Corson goes to poke him in the chest again, but Jessup grabs his wrist. “You do that again, and I’ll lay you out,” he says. They both stay like that, rigid, Jessup’s hand on Corson’s wrist, Corson’s arm outstretched. Jessup notices the cop car idling in the corner of the parking lot, the cop looking over. At the same time, Corson’s mom calls him again. This time there’s a note of worry in her voice, and Corson lets a smile rip through. His arm loosens up, so Jessup releases his wrist. Corson pats him on the shoulder. “This isn’t over, boy,” Corson says. He turns and starts walking away.
“Maybe,” Jessup calls, “but your season is, boy.”
Corson stiffens, stops, turns. Jessup tips his chin. He’s the one smiling now. He gets in the truck, starts it up, and starts to pull out.
He feels the thump, hears the crack of broken plastic. He stops the truck, looks in the driver’s-side mirror. Corson is standing by the back of the truck bed, looking pleased with himself. And now Jessup has to decide: beat Corson’s ass or walk away. Cop car right there. High school parking lot and all that comes with getting in a fight. No way he’d get to play next week. Suspension at least. Possibly worse. Thinks David John. Ricky. The alley. Thinks Corson’s black skin. Thinks jail. Thinks of Ricky spending half his life in prison, David John already done his four years, thinks of the nights his mother cried hard enough to shake the trailer.
Thinks his own hands are shaking on the wheel.
Drives away.
KIRBY’S
By the time he’s turning onto Route 13, his hands have stopped shaking. He turns the music up loud. The stereo, even though it’s a cheap piece of crap—the only good thing about it is he can play music off his phone—is the nicest thing about the truck. Pulled it out of a totaled Subaru in the junkyard, ten bucks, though he’s still using the truck’s factory speakers. He mostly listens to alternative country, old Springsteen, Johnny Cash. His last girlfriend turned him on to upbeat indie folk music, and he listens to that when he’s in a good mood and wants something easy. Since they’ve started dating, Deanne has had him listening to pop music, and when Jewel’s in the truck, she makes him put on 103.7, WQNY, country top forty.
On the drive to Kirby’s, he’s got Eric Church’s Chief on shuffle. He likes Eric Church because Eric Church, particularly with his old stuff, has the right kind of beautiful rawness. The speakers in his truck rattle when he cranks it, but he wouldn’t upgrade things even if he could afford something better; the music is real to him this way. When he pulls into the parking lot, Church is singing about Springsteen and being seventeen, and Jessup, for the first time, understands that even though he can’t wait to get out of Cortaca, there will always be a piece of him left behind. He wonders how he can be nostalgic for a place he hasn’t departed.
Kirby’s is busy, though Jessup isn’t sure he’s ever been in the restaurant when it’s been slow. He ends up backing into a spot that opens up when a white Toyota hatchback pulls out. Thinks about bringing in the game ball but decides to leave it in the truck. It’s his. Not something he’s ready to share yet. But on his way in, he stops in the lobby and hits the ATM, takes out sixty dollars. He looks at the slip—seventy-six dollars and a few cents left in his account—and then crumples it in his hand and shoves it in his pocket. He puts twenty into his wallet, putting him at about forty-five bucks there, keeps the other forty in his hand. His sister, mother, and stepfather are waiting for him in a booth near the back. David John sees him first and pops to his feet. He’s grinning at Jessup like they share a secret, and David John grabs him and hugs him hard. Jessup remembers his stepfather as solid, and he still is—David John might as well be carved out of oak, clearly spent his time in jail keeping fit—but Jessup is startled to realize that he almost looms over his stepfather. He’s easily got fifty pounds on David John. If the two of them fought, Jessup would kick his ass.
“Mom wouldn’t let me order until you got here,” Jewel says. She’s bouncing on the seat, her hands pinned under her thighs like she’s afraid her arms will flap her away if they aren’t trapped. “Uncle Earl gave us some money, so we can order whatever we want. Mom said I can get a milkshake. Or should I get a malt?”
