would he lie about his name? But that was the key: he would lie; he would fabricate a new personality, a skin that suited his needs.
Cody raised the carbine, fitting it to his shoulder, and sighted down the barrel at the boy’s chest.
“Sir,” Billings said in his quiet fashion.
“That will be all, Billings.”
“Of course, sir.” He descended the stairs to the saloon.
“Tell me, Jay Gatsby,” Cody said, “what is it that you value most in life?”
Unperturbed, the boy raised his head and considered the sky. “A most interesting question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. There is no one, definitive answer.”
“You’re prevaricating, young man. Not a wise thing to do as this gun is loaded.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that. No, I was just thinking about the notion of value, how it is often only considered
from a purely monetary perspective, how it is often confused with the idea of net worth.”
“You are a thoughtful young man.”
“That is because thoughts are free. If thoughts were dollars, I would be a rich man. As it is, I have no worth. You might say I am worthless. But value, what I value, that is something else.”
“Indeed.” As Cody drew back the hammer the audible click seemed to define the afternoon heat.
“That bird,” Gatsby said, still gazing at the sky, “it’s a kingfisher and it appears to have its supper in its talons. I value this moment as that bird values that little fish.”
“Why this moment?”
“Because it’s about to change my life.”
“How so?”
“That, sir, is for you to determine.”
Cody raised the rifle, took a bead on the kingfisher, and fired. There was an explosion of feathers and the bird plummeted into the water.
“It appears,” Gatsby’s voice was fairly amused, “the fish has regained its natural habitat.”
As Cody leaned his rifle against the railing, he felt the slightest shift in the air, a breeze out of the west. It ruffled the boy’s hair as the dinghy glided sideways.
“If my ‘boat’ is in danger, you best come aboard and help me get her into safer waters. Before the suspect wind runs me aground.” Cody considered the rowboat’s sun-blistered and paint-chipped gunnels, the water swirling about the boy’s bare feet. “Besides, your yacht appears to be less than seaworthy.”
The smile widened, framed by a flawless jaw. “Gladly, Mister…sir.”
“Cody. Dan Cody. And that’s the truth.”
“But, Mr. Cody, along with Billings, don’t you have a crew to assist you?”
“Son, let me tell you about crew. You can always find men to fill out your crew. But able-bodied? And capable? That sort of man is all too rare. Tell me, Jay Gatsby,” and he paused, watching the boy sit upright on the thwart, squaring his wide shoulders as though feeling the cut and fit of his new name like a flawlessly tailored new suitcoat. “Tell me, are you such a man?”
Jay Gatsby studied the Tuolomee from prow to stern, possessively, as though he had already taken command of her. He was versed well beyond his years, and Dan Cody had no doubt that he already maintained a powerful influence on women. Pulling gently on his oars, the lad drew closer, his eyes blue gems glinting in the northern summer sunlight. “I am,” he said with genuine solemnity. “Jay Gatsby is such a man.”
Dan Cody gazed toward the anchor rode which angled into the water off the bow. There were no tides on Lake Superior, but the currents, not to mention the unpredictable winds, were a perpetual threat to any mooring. He could feel the wind rising. Held fast on her anchor, his yacht dodged and weaved, beating against the current. “Then come aboard, Jay Gatsby. I am in need of your assistance.”
“In what capacity, Mr. Cody?”
“With the exception of my man Billings,” Cody said, “I am surrounded by incompetence. I need a skipper capable of setting my ‘boat’ on course until we reach our destination. Some believe it is all about the voyage, the journey, but they underestimate the value of the destination.”
Jay Gatsby gazed out at the lake long enough that Dan Cody wondered if he was about to refuse his offer — something no one had done in a very long time, at least not without suffering dire consequences — until he raised his eyes to the yacht’s deck. “What is your destination?”
“My destination?” Cody said. “Marquette. I have business to attend to there.”
“Marquette.” Gatsby had the smile of a natural-born killer. “Permission to come aboard, sir.”
About the author: John Smolens, NMU professor emeritus, has published 12 books, including Cold, Out, Fire Point, The School Master’s Daughter, Quarantine, and Wolf’s Mouth, a Michigan Notable Book selection. In 2010 he received the Michigan Author Award from the Michigan Library Association. His most recent novel is Day of Days.
MM
This is the first installment of a multipart series written by John Smolens. The second part will appear in the October, 2021 edition of MM.
