Copperhead

by Alexi Zentner

  The three men in the room smirk, and even though it’s a friendly sort of smirk, the masculine braggadocio of sex, of we-can-guess-you-weren’t-talking-politics-in-that-truck-of-yours, it makes Jessup run hot. He wants Deanne left out of this. Never mind that she’s black, never mind any of that; he loves her, and what they have between the two of them is about him and her, nobody else. He doesn’t want to share that. Doesn’t want to share her. Doesn’t want her name on Brandon’s reptilian lips.

  Brandon keeps his smarmy smile on his face, continues. “Fine. But the party line is Jessup didn’t see Corson again, and it’s not Jessup’s fault that Corson managed to kill himself.”

  The spin is simple: this is the mainstream media and the radical, politically correct left trying once again to blame white people for a black person’s failings.

  Brandon has already called three different cable networks, all three of them promising to have satellite trucks down first thing in the morning. He spends a few minutes name-dropping, bragging about how much the television networks love him, how he has other calls out.

  “Usual talking points. Liberals as jackbooted thugs, cops caving to political pressure instead of worrying about the real criminals, that whole thing. White folks are the victims. I’m thinking about calling for a rally. Some kind of a ‘stand up in pride’ sort of thing. We’ll see about that, though.”

  “You trust those reporters?” David John asks.

  “Hell, no. But I’ve got them in my pocket, and if we get lucky, one of the Cortaca cops will push a camera away or something while they’re serving the warrant. Good television. Makes cops look like bullies. And the television people will come up to the church after they’re done here, and we’ll put on a good show, right? Make it look like we’re just defending ourselves against government overreach, okay? Earl, we good with that, at the church? The men on board?”

  There’s something in the way he asks the question that makes Jessup uncomfortable—Brandon looks like a fox in a henhouse, too pleased with himself—but he chalks it up to excitement about the idea of being in front of cameras.

  “Yep. We’re good,” Earl says.

  “And the truck?”

  “You keep asking, I keep telling: the truck’s taken care of. It’s not a problem.” He has the same look on his face that Brandon does, but Brandon immediately turns his attention to Jessup.

  “Now you,” he says, “you make yourself presentable in the morning. Suit and tie. Sunday best, okay? You got a suit?”

  Jessup wants to push back, but he’s not even sure what he’s pushing back against. It feels like everything has been taken out of his hands. He just nods. It’s a secondhand suit he bought for a formal dance last year—eleven dollars at the Salvation Army, complete with shirt and tie, another six bucks for a pair of dress shoes in his size—but it’s presentable.

  “Good. Be ready early. I’ll be here by seven.” He stops, smiles. “And don’t forget to set your clocks back. Daylight saving time.”

  THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD

  The sound of the truck hitting Corson’s body.

  The sound of the truck hitting Corson’s body.

  The sound of the truck hitting Corson’s body.

  The sound of the truck hitting Kevin Corson.

  Jessup wakes up white-hot, sweating, sheets tangled. For a moment, he thinks Corson is standing over him, but it’s just the dark, shadowed shape of his dresser. Barely enough light for him to see the game ball resting on the dresser’s top.

  Four in the morning.

  He thinks about the hit, the clean beauty of it. Corson’s helmet popping off when Jessup drove him into the turf. The sound it made when he drove his shoulder into him. The sound of the truck hitting Corson’s body. Wonders, did he mean to do it?

  Don’t think about Kevin Corson.

  Don’t think about Corson.

  Don’t think about Corson.

  Don’t think about Corson.

  He doesn’t remember falling asleep again.

  THE MORNING SHIFT

  David John wakes him at six thirty. “Give me your shirt,” he says. “I’ll iron it for you.”

  Jessup shaves, though the truth is it’s not something he really needs to do. He shaved Friday morning, and he could easily go a few more days before he looks scruffy. His hand is shaking while he does it. Tries to be careful. Doesn’t want to cut himself. Don’t think about Corson. By the time he’s out of the shower, David John has the shirt ready.

