Copperhead

by Alexi Zentner

  It’s a bang-bang play. Jessup freight-trains Corson just as the ball arrives. Catches him right in the sternum with his shoulder. Jessup’s launched himself, so his entire body weight, 240, hits with a sickening crunch that he’ll hear like an echo for the rest of his life. He follows through, lifting and dropping, bringing Corson onto his back with Jessup driving down with his shoulder. Corson hits the turf so hard his helmet pops off, but Jessup isn’t watching: he’s after the ball. The football has bounced off Corson’s hands and hits the ground spinning backward, two, three yards.

  It all happens behind the line of scrimmage, so it doesn’t matter that Corson couldn’t hold on: it’s a live ball no matter what. Jessup’s scrambling, pawing at the ground, shoes sliding in the wet snow. He risks a glance toward the center of the field. He can see players from both teams rumbling toward him, but he’s already scooping up the ball.

  Clear sailing to the end zone. Closest player is one of his own, ready to block for him, but still ten yards back and with nobody on defense even within fifteen yards of him by the time Jessup waltzes in for the touchdown. He stands in the end zone savoring it until he’s dog-piled by most of the defensive players on the field. He ends up on his back, and once his guys start peeling themselves off, he takes a second and does a quick snow angel, expecting the whistle, but the ref lets it go.

  He knocks helmets and bumps fists and takes hugs on the sidelines. He doesn’t bother watching the point after or the kickoff. He’s looking at Corson across the way. His teammates had to help Corson get off the field, and right now, while Jessup’s watching, Corson pushes away the athletic trainer so that he can puke in a trash can.

  Jessup wasn’t head-hunting—it was a clean hit, football done the right way—and he didn’t want to injure Corson, but no way that boy will be the same if he comes back in the game.

  Wyatt calls his name, and Jessup gets up and jogs back onto the field. Kilton Valley is on their own twenty. There isn’t enough time left in the half for them to do anything, so they just kneel down three straight plays, run out the clock so they can head into the locker room and lick their wounds, the score fourteen to three.

  At the whistle, the Kilton Valley boys walk off the field, while the Cortaca High School players jog. Jessup is smiling when he looks up into the stands. David John and his mom are sitting down—at least he thinks they are, since he can’t really see them—but Jewel is standing up on her seat and waving at him. He waves back.

  The two of them are tight. He doesn’t mind that she’s eleven. She tags along with him as much as he lets her. Since Ricky and her dad have been in prison, he’s stepped into David John’s role: helps her with her homework, makes sure she brushes her teeth before bed, that she’s got clean clothes for school, that she’s eating right. They weren’t exactly rolling in it when David John was home, but since his stepfather went to jail, it’s been rough. Money is always tight, Mom doing best when she gets paid cash for cleaning houses, the extra shifts at Target means she brings home groceries, but David John was strict about the family eating real food, not crap from a box. And no microwave in this house—do you really believe the government is telling you the truth about those? On the nights his mom is working, Jessup cooks. Nothing fancy, but fresh vegetables, pasta, chicken, everything homemade. Venison and duck he hunts and packs in the freezer. Jewel usually does the dishes after dinner so that he can finish his own homework.

  Normally at halftime, while he’s in the locker room, she’ll go find her friends, head to the snack bar for a hot chocolate if Jessup slips her a few dollars, but tonight he figures she’ll stay with Mom and her dad.

  She waves again and then blows him a kiss, and he reciprocates before heading out of the stadium and into the parking lot. It’s transformed. The open asphalt looks like a Dalmatian’s back, mostly white, but with black spots where the snow hasn’t stuck yet. The cars and trucks in the lot are blanketed, all but the most recent arrivals with a good coating of snow. Hope you remembered to throw the scraper and brush back into your car.

  All of the snow has brought a quiet with it. The boys are shouting and talking as they jog toward the main building and the locker rooms, but Jessup realizes that the click of his shoes has been muted, that the sound of the traffic passing by the high school on Route 13 is a muffled echo. In the morning, when he goes hunting, the woods are going to be a church.

