Why the Devil Chose New England for His Work Read Online Free Page B

him to come home, his father’s air-conditioning.
    Dion stretched, scrunching his eyes, his limbs snaking around the corners of the seats up to the back dash. His T-shirt pulled up to show his stomach. He opened his eyes and watched her standing in the open doorway. He smiled.
    â€œWe should go,” she said. “I’m afraid someone will find us here.” He shrugged. Obviously he cared nothing for what people thought. How had she missed this before? He moved like an oaf, like her father, slowly opening the door, as if there was no hurry. Digging the keys out of his pocket. Finally he started the car and launched them forward, speeding. At least they were moving; she rolled the window down and stuck her face into the breeze as if into a splash of water. Poor Ron. What was he doing now?
    â€œI’m not feeling well,” she said, making a show suddenly of holding her stomach.
    He leaned forward over the wheel and shot her a glance. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said irritably, as if it was all his fault. He recoiled a little against his door and leaned his elbow out the window, steering with one thumb.
    As they neared her house, he started to get nervous, leaning forward over the wheel.
    â€œWhen am I going to see you again?”
    She looked at the dashboard as if she hadn’t heard. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned to her, the words she had been saying—his own name, and I love you, I love you —playing through his head. He wasn’t going to say them, they were her words, and he didn’t want to tell her to say them, but he needed her to keep saying them.
    She put her hand on the door. He watched it resting there. “I can walk from here,” she said and stepped out of the car.
    â€œWhere are you going?” He screamed so loudly she stumbled off the road. She could see her house from here, across the road and down the field.
    â€œI don’t love you anymore.”
    He was out of the car now with his hands on the roof, just looking at her.
    She repeated it. Her bellow drew out and continued as a groan as she bent over with her knees together and hands pulled around her stomach. Tears burst down her cheeks, her blonde strands sticking to her lips.
    It seemed now that he must have known all along what would happen. He could have made a noise like the sudden roar of gravel pouring from a dump truck at the construction site where his father worked. This much force and more had built up in his chest. He could have crushed her words with his own. He could have screamed so loudly she would have ceased to exist, but he was silent.
    She sensed him stumbling through the field after her. Her mother came to the window, saw her, and called her father who arrived at the window with his shotgun. Seeing her father, Natalie ran away from the house toward the woods. Her mother came out onto the front steps and screamed, “Natalie!” Natalie tripped and vanished into the blonde straw. By the time she stood, her father was on the phone, calling. His friends ran for their trucks and cars, funneling from Central Street, Winthrop Road, and Water Street onto Litchfield Road.
    Dion tripped on a log and twisted his ankle. She was out of sight. These were her woods; she had grown up playing here. He stood with his arms apart, hunkered down, and screamed her name as loud as he could.
    She stopped running and looked up at the sky washing over the treetops. They could probably hear her name all the way in Bath, she thought. He loved her, he really did. She ran on, but stopped when hername sounded again and again, moaning through the trees like a foghorn, his voice seeming more desperate and distant. He was headed in the wrong direction. She almost called out to him.
    Mr. Dawson opened his door and stepped out before putting his truck in park; it lurched forward slightly before he could hit the brake. No one was watching. His neighbor, Mr.