  “Get dressed, and let’s go outside for a bit,” he says.

  At quarter to seven, the sunrise is pure, flat light cutting over the trees. It’s gray and bleak, colder again, the sky fat with clouds. Moisture waiting, early-season snow ready to burst again. In the ground under the trees, where the sun only glances, there are still patches of snow from Friday and Saturday, despite yesterday’s brief respite and the freezing drizzle, spots of white awaiting companionship. Jessup is sore, bruised, but feeling good, all things considered. The football game seems like a lifetime ago, but it’s not even been forty-eight hours.

  David John is standing in front of his van. He’s wearing his work jacket over his own suit. The pants are shiny with wear. He reaches out and grasps the knot of Jessup’s tie. “Your tie’s a bit of a mess. I’ll redo that for you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You warm enough with that hoodie?” Doesn’t wait for Jessup to answer. “We’ll try to get to the store later. I’ll borrow some money from Earl. You need a jacket. Or you can borrow one from him. His might be big enough for you. Not great, but good enough for a couple of days if we can’t get to the store.”

  David John lets go of Jessup’s tie, sighs. “Vultures are circling,” he says.

  Jessup follows his gaze to the end of the lane. There’s a Fox News television van parked on the edge of the road.

  “There’s another one behind that,” David John says. “I thought Brandon was full of it. Can’t believe he actually came through with getting the media out here. . . .” He trails off, puts his hands in his pockets. Shakes his head. “I don’t know about this.”

  He looks lost. For the first time in Jessup’s life his stepfather looks small to him. It’s hard to think of him that way. He wonders what David John will look like as an old man, tries to picture him at seventy, eighty. The picture doesn’t come.

  “Me either,” Jessup says.

  “You okay?” David John says.

  “Not really.” He says it without thinking, but David John smiles and then laughs, which makes Jessup smile and laugh, too.

  It’s a nice moment, but it’s only a moment.

  CAST IRON

  You cold?”

  “A little,” Jessup says. “What did you end up doing with my coat?” It’s a dumb question, he realizes. The wrong question. The wrong time.

  David John shakes his head. “Let me tell you something, Jessup. This is just some bad luck, okay? Same as it was for Ricky. Think about if I’d been in the alley with him in the first place, or if I just hadn’t texted him to meet me on the job, done it myself? You need to think of it that way. Bad luck, bad timing. Wrong place, wrong time. You did everything right, everything you could have to avoid this. That boy was pushing you, calling you names, calling you out, doing everything but daring you to fight him.” He looks Jessup directly in the eyes. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  Jessup doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything. What does it mean that Coach Diggins said the same thing to him, and then barely twenty-four hours later told Jessup to walk out of Deanne’s life? What does it mean that David John, this man who is not his father, thinks of Jessup as his son? Jessup thinks he might cry if he speaks. Breaks off eye contact and looks at the gravel.

  “I am,” David John says. “I’m proud as hell. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was an accident, pure and simple. And the tr
uth is, nobody would have believed it, in the same way that nobody believed that Ricky was just protecting himself and nobody cared that I was simply standing by my son. What they cared about—all anybody cares about—is that we don’t say things the way they want us to say them. You see those fraternity brothers at Cortaca University lined up in court in their thousand-dollar suits, and they can stand up and say it was just an accident. They’ve got the right parents and the right New York City lawyers, and if some kid dies from hazing or from drinking too much at a frat party, well, that’s just a tragic accident and here’s a slap on the wrist. But that’s a different kind of family than us, isn’t it? They’ve got money. And if you were poor and black or Mexican or Indian, there’d be plenty of help for you, people standing up and saying you’re a victim of your circumstances. But nobody cares about us because we’re poor and we’re white. Might not be politically correct to say it, but it’s true. And as far as all of them are concerned, if we ain’t politically correct, then it means that we’re wrong. That’s how they see it. And that’s why you did the right thing, Jessup. If you’d called the police, if you’d just fessed up and said it was an accident, you’d already be in jail. Both my kids locked up.”

