The Summer We Read Gatsby by Danielle Ganek Page A

him—rent-free, for a period of time that was usually no longer than three or maybe four months, in exchange for what Lydia called “creating and maintaining an artistic environment.” Finn had actually moved in as a friend of the family when the artist who was supposed to come that summer had landed in a prison in Thailand.
    The current fellow went by the name of Biggsy. “Biggsy what?” we’d asked, naturally.
    “Just Biggsy.” He drove a motorcycle and had moved in at the beginning of the previous September, when, according to Lydia, the prior occupant of the studio, a photographer whose oeuvre consisted entirely of black-and-white self-portraits (“Remarkable hubris,” she’d written in one of her letters), had moved out. Lydia had mentioned there was someone new, but nothing more. Peck and I had both assumed, if we’d given it any thought at all, that he’d moved out, as they all had, at some point during the desolate cold months when Fool’s House was practically unlivable. There was no instruction in Lydia’s will as to how we should handle such a person upon her death, and we were shocked to find him at the house when we arrived.
    He was astonishingly good-looking, with the pronounced cheekbones and clear skin of those boys in the Abercrombie ads. He had very light skin that looked almost luminescent and his hair was the kind of streaky blond women spend hours at the salon trying to achieve. He was always wearing some sort of costume. That morning, it was a top hat and a seersucker suit, sized for a boy, so the ankle-length pants sat high over laced-up boots. His wrists were exposed by the too-short sleeves on the jacket, and the shirt underneath was buttoned tightly around his neck, although he wore no tie. His hair under the hat was disheveled, but looked like he’d used a hair product to get it that way.
    Just Biggsy had shown absolutely no inclination to move out. When we arrived he’d greeted us with rum punches and hot hand towels and then helped us with our bags. Later he went to the grocery store, mowed the lawn, and mopped the kitchen floor. He had been careful, in the early stages of our acquaintance, to ingratiate himself with Peck and me, and after a few days he simply seemed to belong there. He was smart enough to know exactly how to do so, presenting himself as loving custodian to Lydia Moriarty’s legacy and as all-purpose household help.
    “He’s like a butler ,” Peck had declared giddily. “Only free.”
    “Knock knock,” he muttered now, as though he could hardly summon the strength to speak or actually lift his hand to knock. He slumped against the doorframe, looking ill as Peck still pointed the gun in his direction. “Don’t shoot me. Please.”
    Trimalchio scampered over to greet him, uncharacteristically spry. “Dude.” The Fool-in-Residence reached down to pet the dog weakly, as though he couldn’t stand straight.
    “Come in, come in,” Peck and I said at the same time. “What’s wrong?”
    Peck was still pointing the gun in his direction as she waved him in.
    “Is that thing loaded?” Biggsy asked. His eyeballs danced in his sockets and he looked alarmingly sick.
    “Of course it is,” she said. “So you, young man, had better behave.”
    Biggsy swung the screen door wide and stumbled into the kitchen, clutching his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”
    I motioned for him to sit on one of the stools at the counter, but he shook his head—too ill to sit. He was hunched over with both arms wrapped around his stomach, and he paused before us. Peck and I both froze as Biggsy sank to his knees on the floor, still clutching his middle. I was surprised to see Finn roll his eyes, completely unsympathetic to the young artist who appeared to be about to throw up.
    “I’m going to—”
    I was concerned, assuming he was a salmonella victim or that there was some terrible stomach flu going around. Peck was more of an alarmist, screaming, “Stella! Do