american gothic

Maine gothic

because King shouldn’t get to have all the fun

  • The lobsters scream when you put them in the pot. You tell yourself it’s just the steam escaping the shells. Their eyes are clear when you put them on the plates. You pretend not to see, and suck the meat out of their little crunchy legs. 
  • There are tracks in the fresh snow across your lawn. Even though Uncle Robin taught you tracks before you could make tracks of your own, you don’t recognize these. 
  • Everyone at the farmer’s market knows your name. You have never been to this farmer’s market. The potatoes have too many eyes, and they watch you walk by. 
  • You never thought you’d hope it’s only a moose outside at night. 
  • Giffords announces new flavors! Coffee Mint Moose Tracks (a new spin on your old favorite,) Heath Bar Beaver Den, Bloody Bear Tracks… it’s raspberry swirl, we promise. 
  • People don’t go near the barn on the old Michaud place, even though it’s been abandoned for years. Something about it being condemned, and not by the government. 
  • Something keeps bobbing up in the bay, bright red. It’s too big to be a buoy. No one’s claimed it.
  • The trees on Schoodic are shifting. We haven’t had a stiff breeze for days.
  • You can’t read the name of that new fishing boat. Everyone tells you something different when you ask.
  • The painted tracks to the UMaine stadium are red. Weird, they’ve been blue for decades. You haven’t heard anything about a hockey game tonight either.
  • I-95 just keeps going. And going. And going. It’s getting dark. What mile marker are we at again?
  • It hasn’t gone above zero in a month. The wind and snow get through the windows and under the door, even though you had the house winterproofed in the fall. You don’t remember what it’s like to be warm, even next to the wood stove. You don’t recall lighting it, now you think on it. 
  • The blackflies are thick as fog. They are in your eyes, in your ears, your mouth, your nose. You feel faint from blood loss. They are under your clothes.

An equally important corollary to Boston Gothic: Cape Cod Gothic. Bone-cold waves crashing on Nauset after all the out-of-towners have gone home, the drowning cries of Sam Bellamy’s pirates faintly audible on the wind. Bed and breakfasts that, try as they might, could never quite get the bloodstains out from when the Providence mob laid low here and didn’t realize they weren’t alone. A set of footprints that’s not your own on the dunes, and fog too thick to discern whose else they might be. Rock Harbor at 6 in the morning when there’s no one there but you. You hope.