  Jessup steals a glance and sees that David John is looking away now, gazing out toward the end of the driveway again. “Four years. Four years and all I ever did was run my business, work hard, raise you kids the best I could, go to church. And two black kids attack my son—they attack him—and he defends himself and I try to help, and they take me away. They attack my son and all he does is defend himself, and I do the same thing any father would do.”

  His voice is as calm as normal, but there’s a heat to his words, real anger. “Take me away from you, from your mom, from Jewel, for four years. I’ll never get that back. We’ll never get that back.”

  He turns back to Jessup. “Look at me, son,” he says. Jessup does. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was an accident, pure and simple, but even if you’d killed him on purpose, I’d have a hard time blaming you. I’d stand behind you. I don’t condone violence. You know that. But that boy got what was coming. And the thing is, even though it’s true, you can’t ever say that. You know what happened, I know what happened, and Earl and Brandon know what happened. Nobody else. You got that?” Jessup nods.

  “You keep your mouth shut. Stick to the official story and you’ll be okay. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I’m not letting them do what they did to Ricky, what they did to me. I think it might kill your mom to have you locked up. You understand?” Jessup nods again. His stepfather stands straight and strong. David John might as well be made from cast iron. “I’m not letting them do the same thing to you.”

  COMMUNITY AND CHRIST

  He rubs at his head. “I am sorry, though. None of this is fair. And this is something you’re going to have to live with. I’m glad you’re going to church with us, Jessup. I hope you can find some solace in Jesus. He’ll lift your burden, forgive your sins. If you go to Jesus with an open heart, you will be forgiven. Love, Jessup. Love heals everything, and you are going to have to carry the burden of what happened for the rest of your life, because the death of another human being—no matter whose fault it is, no matter what—is something that is a weight, but Jesus can help carry that weight. Jesus loves all of his children, knows that we are all sinners, and is willing to forgive us as long as we repent. Okay, son?”

  This is one of those times when Jessup wishes there were other people around to see David John. If Deanne could witness this, if all of the politicians who called what happened with Ricky a hate crime, who blamed David John, if they could see this, maybe they’d see the David John that Jessup knows, because his stepfather’s face is open, kind. Jessup can see that David John’s heart is breaking, that he truly hurts for Jessup.

  And yet . . . “How come . . .” Jessup says, “how come we go to church? Why the Blessed Church of the White America?” Jessup means, how can you tell me about love and belong to a church that preaches hate, how can you tell me that Jesus will take me in because he loves all his children but have those tattoos on your back?

  But David John takes the question straight, isn’t thinking of anything deeper in the question: “We go to church to praise Jesus, and we go to the Blessed Church of the White America because that’s our home, our community. It’s family, and I don’t just mean because my brother is the one in the pulpit preaching the gospel. Church is about community as much as it is about Christ. You find people who are like you, who share your beliefs, and you form a family, and together you’re stronger than anything. Jesus holds you up, but being part of a church means there are other hands to help. You’ve got me, your mom, your sister, but you’ve got the church, too, to lift you up.”

  GIVE THE DEVIL HIS DUE

  David John stops talking, no chance for Jessup to ask another question, even if he could figure out exactly what it is he needs to ask his stepfather, because Brandon Rogers’s BMW turns into the driveway. Brandon drives slow, the engine throaty and powerful, a call to attention. The car is a deep black, cleaner than any car has a right to be on a wet November morning, and the windows are dark enough that if Jessup didn’t know who was driving, he’d be able to imagine the devil behind the wheel. The car goes off the gravel and turns onto the slick grass, the all-wheel drive handling things fine, the rear lights white as Brandon puts it into reverse and backs into a spot next to David John’s van. The action of Brandon backing the car in pisses Jessup off. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but something about it seems to sum up everything he dislikes about Brandon, the privilege, the clothes, the smugness of always knowing he’s right. There’s a part of him that wonders if he can get away with keying Brandon’s expensive car.

