The coffee machine is gurgling now, water dripping through the grounds, the black liquid rising in the glass pot.
“Sorry.” He mutters it more than he says it, feels like a petulant child forced to apologize. Wants to act like a child. Wants to throw a tantrum right then and there, but instead he says, “I’m going to go for a walk, okay?”
David John nods, and his mom comes over, hugs him, holds him for a moment longer than is comfortable, and then kisses him on the cheek. As he walks through the sitting room and opens the door, Jewel doesn’t look away from the television. He stops, takes one of Earl’s coats off a hook by the door. It’s a little small on him, but it’s warm, better than his suit coat.
A WALK IN THE WOODS
He’s careful to keep his feet dry. There are a couple of trails through the woods, one going back to a glorified junkyard where Earl keeps the burn barrels. The church has a Dumpster that gets picked up weekly, but Earl is country through and through. Jessup’s pretty sure that one of the burn barrels contains a smoldering pile of ash that used to be his jacket and boots and gloves and everything else he was wearing Friday night. He goes the other way, past the campsites that the church youth group uses sometimes, down to the firing range.
There’s a bite to the air—he thinks it’s more likely to snow than to rain—but Earl’s jacket is warm enough. He can hear the pop of somebody firing, isn’t surprised when he sees it’s Wyatt. Waits until Wyatt is reloading and then calls out. Wyatt’s prone on a drop cloth, a sandbag on the ground to keep the rifle steady. He’s wearing a pair of camouflage coveralls and a camouflage hunting jacket, has a dark knit cap pulled over his hair, pulls off his earmuffs.
“Little target practice before church?” Jessup asks. “Hunting for Christ?”
Wyatt carefully sets his rifle in the open case beside him, sits up. His serious look turns happy to see Jessup. “Hunters for Jesus,” he says. “What would Jesus shoot?”
“How about ‘camo for Christ’?”
“That’s good,” Wyatt says, laughing. “Could start a business out of that one. Christian hunting gear. Christian militia equipment. Body armor with a big cross on it, though maybe that’s a little too close to putting a target on yourself.”
He stands up and holds out his fist, bumps, gives Jessup a half hug.
Calling it a shooting range is being generous. It’s an open alley through the woods, but it’s long, cut off by a hill that climbs more than a hundred feet up, bullets going high no threat to carry. There are four standing stalls and two platforms for prone firing, target stands at 25, 50, 75, 100, 150, and 200 yards, the hill starting not long after that. He and Wyatt have spent hours out here, shooting metal silhouettes with .22s at 25 yards, metal plates at 100, the satisfying gong of metal telling them they’d gotten a hit, graduating to long-range shots at 200 yards, Jessup a literal hit or miss, Wyatt working harder at it until he can hit every time. Right now he’s shooting at a target set out past the 200-yard marker, at the base of the hill, call it 225.
“You still come out here to shoot?”
“Yeah.” Wyatt carefully closes up the case. “Earl doesn’t mind, and it’s easy to find an open time when the militia isn’t out here and—”
“Wait. What? A militia? Seriously? I thought that was all talk. They really started the militia?”
“Yeah. Thanks to Brandon.” Wyatt rolls his eyes. “Racial holy war. He wants us to be ready. I mean, I don’t know if it’s technically a militia or what, but they’re calling themselves the White America Militia.”
“WAM?”
Wyatt chuckles. “Yep. Started up last year. Come down here a couple times a week for target practice, do maneuvers in the woods. All that crap. Anyway, I don’t like shooting with anybody from the congregation. They’re either rednecks spraying bullets like they’re holding a hose, or they’re gun nuts. I mean, I like guns and all, but I’d rather be able to hit my shot than tell you why you need such and such a scope or whatever, and half the guys who can tell you everything about guns can’t shoot worth crap either.”
They both laugh. There’s a couple who moved here from Arkansas sometime after Jessup stopped going to church, and Wyatt’s told Jessup about the husband: brags about owning more than forty guns, and he’s an equally crappy shot with all forty.
Wyatt closes up the case, sets it on a ledge in one of the stalls. “You just out for a walk?”
“Yeah. Trying to clear my head.”
“Want company?”
Jessup hesitates. There’s a part of him that does. He’s known Wyatt his whole life. If there’s anybody he can complain to about Brandon, about Earl, even about David John, it’s Wyatt. But even though Wyatt was at the party, knows about Deanne, knows everything about Jessup’s life, has been his best friend since kindergarten, he can’t tell Wyatt about those five minutes in the driveway, the swing of the truck, Corson’s body on the ground. He can’t. Can he?
“No,” he says. “But thanks. I’m good. Brandon and Earl are making a circus out of this. They think everybody’s going to be looking for a scapegoat, and with the family history, I’m an easy target, so they want to, to quote Brandon, ‘control the narrative.’”
