Copperhead

by Alexi Zentner

  He doesn’t know what it says about him that he slept cleanly. And yet the moment he opens his eyes there’s a weight that he didn’t carry with him the day before: he’s alive and Corson isn’t.

  The trailer is still, though Jessup imagines he can feel the difference in the air that comes with David John home. He does his best to be quiet, and he’s out the door by 6:45. Sunrise isn’t for another hour, and it’s too dark to look at the back of his truck, to see what mark Corson’s body left. At least that’s what he tells himself.

  He knows exactly where he’s going—scouted it out months ago, spent a good chunk of last weekend in the same place—and he’s parked by seven o’clock, sitting in his folding chair with his back to a tree, his Ruger bolt-action rifle across his lap five minutes later. He’s wearing Carhartt coveralls over long underwear, his Timberland boots, his camo jacket, and an orange wool hat. He eats a banana and a Snickers bar, washes it down with some water, settles in. If he had access to private land, somewhere he could build a tree stand, it would be better, but this is a good spot. He’s tucked into the trees but has a great view across an open field, 175 yards, 200 yards to where the trees begin again. For Wyatt this would be nothing, but for Jessup this is about as far as he’s confident shooting. He can stay hidden from view while watching the tree line, just wait for a deer to step into the open. A clear shot from the darkness. Saw a dozen does and three bucks the previous weekend, two of them not worth anything, but one with a good rack, only it was back in the woods before he had a clean shot.

  The snow has hung around overnight, and the woods are made fresh, the early-morning sun glistening where it slices through breaks in the canopy, the field a brilliance of early light off of ice. The temperature is on its way up, though, and in the stillness Jessup can hear the drip of the snow melting off branches. His rifle shoots .30-06, and he’s got one in the chamber, four in the magazine, but he’s settled in. All he has to do now is wait.

  REAP

  Normally he feels at peace out here, but this morning he keeps hearing the same thing over and over again: the thump of Corson’s body against the body of his truck bed. Can feel the impact.

  It’s sacrilegious, but he finally digs out his phone, shoves in his earbuds, puts on Springsteen’s Nebraska. The music is quiet, but it’s enough to drown out his memories. He texts Deanne:

  hey. had a good time last night. maybe after we meet megan and brooke at the diner after work we can go for a drive again

  Knows she won’t be up for a couple of hours. Even though she wanted to come with him today, she thinks he’s crazy for getting up early on a Saturday morning to go sit in the woods. Sends another text.

  anyway, just thinking about you

  He plays through all of Nebraska and has moved on to Cash’s American IV: The Man Comes Around when he sees the buck. He moves the rifle as slowly as he can. The deer is only partly out of the trees, its hindquarters still in darkness. It stands proud and tall, like there’s nothing to be afraid of in this world of ours, none of the skittishness Jessup is used to seeing. The rack isn’t going to set any records, but it’s respectable, and Jessup figures there’s enough meat to fill the freezer.

  He’s got the rifle up now, closes one eye to look through the scope. No wind to speak of, one seventy-five straight shot. The buck takes a few steps forward, turns broadside to him so Jessup has a clear shot for the heart, but the buck has his head turned toward Jessup. Through the glass, it looks like the deer is staring back at him. Jessup keeps his finger light on the trigger, breathes in, breathes out, in, out, in, out. Through the earbuds, the first sad thrum of Cash’s cover of “Hurt.”

  The Ruger pushes back against his shoulder and the buck doesn’t move. Jessup is still peering through the scope, and the deer is still staring back, but then Jessup sees something change on the buck’s face. Jessup knows he’s imagining it, that the deer can’t possibly understand what has happened, but he could swear it’s a look of betrayal, as if the buck knew Jessup was watching from the woods, as if the buck thought he could trust Jessup.

  He expects the buck to bolt, figures he’ll have to track him down, but the buck stays still for twenty, thirty seconds before its front legs suddenly fold, and then it’s like the deer has simply decided to lie down in the snow, and even as he walks across the field, Jessup can see the way dark blood soaks into the whiteness.