  He can hear music drifting from inside. It takes him a second to understand that Brandon is blasting opera. Wagner or something else that makes Brandon feel like a good Aryan, but whoever it is, it’s pretentious and ridiculous and it’s opera and Jessup just wants to smash Brandon’s nose. He tries to calm himself down. Brandon is helping Jessup, isn’t he? He shoves his hands into his pockets so that his balled fists aren’t obvious.

  But Brandon is oblivious to what’s in Jessup’s head, because he gets out of his car looking pleased with himself.

  “I call, and they come running. Got those media fuckers in my pocket. I can take a shit on them one day and make them dance the next. They know I’m ratings gold. All I’ve got to do is promise a show and they’re puppets on a string. We’ve already got Fox News and MSNBC, and I just got a text from my guy at CNN. They’ll have a truck here in the next ten minutes. Got a couple of print people, too. Washington Post is sending somebody, and I think we might have the Times. A reporter from TakeBack, too, of course.” He shakes David John’s hand and then Jessup’s. “We’re going to have a good turnout.”

  The passenger door opens, and another young man, midtwenties and wearing a suit, gets out. He’s small, five six, and skinny, holding an expensive-looking video camera with an attached microphone. He puts the camera up to his eye, a solid red light making clear that he’s recording. Brandon waves his hand, clearly annoyed. “For Christ’s sake, Carter, not yet.”

  Carter lowers the camera, the red light winking off.

  All four of them turn at the sound of another car coming onto the gravel driveway. It’s Earl’s truck. Brandon nods. “Good, good,” he says. He looks at Jessup, stops, tilts his head, the smile slipping a bit. “Going to have to fix your tie, Jessup.”

  David John laughs. Jessup can’t stop himself from flinching, but it’s a friendly laugh. His stepfather claps his hand on Jessup’s back. “That’s what I said.”

  Brandon nods. “Yeah, we want him looking neat. Put together. I want to see the coat, but I think this is going to be perfect. Neat, but not too neat. You can’t look like you’ve got money. You’ve got to look like a good American going to church.”


  Jessup thinks, isn’t that what I am, a good American going to church? But it’s clear that Brandon doesn’t care what Jessup thinks. He’s already moved on to where Earl is parking, greeting David John’s brother, telling them to head on inside while he goes and talks to the two news crews who are here, makes sure they have everything they need, helps them get set up so they’re rolling when the cops show up to serve the warrant.

  PAPERS

  At twenty after seven, Brandon gets a text from Hawkins. “Ten minutes,” he calls out. “Finish your eggs.”

  Jessup feels like he’s choking them down. Goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. His stomach feels loose, like everything might give way.

  But what he sees in the mirror looks like a young man who has everything going for him. David John has fixed his tie, and with the suit coat buttoned and his shirt tucked in, he looks presentable. His hair neatly combed, clean-shaven, handsome, wholesome. He could be going to a dance. He thinks about Corson’s father wearing a suit. Going to a funeral.

  He barely gets the toilet lid up in time before he pukes. At least he has the presence of mind to hold back his tie.

  He washes his face. Brushes his teeth again, swigs some mouthwash.

  Stares into the mirror again. Keep it together, Jessup.

  In the kitchen, Jewel is grumpy. “This dress is itchy.” Their mom is brushing at her hair with an aggression that makes Jewel’s head keep moving. “Ow!”

  Jessup touches his mom’s hand. “I’ll do that if you need to finish getting ready.”

  His mom gives him the brush, thankful, hustling back to put on her makeup. “Braids, please,” she calls out as she leaves. She’s wearing a simple, modest black dress that falls just past her knees. It’s one of her favorite dresses; she got it on deep clearance at Target, and she husbands its usage, saving it for special occasions.