Jessup knows he should be grateful to David John’s brother. He’s seen his mom buying gas one or two gallons at a time, handfuls of quarters and nickels and dimes, returning cans and bottles so she can buy five bucks’ worth of gas so she can get to the next house she cleans, the wife apologizing because she forgot to leave a check the week before—oh, you know how it is with the kids, and everything can be so crazy when school is on holiday—but not really understanding that Jessup’s family needed that hundred dollars, that to go without that money meant they had to go, well, without. Taking Jewel to the thrift store every week until they come across a pair of snow boots that fit, his sister never once complaining about how her friends get everything new from Target or online from L.L.Bean. Sure, every time Earl gives his mom a few hundred dollars it’s a kind of salvation, but it feels . . . What? Capricious. It feels capricious, he thinks. That’s the word he’s looking for. The money unpredictable. What they really need is somebody to get his mom a new car, somebody to pay the utility bills, some regularity, a chance to plan ahead for once. And he can’t help but feel like there’s a catch with the money Earl offers. He’s never seen the hook at the end of the line, but he knows it’s there.
PLANS
Tell you what,” Jessup says, easing into the booth next to his sister. “Special occasion. We’re celebrating your daddy coming home.” He’s still got the two twenties in his hand from the cash machine, but they aren’t needed with Earl’s money. Instead of putting the bills on the table and offering to treat, he stuffs them into the pocket of his jeans. David John is watching him, so Jessup gives a nod, but there’s something changed about his stepfather and Jessup can’t read it.
He slides all the way across, into his sister, bumping her friendly with his hip. “You get a shake and I’ll get a malt, and we can share.” Jewel smiles broadly and Jessup looks more closely. “You finally lost that tooth.”
Jewel rolls her lips up and thrusts her face toward him so that he can get a good look at the gap. “Wiggled it out during the third quarter.”
He rolls his eyes back and sticks out his tongue so that she giggles. “Come on, now,” he says. “Nobody here wants to see your gross, bloody gums. Put your lips back down.”
David John slaps his hand on the table lightly. “I’ll tell you, Jessup, your mom said you’d gotten big, and I knew you’d turned into quite a player, but whoa. You were something else on that field. You done good, kid. That hit right before halftime.” Something that sounds like a laugh seems to catch in his throat. “Knocked that kid so hard you got him throwing up. Bet he wished he’d stayed home tonight. Taught him a lesson for sure.”
Jessup wonders what David John would say if he told him about Corson confronting him in the parking lot after the game. He knows what David John’s brother would say. Even if Jessup hasn’t gone to church since Ricky killed those boys, his mother keeps trying to get him to go, tells him about what Earl’s been preaching. A big one is standing up for yourself, about how the only way to protect yourself from savagery is to stand your ground. At church, Ricky and David John are held up as heroes. Stand for your race or you stand for nothing.
David John has his arm around Jessup’s mother’s shoulder, and she’s leaning into him like all she wants is for them to be one person. Four years, Jessup thinks. Four years they’ve been apart. He doesn’t want it in his head, but he knows it’s been a long time for the two of them, and the walls are thin in the trailer. Jewel can sleep through anything, but Jessup’s glad he’ll be out late tonight. He doesn’t like sleeping with his headphones on.
They order burgers and fries and shakes and malts, his mom and stepfather sharing an order. David John talks about how things are going to be now that he’s home. He’s already got
a couple of plumbing jobs lined up. Old customers who can see past his time in jail and congregants from the Blessed Church of the White America who will pay cash. “It’ll take a while to get up and rolling full speed again,” David John says, “but things will be back to normal soon enough.”
Not for Ricky, Jessup thinks, but he doesn’t say it.