  He crouches, takes a picture of the buck that makes the rack look good, texts it to Wyatt. By the time he’s stood back up and pulled out his knife, Wyatt has texted back.

  nice! one shot?

  one shot

  how far?

  Jessup types “175” but then erases it. When he’s gone hunting with Wyatt, Wyatt has always pressed him to try to shoot from a distance that is farther than Jessup can comfortably hit.

  200

  pussy

  Jessup chuckles. Wyatt shoots a Remington 700 he got from his grandfather, and he keeps it zeroed out to three hundred yards. Claims it’s not worth hunting a deer closer than that. Of course, at the shooting range, Wyatt puts his grouping of bullets in a circle the size of a quarter from a hundred yards away, all the while joking that Jessup needs to cash a twenty-dollar bill.

  He field-dresses the deer quickly. It’s messy work, and once he’s done, it takes him more than an hour to get it back to where he’s parked. Now, with the sun out, there’s no way for him to avoid looking at the back of the truck.

  The plastic lens over the taillight is smashed, the bulb broken. And next to it, a foot forward, almost equidistant from the wheel and the back corner, there’s a dent. It’s small—he can cover it with his palm and does—but it’s there. He painted the truck and cleaned it up best he could with his grandfather, but at the end of the day, it’s still a heap of crap. Jessup knows this dent is new, can feel it bone deep that this one came from Corson. For a panicked moment, he thinks he sees blood, but he realizes it’s from the buck, transferred off his glove.

  But it’s just a dent, he thinks. Not a burning arrow calling him out, nothing out of the ordinary on a truck like this, no reason to think it’s anything other than one of many small accidents and mistakes that the truck has seen over the years.

  Oh, Jesus. Get ahold of yourself, Jessup. He’s squatting, rocking on his heels. The buck’s head is turned, eyes bugged out, the dead deer watching him, judging him. Stop thinking about Corson, Jessup.

  He stands up, drops the lift gate, and turns to the buck, muscles the dressed deer up into the bed. He’s dirty and tired, and in manhandling the deer more blood leaks out. It’s a thin trickle out the back of the truck, a dark blossom in the snow. He sticks his gloved hand underneath it, lets the blood drip onto his palm until his glove is covered. He wipes it clean on the broken plastic of the taillight lens, on the metal of the truck bed, over the dent and the rust.

  Don’t think about Corson.

  Don’t think about Corson.

  Don’t think about Corson.

  He tries to close the gate, but the deer isn’t in far enough, so he has to climb up in the truck bed. He grabs the buck’s rack and pulls it all the way in. When he jumps back to the ground, he’s breathing heavily. People who don’t hunt think the hard part is bagging the deer, he thinks, stripping off his gloves and throwing them into the bed of the truck with the deer’s carcass, but the hardest part is just getting it home.

  SOW

  He brings the buck to the processor, out in Brooktown. Near the Blessed Church of the White America compound, but no connection. No quarrel, either, and relatively cheap: he only charges sixty bucks including making sausages. The sixty bucks is worth it; Jessup processed his own deer last year, and it was rough work. Working an extra shift or two at the movie theater is an easy call. Still, he does the math in his head. He had twenty-five bucks in his wallet before he hit the ATM last night, took out sixty dollars, so there’s eighty-five cash, back down to twenty-five w
hen he returns to pick up the meat. Seventy-six dollars in the bank, going to need forty to replace the bulb and the taillight lens if he buys them from an auto-parts store. Should be getting paid from the movie theater this week, but that’s not much since he only works somewhere between eight and ten hours a week, most of that money going to his mom to help with bills. He’ll have to put off buying new boots for a while.