  HALFTIME

  A piss and then position group meetings, and then Coach Diggins gathers them around and tells them to keep doing what they’re doing. The old coach was a rah-rah guy, but no good with X’s and O’s. Coach Diggins is more reserved, but he commands the room: he’s earned their respect. Every single one of these kids, Jessup included, would lay their body out on the field for Coach Diggins.

  In the same way that Coach Diggins isn’t rah-rah in his halftime speeches, he isn’t rah-rah about Jesus, either. The prayers are supposed to be nondenominational, but a quarter of the kids exit the room or hang out on the edges when the team circles up for the prayer. There are a couple of Jews on the team—Steve Silver is a good player, an anchor on the offensive line—one player who’s a Muslim, two other players who are Indian or Pakistani or something and Jessup doesn’t know what they are, plus a few more who it’s just not their thing. The professors’ kids, not that there are that many who play football, always decline. Jessup knows that in the South it’s full-on praise Jesus and pastors and preachers brought into the locker room, but the Bears usually just stick to “Dear Lord, please protect our players and our opponents, keep us safe in your arms and your heart, amen,” and then twenty or thirty seconds of silent prayer.

  Wyatt occasionally gives Jessup a hard time about his absence from church. For the last year or so, Wyatt has been attending regularly, and he means it when he says he worries about Jessup’s soul: come on brother, you don’t want to burn, I love you and Jesus loves you, and Jesus has to be your lord and savior. Wyatt believes in eternal salvation, Jesus’s love, and the Blessed Church of the White America.

  Jessup’s mom has never been hit-or-miss on attending church like Wyatt was, but even though she’s not happy about Jessup’s absence, she leaves him be. She still takes Jewel to church, though, every single Sunday, never fail, never miss, the two of them usually eating lunch out at the compound. Once or twice a month, David John’s brother, Earl—Jewel’s uncle, his mom’s brother-in-law—comes to the trailer to join them for dinner on a Saturday night. Jessup tries to be out those nights. Nothing he can point to, no mornings he’s woken up to Earl slinking out of the house, and if anything, the man always keeps too much physical distance between himself and Jessup’s mom. He slips her some money now and then, but there’s something about him that leaves Jessup cold.

  In almost every letter David John writes, he encourages Jessup to return to the fold: Church is family, and you don’t walk away from family, Jessup. You can’t turn your back on your family. Family first and always. I worry about your soul, of course. Don’t you believe that Jesus died for your sins? But I worry about your place here on earth, as well. It’s important to spend time surrounded by the people who are like you, with no outside distractions, nothing to dilute the purity of Christ’s love. These are your people. Your tribe.

  Just because Jessup doesn’t go to church doesn’t mean he won’t pray, however, and he kneels down between Wyatt and Mike Crean. They all clasp hands, bow their heads, say “amen” to the idea of being kept safe, and then stay quiet.

  He doesn’t know what the coaches and the other boys are thinking. Probably praying to win the game, to stay healthy, for God to grant them personal favors. Jessup usually prays for Jewel to be happy, for things to be a little easier for his mother. He prays with fervor; he has not lost faith, even if he doesn’t attend church.

  After fifteen minutes inside, the night feels cold. His pants and jersey are soaked, a mix of sweat and hitting the wet, snow-covered turf. Jessup figu
res there might be three or four inches on the ground by morning if it keeps up. In the stadium, the middle school boys have done their work with shovels and brooms, and the sidelines and yardage markers are clean for now.

  Jessup is middle of the pack as the team jogs into the stadium. Some of the boys head straight to the bench, and some go onto the field to warm up again while the scoreboard ticks off the last two minutes until the start of the second half, but some of the boys stop to talk to friends or girlfriends or moms and dads. Jessup peels off and walks to where the chest-high fence meets the bleachers. His mom, Jewel, and David John are waiting for him.

  THE TRIBE

  David John is shaking his head and smiling. He’s wearing a heavy work jacket that’s unzipped, showing a blue hooded sweatshirt. His hair is cut short, almost a buzz cut but enough for Jessup to see that there is white in the hair that isn’t because of the snow. His stepdad has one hand shoved into a pocket, the other free so that he can keep his arm wrapped around Jewel’s shoulder. Jewel is leaning into him, a fat grin on her face, Christmas morning having her dad back in the house.