“Monday I’ll start working. Got some good leads. Going to have to sort through my tools. Cindy said you’ve got everything out in the shed?” Jessup nods. “Well then, that’s good. But tomorrow, well, tomorrow I think we all need to go out for some ice cream as a family. What do you think about that, darling?” he says, winking at Jewel. “And Cindy, how about some fried chicken for dinner? In the afternoon, Jessup, you can take the recliner and I’ll cuddle up on the couch with my two girls and watch some college football. And just so you all can plan ahead, know that if you want to take a shower, you best get started early, because I’m aiming to use up all of the hot water. I’m going to take a shower so long that you’ll start to worry I’ve pruned up into nothing. Jessup—”
“I’m hunting in the morning,” Jessup says. It comes out quicker than he expected, but if David John minds having his words stepped on, he doesn’t show it.
“Hunting?”
“Deer hunting. Freezer’s empty. And I’m working tomorrow afternoon and night. Two to eight.”
The waitress has delivered their drinks, so Jewel is going at her shake already. His mom can’t seem to stop herself from smiling, but David John is looking at Jessup evenly. Not angry, not happy. Just figuring things out. There’s a blankness there.
For a second Jessup feels like a little kid again. “Sorry,” he blurts out. “Wasn’t thinking. Should have gotten out of work this weekend so I could have been at home.”
David John shakes his head, but the blankness is gone. He’s smiling now. “Nope. I’m proud of you, Jessup. Most kids your age, they work, that money goes into buying a new phone or making their car shiny or new clothes or whatever, but your mom’s been telling me how you’ve been pitching in.” Jessup can feel the crumpled bills in his pocket, pushing against his wallet. “You did good. We ain’t welfare queens in some ghetto. We’re good country people and we work for what we get. I’m sorry that things have been hard the last couple of years, but what’s past is past. I’m here now. What you earn is yours from now on out, Jessup. You’re a teenager, and you should have a chance to act like one. You spend that money on something fun. You and Wyatt should get yourselves up to a little trouble. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Jessup says.
“And Sunday,” David John says. “You’ll be coming to church?”
It sounds like a question, but it isn’t a question.
The waitress brings the burgers to the table. David John reaches out to take his wife’s hand and Jessup’s hand, Jessup reaching for Jewel, Jewel for their mother, the four of them linked in an unbroken circle.
“Dear Jesus,” David John says. Jessup bows his head and closes his eyes.
CHERRIES
They walk out together. Jewel between him and David John, holding each of their hands and talking nonstop. The adrenaline from the game has worn off, and Jessup is starting to feel sore. He’s got turf burn on his left forearm, a decent bruise on his right thigh, and the general sense that when he wakes up tomorrow morning he’ll know that he played football the night before.
The Cortaca PD cruiser is double-parked outside of the entrance. David John goes stiff as soon as he sees it. The reaction of a man who is afraid of going back to jail, Jessup thinks.
The car is running and there’s a single cop, a woman who Jessup hasn’t seen before, sitting in the passenger seat. She’s young and good-looking. A lesbian, he figures, with her short hair. Why else would she want to be a cop?
“Excuse me.” The voice behind them is bright and cheerful and, as they part, a cop brushes past them.
No, he doesn’t brush, Jessup thinks. The cop waddles. He’s five ten, five eleven, but he’s shaped like a beach ball. There’s a layer of hardness under the fat, but Jessup can’t imagine this cop running a mile in under ten minutes or doing push-ups or passing any fitness test. He’s carrying a paper takeout sack and holding a drink tray with three drinks on it. Three drinks? Two milkshakes and a soda, Jessup realizes, and then wonders if the fat cop is going to drink both shakes or if one of them is for the woman.
The cop smiles at them as he walks by and nods at Jewel. “You all have a good night, now. Drive safe with this snow.”
The four of them stay still for a minute, watching him lever himself into the car, the cruiser settling on its springs a bit as his weight hits the front seat. When the car pulls away, they move again. Jessup wonders if he held his breath. His mother touches David John on the back of his neck. “You okay?” she says.
