American Gothic Getaway

            She left town while he was at the dentist.

            “Just leave,” her friends said, patronizing her with their sympathy but not offering to take her in for more than a night. No one wanted the drama that trailed her like a shadow. The shadow of a two-hundred-pound man-child who raged at everything.

            She had given up trying to remember the good times. They were gone—the girl who smiled easily, the boy who made her laugh.

            After a year of planning and more stealth than she thought herself capable of, the day had come. She pretended to be asleep as he made his morning sounds, counting his footsteps until he was out the door.

            She left the apartment with only her work bag, turning west instead of east at the corner. She was just another commuter until she stepped onto the train at Penn Station and rode away.

            Crossing into New Jersey, she thought about him sitting in the dentist chair, head back, vulnerable. She left a voicemail saying she’d be working late. Eat without her, she urged, knowing he’d come by the office to see if she was lying. For once, she was.

            Twenty-four hours later she was in Iowa. He would be looking for her now—nnot frantic, just methodical. Tracing her search history, hacking into her email accounts, rooting through the garbage. He would find nothing. She’d erased herself from his life as thoroughly as he had erased her from herself.

            She stepped off the bus under a clear blue sky. The house stood by itself, even smaller than she’d imagined. The single gothic window on the second floor was the only interesting feature on the simple structure. Without it, the house would not have become a fixture of Americana.

            She walked across the parking lot to the tiny visitor center, crowded with calendars and figurines and postcards. Later, she would buy a thousand-piece puzzle to work on in the evenings. The homestead caretaker, a Midwestern woman equal parts friendly and skeptical, took her cash deposit and six months’ rent—laughably cheap compared to Manhattan. The woman gave her a county map and directions to where she could buy groceries.

            “No car?”

            “No, ma’am.”

            “There’s a bike in the shed. I guess that’ll do for you until the snow.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

             “You won’t complain now about the tourists. You signed the contract.”

            “Yes, ma’am. They won’t bother me and I won’t bother them.”

            “I’ve heard that before.” The woman looked her up and down. She had told the woman she was an artist looking for a quiet place to paint. She must have passed muster because the woman finally shrugged and handed her the key.

            “Follow me.”

            Inside, the furnishings were just as sparse and early 20th century as she had imagined. Just five hundred square feet, the house would be cramped with anything but the basics. She’d never had so much space all to herself.

            “It’s perfect,” she told the woman and began to climb the stairs.

            The woman stayed downstairs, the enigmatic smile-frown never leaving her face. “You won’t be too lonely now?” the woman called up to her.

            She stepped to the gothic window. Beyond her new home there was nothing but farmland and trees. Lonely she had known for years. Alone is what she craved.

            “No, ma’am,” she said. “This will suit me just fine.”

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