  By the time he leaves the processor it’s after ten. Decides to take a flyer on the junkyard on his way home, see if he can fix things on the cheap. He hits the jackpot almost immediately: a direct match for his truck. Same year, same model, the front a mangled wreck—he wonders if he looks inside the cabin if he’ll see blood from the accident—but the back end is pristine. He salvages the lens and even finds an intact bulb; all told he’s out of pocket less than three dollars. Lucky day. He pays and is starting the truck back up when his phone buzzes. Expects it to be Deanne, but it’s his mom.

  where are you?

  hunting. got a buck. good one.

  come home

  on my way

  now

  She’s not usually on his case like this. He feels the dizzy gulp of shame coming up from his stomach, the weight of his secret errand, but just as quickly he dismisses it. She can’t possibly know. He figures with David John home, she wants to do something as a family. And he can oblige. Why not? He doesn’t have to be at the movie theater until two o’clock, and even though he can always stand to work ahead, he’s good on homework. He’ll shower and be cleaned up by eleven, hang out with Jewel and his mom and David John until it’s time to head to work, a happy family, everything right in the world.

  It’s not until he pulls in the driveway and sees the police cruiser outside the trailer that it comes crashing back to him how wrong he is.

  BLOOD ON HIS HANDS

  There are two cops in uniform standing in front of the cruiser, one black, one white, and they’re talking to David John. The black cop turns and looks at Jessup, waves him in, so Jessup pulls past and parks with the nose of the truck almost touching the side of the trailer. He gets out, suddenly aware of how grungy he is. His coveralls are splattered with mud and blood. His jacket smells of the deer’s death.

  Both cops are turned to look at him, but Jessup is looking at David John, sees the quick, small shake of his head.

  “Didn’t I stop you last night?” the white cop says.

  It’s the same guy. Hawkins. “Yes, sir.”

  “Last person I stopped before my shift ended last night, first person this morning. Twice in twelve hours is a little much.”

  “A little more than twelve hours,” Jessup says.

  Hawkins isn’t smiling. “Don’t be a smart-ass. You’re in some trouble here. And I thought you were going to get that taillight fixed first thing this morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” He motions over. “Got a new lens and bulb right in the truck. Going to fix it right now.”

  The black cop has his hand resting on the butt of his gun. “You were out hunting?” Jessup nods. “Rifle in the truck?” Jessup nods again.

  “Yes, sir. In a case. Unloaded. Trigger lock on it. It’s behind the seats.”

  “You carrying anything else?”

  Jessup feels like he’s underwater. Everything is moving slowly. Hawkins is separated from his partner by ten, fifteen feet. The black cop is older, clearly the one calling the shots. He’s only got the heel of his hand on the butt of the gun, but it’s making Jessup nervous.

  “What’s this about?” he says.

  “Answer the question,” the cop says. “You carrying anything else?”

  “Got a hunting knife in my jacket pocket. Multitool in my coveralls has a blade on it, too.”

  “Why don’t you take those out and put them in the front seat of the truck, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

  Jessup complies. He doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t want to act nervous, plus it gives him a few seconds to think, run it through his head.

  There’s nothing. They’ve got nothing. He had gloves on when he picked up Corson, no fingerprints. And it would have looked like an accident. Wouldn’t it have? That was the whole point of what he did. Everybody knew Corson was drunk. And Jessup left a good forty-five minutes after Corson and the rest of the Kilton Valley kids did, nobody out on the driveway to see Corson come back. No reason to believe that Jessup had anything to do with it. Just an accident, dumb luck for a dumb kid dumb enough to drive when he’d been drinking. Corson still jacked up and angry, coming back to the party to finish what he started with Jessup, and then just making a mistake and heading down the slope into the trees. Wear your seat belt, boys and girls. No, Jessup thinks. All they’ve got is people talking about Corson coming at him at the party, but even that leaves him clean. They didn’t fight, nobody taking a swing. The only time anybody saw Jessup hit Corson was on the football field. Clean hit. Bang-bang play. Cops are only here because kids talk, because Ricky killed those two black boys in the alley, because David John is home, because word gets around about the Blessed Church of the White America and there’s another black kid dead and Jessup’s name comes up.