  David John leans over now and smacks Jessup’s shoulder pad. “Hell of a hit there, son. You saw that coming, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Been doing a lot of film study.”

  David John straightens up and then lets his head fall back and his eyes scrunch tight as he calls out, “Whoo-hee! You lit that boy up.” His voice is loud enough that people standing nearby glance over. “You put a hurting on that boy.”

  There’s a group of parents a few feet over, and they do more than glance. They stare. Two of the couples are black, and Jessup sees one of the women whisper something to her husband. The visitors all sit in the stands on the other side of the field, so these are Cortaca parents. He’s not sure he recognizes them, but they sure seem to recognize him and David John. Jessup knows the word “boy” comes out loaded from David John’s mouth, even if he doesn’t think his stepfather means anything by it.

  At least, not right in this moment.

  It’s hard to tell sometimes. David John doesn’t allow swearing, doesn’t use epithets, isn’t calling Corson “boy” to stir up trouble. Jessup doesn’t understand how his stepfather’s devotion to his family, his gentle politeness, reconcile with his tattoos, with his belief in the Blessed Church of the White America, a place where certain words are used with casual violence. But can anything be reconciled? Where does Jessup stand in any of this? Because he loves his family, no question, but he also loves—yes, he thinks, loves—Deanne, even Coach Diggins, the boys on the team, too, absolutely he’d say he loves all of them, brothers sometimes, like he thinks of Wyatt like a brother, football flattening everything, the color of the jerseys the only thing that matters, and when he put Corson in the dirt right before halftime, in that moment, it was only about football.

  Except it can’t be about just football anymore, can it? Not with David John here. Not with what happened in the alley.

  He misses the way it was before.

  The ability to believe in an uncomplicated manner that his stepfather is a good man.

  His sister can still do it: even with all that’s happened, she can’t conceptualize David John as anything other than her father.

  If only it were that simple for Jessup. He’s tried to avoid addressing the question—avoiding it altogether, refusing to visit both his stepfather and his brother and refusing to talk about why—but there are some things that you can only put off so long, and David John has brought the question home.

  Jewel takes his attention back, says, “We’re going to Kirby’s”—a burger place on Route 13 that David John likes—“after the game. Celebrate having Dad home. Well, and celebrate the game, too. You going to meet us there, or at home?”

  Jessup takes a quick look at the scoreboard. Fifty seconds ticking down. He puts his helmet on. “Let’s wait to celebrate the game until it’s over, okay? And I’ll meet you at Kirby’s. I’ve got plans later, though. After that. Can’t stay long. Meeting up with Wyatt and some of the guys. I won’t be home until late.”

  His mom and Jewel are happy, juiced up on David John’s presence and on the score of the game, but Jessup can see a quick squint from David John. Disappointment that he’s not going to stay in with the family. But it’s there and gone.

  His mom says, “Is there going to be drinking?”

  “It’s a party, so probably.” Jessup shrugs. “But not by me, and I’ll drive myself. I’ll be careful.”

  David John leans over the railing again and taps him on the top of the helmet. It’s a familiar gesture. The tribe of football. “Go teach those boys what they get when they come into our house,” he says.

  Jessup turns and heads to the bench. Kilton Valley kicked off to start the game, so that means they are going to receive, and Jessup needs to start the half on the field.

  He looks back over his shoulder and sees his mom and Jewel already climbing up the bleacher steps, but David John is watching him. There’s a part of Jessup that wants to apologize, wants to say that he knows it’s a big deal that David John is home and he’ll cancel his plans. But only a part.

  He does have plans, but not with the guys. Oh, after he leaves Kirby’s he’ll stop by the party, and Wyatt will be there. But if it were only that, he’d go home with his family, spend the night soaking in the quiet comfort of his mother’s and sister’s happiness.

  No, he’s going out because Deanne’s coming to the party, too. They’ll make the rounds and then leave as soon as they can get away with it, drive out to one of the forest preserves and leave the truck running so there will be more than just the heat of their bodies to keep them warm.