“Just skittish. I’m sorry. It’s not going to be like this every time I see a cop,” David John says quietly.
“I know.” His mom might be trying not to cry, or she might just be happy. Jessup can’t tell, but she steps into her husband and hugs him, nestling her face against his neck. “I’m just so tired of all of it, you know?”
Jessup looks away.
Jewel is starting to crash already by the time she’s in the backseat of the car and buckled up. Jessup’s mom takes the passenger seat, leaving David John to do the driving.
David John pauses a second before getting in the car, looking up at the sky, letting the snow drift down on him. Jessup looks up, too. He loves watching the white kiss through the parking lot’s lights.
“We’ll have to do something about your mom’s car. Work van is no good for taking the family out, and your mom’s car ain’t exactly suited for the snow. A good SUV, or a pickup with an extended cab. I’ll ask around at church and see if anybody’s looking to sell and willing to work out some financing until we’re back on our feet.” He turns to Jessup and offers his hand.
It’s an odd thing for Jessup. He can’t remember ever shaking David John’s hand. He knows that’s the way with some families, but David John’s always been affectionate with Jessup and Ricky and Jewel. He’s a strict dad, but not in a bad way. Get your work done, do your chores, do the right thing, and there are consequences for talking back or failing to live up to expectations, but he was always quick to pull the kids in for a hug, to wrap an arm around you, always kissing Jessup’s mom. Telling all of them that he loved them.
Jessup shakes David John’s hand. It’s a firm grip, but he’s surprised by how cool his stepfather’s hand feels. They shake, and then David John clasps Jessup’s one hand with both of his and looks him full on. “You’ve turned into a man while I’ve been gone, Jessup.”
“Yes, sir.”
David John is still clasping his hand.
“And I’m proud of you, the way you’ve stepped up. I’m sorry for how much I’ve missed. But it’s good to be home.” He lets go of Jessup’s hand now and then winks. “Enough already. I know you’re itching to see your friends. Go have some fun.”
David John lets the windshield wipers clean off the new snow, and Jessup steps to the back of the car, pulls his gloves out of his jacket pocket, and uses his hands to clear the rear window. Wants to make sure they get home safely. Once the car pulls out, Jessup walks over to his truck and does a good job with the brush, making sure everything is cleaned off. Gets in, peels off his gloves, tosses them onto the passenger seat, pulls out of the parking lot.
He’s been driving a couple of minutes and is just near the edge of campus when he sees the cherries light up in his rearview mirror. A quick blat from the siren.
He pulls over, rolls down the window, and waits.
WARNING
You know why I pulled you over?”
“No, sir.”
“Broken taillight.”
Jessup tries hard to keep his face from showing an
ything, but he knows he’s gripping the steering wheel tight. Corson must have smashed the taillight. Should have gotten out of the truck and kicked his ass. No. Can’t do that. Not in the school parking lot. Not in front of the cop. But he should have looked when he got to Kirby’s. Got to the restaurant, backed it in, didn’t think about it. Corson’s out there somewhere driving Mommy and Daddy’s luxury car, and now Jessup has a broken taillight to fix. He’ll have to stop by the auto-parts store tomorrow. He thinks about the forty dollars still crushed up in his pocket, money he thought he could hold on to. The bulb will only run him two bucks, but the lens will be closer to thirty-five. Cheaper to go to the junkyard for the lens, but he’ll have to get lucky and it will eat up time.
The cop leans in a bit, squinting, and Jessup, who always figures it’s best to look domesticated, keeps his head tilted down.
“I know you,” the cop says.
Jessup looks up now. He doesn’t recognize the cop, but he doesn’t not recognize him either. That’s the sort of thing that happens in a town the size of Cortaca.
“License, registration, insurance.”
Jessup pops the glove box and grabs the paperwork. He digs out his wallet—the two crumpled twenties coming out, too—and pulls out his license, hands the pile over to the cop. Name tag reads “Hawkins.” Hawkins. Hawkins.
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