  Doesn’t matter what did or didn’t happen with the truck, Jessup thinks. They can’t know about that. He forces himself not to look back at the new dent at the rear of the truck.

  Jessup closes the door, sees the black cop relax, his hand drifting off the gun.

  Hawkins seems relaxed now, too, and Jessup knows they have nothing. Just talk.

  “Where’d you go after I stopped you?” Hawkins says.

  Jessup starts to answer, but the black cop cuts him off, his voice loud, jacked up.

  “That blood on the truck?” he says, and his hand is now firmly on the pistol. Jessup can’t stop himself from stepping back, lifts his hands, palms out. Same gesture of supplication he offered to Corson at the party. He’s pressed back against the truck.

  “Like I said, I was hunting,” Jessup says. “Got a big buck.” Sees the black cop squint at the word “buck.” The cop knows exactly who David John is, exactly what church the family is going to tomorrow morning. But nothing Jessup can do about that except keep talking. “Just dropped it off at a processor’s, but even field-dressed, probably two hundred pounds. Heck of a lot of work to get into the truck. Had blood all over my gloves. Some of it got on the truck, I guess. Hard not to get blood everywhere.” He gestures at his coveralls, his jacket, careful not to move suddenly. “I need a shower, man. Guess I could stand to hose down the truck, too.”

  QUESTION

  The black cop takes his hand off the gun, but he isn’t relaxed. “Okay then. How about you answer the question.”

  “What question?”

  Hawkins now: “Where’d you go after I stopped you last night?”

  “What’s this about?”

  David John comes off the porch, walks over to where Jessup is standing. “Does he need a lawyer?”

  The black cop shakes his head. “Not if he didn’t do anything wrong. Now, Jessup, answer the question.”

  David John’s voice is quiet, but it’s firm. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking . . . What’s your name again?”

  Hawkins lets something approaching a smile come to his mouth. A secret coming to his lips. Jessup’s reminded of Jewel as a toddler, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, his sister at four, five, six, fairy tales and bedtime stories, Disney princesses, Jessup telling her no, prison ain’t so bad, just read what Daddy’s written, he’s getting good food, has friends, and Ricky misses you, too, but he’s doing okay, and then somewhere in there, Jewel growing up, nah, I don’t need a new bike for Christmas, knowing that it means extra shifts at Target for their mom, that it’s Jessup sneaking into her room at night and slipping a dollar under her pillow, the Tooth Fairy in the form of her brother, understands exactly why it is her father’s gone, where he is.

  There’s that tightness in his
chest, a hard swallow, when did she grow up like that? No, he thinks, clenches his fists, digs his short fingernails into the skin, not the time or the place, think about Jewel later. Don’t think about Jewel, don’t think about Corson. Right now there’s a snake in the garden. Take care of that.

  Hawkins takes a few steps over until he’s standing behind his partner. He’s got something approaching a smirk on his face now. “Hawkins. Paul Hawkins. You can have our badge numbers, too, if you want, Mr. Michaels.”

  Jessup thinks about what Hawkins told him last night. Blend in. Keep your head down until you’re needed, see you at church. Thinks about Brandon Rogers on television, hair neatly combed, the optics of a suit and tie instead of a shaved head and neck tattoos. “Blessed Church of the White America” circling a flaming cross on David John’s back, Ricky’s back.

  “I don’t need your badge numbers,” David John says, “but what do you think, Officer Hawkins? You think Jessup needs a lawyer?”

  “No, Mr. Michaels. I don’t think your son needs a lawyer. At least not right now.”

  Jessup wonders if Hawkins remembers that he’s David Michael’s stepson, not his son. Not that it matters. Nobody cares. What the hell is wrong with him? Why does he keep thinking about the wrong things?

  Hawkins looks at Jessup now, the insolent smile wiped clean. Professional now. He’s got a pad and pen out. Taking notes. “Maybe your son will need a lawyer at some point, Mr. Michaels, but how about we just have Jessup tell us what happened last night, where he went after I pulled him over for that taillight, and we’ll see where that goes.”