She’s Been Marooned Next Door to the “American Gothic” House With No Way Out: Chapter 2
Washing Away Memories of Him
Waiting for a War to End
Hands cracked and bleeding, Aimée looks up from the wash tub to the Gothic window in the house across the way.
It never ceases to remind her of L’Église Saint-Maurice, a place she had been certain — up until six months ago—she would find shelter and sanctuary.
Aimée cannot help but wonder what has become of her home. What has become of him?
Gérard.
She can still feel his rough lips on her own.
They’d met in 1926; she was five, and he was six.
He was the neighbor who was always hanging around, disrupting her studies, pulling her plaits, drawing her sketches, admiring her writing, cajoling her into begging for les choux à la crèmes at at the back door of their favorite pâtisserie, <<Méert>>.
She can see him at six, eleven, fifteen, nineteen — his lively brown eyes sparkling with mischief, his curly chestnut hair askew.
She can see him at twenty-one standing in a puddle at twilight — eyes on fire, blood on his sleeve.
They’d been best friends.
Until they weren’t.
“Amy? Amy? What are you still doing out here?” Aunt Dorothy’s voice interrupts her thoughts as the older woman avails herself.
“They’re not going to get any better, especially if you stand out here daydreaming,” Aunt Dorothy says, catching Aimée’s furtive glances at her hands. “City girls no nothing about work.”
It isn’t that Aimée is unused to hard labor, it’s the bitter cold for which she is unprepared. Lille never got below 7 or 8 degrees Celsius, but this little village might as well be the Arctic. When the radio announced it would be 10 degrees, Aimée had almost given a shout for joy, until Uncle François reminded her that 10 degrees was 10 degrees Fahrenheit and approximately negative 12 degrees Celsius.
“You better hurry up now. I don’t want you to catch your death or be late for supper. Your Uncle Frank has made those French cream shoes you like.”
“Choux à la crème?” Aimée’s voice catches.
“You know I don’t speak French. Don’t get snooty about it.” Aunt Dorothy thrusts the bar of soap back into her hands, leaving Aimée with her memories and cracked skin.
Leaning down to finish scrubbing, her eyes alight on a shadow in the Gothic window as the scent of the French cream puffs reach her nostrils.
And if she didn’t know better, she would swear it was him.
© A A McRae 2023
For a beginning of the story check out:
Curious about “American Gothic” or “The Dibble House?” Check out the American Gothic House Center to learn more or schedule a visit:
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