My Monticello(49)

Devin climbed in behind me, smelling of sweat and woodsmoke—waves of heat rolling off him as he folded himself around me.

Godspeed, Mr. Byrd said, laying an antique quilt over us, heavy and stinking of mold.

The trunk clicked closed, and in that sealed darkness, I could feel the engine shiver to life. We began to move, slowly at first, our tires churning leaves. The itch of that old quilt against our skin and the gritty sound of road beneath our bodies. From the blackness, I imagined the bright world passing: us rolling back beneath the light-colored bridge, landing on the narrow route that would deliver us back home.

Behind mine, Devin’s body felt rigid. Felt like he was trying to avoid touching me, except in that tight space, he could not help but touch me. I could feel his legs, his chest damp with heat. He’d draped his right arm over my hip, right where my bruise throbbed. In that same hand, he held one of his uncle’s handguns, a pistol. Back in grade school, Devin won this big award for a student who excelled the most in history. They gave it out at his fourth-grade graduation, a dim stage and all the girls in skirts and blunt heels, and all the boys in borrowed ties, too long and tucked into their slacks. On the stage, they lifted a plaque into the light, promising that Devin’s full name would soon be engraved at the end of the long column of names. Devin was tall even then, but on the stage that day, he’d hunched shyly, tilting his head as if to level his slightly crooked fade. Now we had Devin pegged as security. And he had defended us, that night back on First Street and at the welcome pavilion. Here he was again, defending us, defending me. But what else did he hope for?

We’ll be there soon, I whispered, desperate to fill the dark.

Devin spoke almost at once. Naisha, I already know.

I was caught, literally, my legs tucked in, my arms pressed up against my chest. I squeezed my hands so hard my nails sank deep into my palms. Know what, I whispered.

He doesn’t even know though, does he? Is it his or is it mine?

I could feel the car negotiating the narrow road, banking one way then the other—that series of S curves—and my stomach tightening with each turn. Had we passed beneath the white clapboard tavern or the black wood of the sawmill and general store? Devin knew I was pregnant. Despite my worry and hiding, he knew.

I didn’t mean for this to happen, I said.

I could feel Devin tense with impatience, with anger, but he spoke gently. You came to me, he said.

Out of nowhere, we felt the car brake too quickly, and swallowed our words. Then we were speeding up again, turning so sharply our bodies slid to one side. My chest filled with an electric readiness, but there wasn’t anywhere for that energy to go in that pent-up space. We were sailing up; then, jolting, we crashed to near stillness. A sound like a soft explosion.

A car door creaked open, footfalls, and I could feel Devin’s arm tense fiercely on top of mine.

This is it, I thought. Even if Devin shoots whoever opens this trunk, even if he manages to do that … The ringing had filled my head again, still the sharp click of the trunk latch cut through.

I am not ready, I thought.

I want to finish college.

I want to have my first class full of eight-year-olds, watch them mark their desks with their names.

I want to see my grandma up and well.

Blinding light broke in and Devin had his gun ready, but it was Knox, just Knox, his face drained of color and all the angles gone slack. Knox yanked me out of the trunk and drew me to him. His body felt unfamiliar, as if it was surging with adrenaline and fear, or maybe mine did. Then Devin was out and up on his feet, the quilt on the ground beneath him.

What? Where— Devin stammered.

Knox pointed down the hill. Oh shit! They’re coming!

We were partway up a driveway, crashed into a gate that had torqued but not given way, and someone was coming, though I could not see who. The Town Car’s hood was crumpled, the blooming white of an airbag filling the passenger side. I ran around toward it. Still seated, Carol looked at me stunned. I heard a pop-pop sound.

Get down! Get behind the car, somebody said.

Someone shouted my name.

It was Knox.

It was Devin.

Knox ran to me, and together we pulled Carol out. The three of us crouched in the space between the hood and the broken gate, Knox’s body slightly in front of Carol and me, his arms stretched back, as if to shield us. Devin was still standing near the open trunk. The gun looked like a toy in his hand.

Stay down, Devin said.

That sound again, tinny, distinct. I saw leaves skitter.

Devin kept his gun lifted, his arm like an arrow. He held his body sideways as he walked into the space between. One step then another, closing the distance. He must’ve been shooting too, firing back. I heard a low grunt, then shouting that was not our shouting. When I craned my head up again, I saw two men in the woods below us, cloaked in spring camo, forest green and brown, that flash of blue pinned to them. One man was folded over, holding the meaty part of his thigh, like a bloody trophy. Had Devin shot him? Devin must have shot him because the other man had stopped shooting in order to drag the bent man out of view.

Devin! I shouted.

I was right behind him, grabbing his back arm, though he did not seem to feel my hands on him. He didn’t look at me but instead took another shot. My tugging must’ve changed the arc of that final bullet, which seemed to reach nothing. Now the two men were lost in the trees, hiding or else hobbling back down to their vehicle below.