  WINNER WINNER

  Jessup’s hair is still wet from the shower, but he doesn’t feel cold. Lots of yelling and jumping in the locker room after the game, coach quieting them down to remind them that they need to get back to work for next week, but it’s all good feelings; Kilton Valley didn’t put up much of a fight after halftime, final score 20–6.

  Diggins singles out plays, players, all good, all good. And then he holds up a football. “We’ve never done game balls since I’ve been here, but then again, we’ve never had a playoff game, either.” His smile an electric charge sparking around the room. “I think we all know who this game ball is going to.” He turns to Jessup. “You were the beating heart of this team, and you deserve this.” Lots of huffing and hooting and “yes, sir” and clapping as Coach Diggins tucks the game ball into Jessup’s gut, the two of them hugging hard, and in the noise of the room, it’s only Jessup who hears Diggins say, “I’m proud of you, son.”

  They end their embrace and Diggins continues to address the room: “You sent a message, but we’ve got another game coming on us fast. Now, smart decisions this weekend. I don’t need you doing anything stupid. No practice tomorrow.” Boys nodding, some serious, some smiling at the news. “Rest up. Get your bodies right. No practice tomorrow, but regular time Monday. I want you full of energy on Monday. This is the playoffs, baby! It’s win-or-go-home time now. And remember, film study at my house Sunday afternoon at four. You know who you are. Mrs. Diggins will have snacks for you.” He holds out his hand. “Bring it in.”

  PARKING LOT

  Jessup isn’t the first one out of the locker room, but he’s hustling. Wants to get over to Kirby’s as soon as possible. Can already see the poorly hidden disappointment on his mom’s face when he leaves for the party. David John won’t say anything, but Jewel will whine a bit.

  He reaches into the truck and tucks the game ball behind his seat. He grabs the scraper and is working on the windshield when he feels the finger poke into his shoulder blade. It’s Kevin Corson, the Kilton Valley running back. Mostly, when Jessup has seen the kid, Corson has been smiling. He’s not smiling now.

  “That was bullshit,” Corson says. He jabs his finger into the center of Jessup’s chest
now, right on the bone between his pecs. It hurts, but Jessup doesn’t flinch.

  “Hold on to the ball next time,” Jessup says.

  “You hit me early.”

  Jessup’s got two inches and forty pounds on Corson, and he looks over the running back’s shoulder. Kilton Valley players are heading out of the school and onto the bus that’s idling at the edge of the parking lot.

  “I didn’t hear a whistle.”

  “Syracuse was here tonight.”

  “I saw. Heard that’s where you’re going.”

  “That’s right. And you know what? After the game, Coach Trevor came up to me and laughed about that hit. Know what I said?”

  Jessup shifts a bit, turning his hip so that he can feel the truck behind him. He tries to give himself a bit of space to move. Corson has that look, and even though Jessup knows he can take him, no point making it easy. He shakes his head.

  “I told him about your dad and your brother. Said you come from a family of Nazis and that kind of thing might not play well in the Syracuse locker room. Came as a surprise to him. If I were you, I wouldn’t be holding my breath for a scholarship offer.”

  Jessup doesn’t say anything, tries to keep his face still, but in not saying anything, he must be saying something, because a smile flits across Corson’s face.

  “Oh. You think I didn’t know? Think that’s the sort of thing that stays quiet?”

  From across the parking lot, Jessup hears Corson’s name being called. A woman’s voice. Corson turns and waves. “In a minute,” he yells. There are two people over by a clump of cars. Corson’s parents waiting for him. But he and Corson are in their own private bubble right now. By the look on his face, Corson is trying to decide whether or not to swing at Jessup, and Jessup considers his options. Not a punch but a takedown. As soon as Corson swings, step in and bring him to the ground. Even if he didn’t have a weight and height advantage on Corson, Jessup wrestles in the winter and he’s good at it. Not college scholarship good, but good enough that as soon as they’re on the asphalt, Corson will start regretting his actions. Jessup would bet whatever is in his wallet that Corson’s never been in a real fight. Sure, on the practice field, or more likely stuffing some freshman in his locker, but not the kind of fight where there’s no one close enough to stop things. Jessup thinks of the grainy video from the alley, of the way Ricky swung the wrench.