“Yeah. He’s a shit weasel.” He looks at Jessup, serious. “But he’s not wrong about controlling the narrative. He’s smart about that sort of stuff. You can’t trust him, but he’s got some tricks up his sleeve. This is a new world, and we’re taking back what’s ours. There’s a lot of things I don’t like about Brandon, but he’s going to get us to where we need to be. It’s our time. We’re taking our country back.”
Jessup tries not to let his surprise show. Wyatt’s always been game to make fun of Brandon, but he’s all in with this. Then again, while there was a time he seemed to be drifting away, at least for the last year or two, he’s gone to church every Sunday; if Jessup was pressed, he’d have to say that Wyatt is a true believer. Not just in Jesus and salvation, but in the Blessed Church of the White America. Still, Jessup wasn’t expecting such earnestness. It leaves him cold.
“This is a big moment for the movement. But don’t worry. You’ll see,” Wyatt continues. “You’ll come out of this okay. I’ve got your back, brother.”
Jessup nods, heads off into the woods again.
EMOJI
He goes back and then left, heading over a small rise and stopping in front of the pond. It’s not much of a pond as ponds go, not even fifty feet across, though that’s big enough that kids swim in it during the summer, and it’s oddly deep; Earl built a small dock with a diving board. Jessup goes out on the dock. There’s no breeze, the water still. It’s peaceful. It wouldn’t translate to a photograph, but with the trees around the pond and the high grass circling the water, bits of snow here and there, it’s got its own beauty. He wouldn’t mind being out here with Deanne on a warm day, the two of them in swimsuits.
He winces. To bring Deanne here?
He pulls out his phone.
you up?
Stares at the screen. Wills the thought bubble to come up, but there’s nothing. Puts it back in his pocket. He sees a small rock on the corner of the dock, grabs it, spins it in the palm of his hand. Nice and flat. Good weight. Pinches it between his thumb and index finger, wings it over the water, watches it bounce once, twice, three times, four, before wobbling a bit and popping up into the air, knifing under the water when it comes down.
His phone buzzes.
yeah. can’t sleep. so mad
sorry
not at you. at my dad
oh
did he really tell you you can’t see me anymore?
yes.
. . .
. . .
I had a big fight with him and my mom last night when he got home. he was such an asshole!
what did you say?
I told him I love you
The words make Jessup thrill, an electric p
ulse running through him. He wants to shout it out, testify, wants to call it out to the world, wants to hold her and kiss her and whisper into her ear. He settles for tapping his thumbs on the screen.
I love you too
She replies with the heart emoji, and then kisses, and before he can respond she texts again:
where are you?
Jessup doesn’t want to answer. Not honestly. How does he answer that question honestly? Asks it right back instead.
where are YOU?
still in bed
hmm. pic?
! ha! no.
please
no. use your imagination. where are you?
He can’t ignore the question a second time.
church
. . . the . . . what’s it called?
Jessup?
Jessup?
what’s it called
blessed church of the white America
oh
ALL APOLOGIES
Just “oh.” He waits a few seconds, but there’s nothing else, so he types:
sorry. I told you. it’s complicated
not really
He takes a deep breath. She came back with that reply awfully quickly, he thinks. He’s trying to decide what to type when she texts again.
I’m sorry. that was kind of bitchy
it’s okay
I saw the video
what video?
from the party
how?
somebody uploaded it. it’s hard to watch
yeah
how come you just stood there?
didn’t want any trouble
is it true?
what? what Corson said? no. I told you. he was drunk
but you’re there now. at the church. church of WHITE America
He almost corrects her, almost types back, Blessed Church of the White America, but he’s smart enough to stop himself.
with my family. my stepdad wanted us to go as a family. it isn’t me
if it isn’t you, why are you there? can’t you just say you aren’t going? you told me you don’t go, haven’t gone in years
but THEY still do. wanted me to come. important to them. made me come. I’m sorry. didn’t really know how to say no
He waits, but she doesn’t text anything. He thinks about the way she feels against him, the cinnamon gum in her mouth, the way the windows fogged up in her car last night, how good it felt to tell her he loves her, to have her say it back. He waits a few more seconds, but she still doesn’t text, so he types:
I love you
. . .
I love you too
but you won’t
He types it and sends it all in one fell swoop, tries to take it back as soon as it’s gone, but it’s too late.
????
TURNING POINTS
???
?
?
?
Jessup? what does that mean?
just promise me you won’t believe everything you hear, okay
what are you talking about?
about corson. about all of this
you’re scaring me
I didn’t do anything wrong. you have to believe me
okay. I believe you
it’s just . . . it’s all stupid. I didn’t do anything, but everybody wants to make something out of this
everybody who
everybody. cops and the mayor, want to make an example of me because of my family. and the people here at the church have their own thing. it’s all so stupid. there are news trucks at the church with cameras. like a bunch of them cnn and fox and stuff
holy cow. really?
yeah
what’s going on?
He hears someone calling his name. A girl’s voice. Jewel. He looks up from his phone, sees her standing up on the rise. She’s huddled inside her coat.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to come back to the house. There are protesters at the gates, and Brandon wants you to talk to a reporter.”
“What?”
“Brandon wants you to talk to a reporter.”
“No. The other thing.”
“Protesters? You know, people with signs.”
“I know what protesters are.”
“Well, I’m supposed to tell you to come back.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
She scowls. “I’m not leaving until you leave. I don’t want them to yell at me for coming back without you.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You shouldn’t swear.”
“Thanks, Jewel. That’s super helpful advice.” He feels crappy as soon as he says it. “I’m sorry.” All he seems to be doing recently is apologizing to people he loves. “Give me a second.” And now, another apology:
sorry. I’ve got to go. there are protesters here
what? why?
why do you think? You know what the name of the church is
He’s typing his apology almost as soon as he hits send.
sorry
sorry
sorry
I’m so sorry. I’m an asshole
I’m on your side
I know. I’m sorry. it just feels like I don’t have any control. I’m supposed to go talk to some reporter. I don’t want to
then don’t
it’s not that easy. my stepfather, my uncle, and this guy brandon, they’re handling it. lawyers, too, I guess. he’s the one who invited the tv people so he can control the narrative
He feels slimy as soon as he types “control the narrative,” but he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to tell her. All he knows is that things have felt like they’re spinning out of control, both literally and figuratively, ever since his truck slid out on the driveway. Or earlier, when he left the locker room after the football game Friday night. Or before that, when Ricky grabbed the pipe wrench, killed those two boys. Or earlier still, the first time David John brought him through the gates to the Blessed Church of the White America. Or before that, the day he was born, everything laid out so that no matter what he chose it would all go sour.
Deanne responds:
you don’t have to do things their way if you don’t want to. you’re not a little kid. you’re seventeen. you make your own decisions
SEVENTEEN
He’s seventeen, but Friday night he killed another kid. Accident or not, there was a dead body lying on the snow, and he chose to lift Corson’s body up, put him in the car, send it careening down that slope, instead of facing up to what happened. That was his decision, and right or wrong, he is going to have to live with it. He wishes he had David John’s certainty that Jesus will help carry the burden, that Jessup will be forgiven. He doesn’t know about that. He’s only seventeen.
Seventeen. He glances up to where Jewel is waiting impatiently for him. Her hair is still pulled back and braided, the ribbon a flash of color in her hair. She’s eleven, old in some ways, but painfully young in other ways. Has he been selfish, he wonders, focusing on getting himself out of Cortaca? Worrying about applying to universities and where he can play football, sacrificing his body in the hopes it will be a ticket out, studying late into the night and going into the library early, thinking about what kind of a future he might have, when leaving means leaving Jewel behind? And leaving her to what? To this? These people, this church?
Seventeen. Deanne can tell him he’s old enough to make his own decisions all she wants, but he can’t help but wonder: What happens if he makes his own decisions, if he walks away? Does he know better than Earl, than Brandon and his money and his New York City lawyers? Does he know better than David John? Because David John is damn sure that the only thing people are going to care about is laying blame. That’s what happened with him and Ricky, and he doesn’t want history repeating itself.
And if he can trust anybody in this world, he has to be able to trust David John.
His stepfather would never do anything to deliberately hurt him. He owes his stepfather unwavering trust. Loyalty. David John has always done what he thought was best for his family.
Has he?
If that were true, Jessup wonders, would he be standing here?
For a moment, Jessup thinks about just jumping off the end of the diving board, letting himself sink to the bottom. The pond is easily fifteen feet deep there, cutting deep from the slopes. He could stay underwater for the rest of his life, dark and cool, quiet, safe, where nobody can touch him.
What’s he supposed to tell his girlfriend? She says he’s seventeen, says he’s old enough to make his own decisions, but that’s such an easy thing for her to say. No decision she makes has any consequence.
They’re all like that. Not just Deanne but all of her friends, too. Megan and Brooke and their boyfriends, Josh Feinstein and Stanley, are just as bad. Victoria Wallace, too, all of them, Alyssa Robinson, none of them able to imagine a future that doesn’t work out. Parents with good educations and good jobs, doing everything they can to make sure their children are a step ahead. It isn’t that their parents love them any more than David John and his mom love Jessup and Jewel, it’s just that when those parents sacrifice for their kids, that sacrifice puts a lot more in the till. All those other parents and kids shooting for the stars, never realizing that they are already standing on the moon.
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