Copperhead

by Alexi Zentner

  Jessup is shivering, but he’s sure he’s not cold. “But . . . why? Why the hell would he want me dead?”

  Wyatt closes his eyes. His laugh this time is sad. “Oh, damn, Jessup. You don’t understand a thing. He doesn’t want you dead.”

  “Then why—”

  “Man, come on. This isn’t about you. Brandon couldn’t care any less about you. This has absolutely nothing to do with you, Jessup. This is about him. His master plan. He wanted me to wait until you were standing right next to him and then have me shoot you. He’s the face of everything and you’re nobody, so everybody assumes that the shot just missed Brandon. Everything on video and he immediately calls it an assassination attempt; the radical Left trying to stop Brandon Rogers from speaking. You’re dead but he’s the one they pay attention to, because he’s making the most noise. It immediately makes him the most important voice in the movement, makes him famous. Takes him from the fringes, man. Puts him in the center of everything.”

  Jessup is sure that he’s supposed to say something, have some reaction to this, but he feels like the blood has drained out of him. What he wants more than anything right now is a bench, a chair, somewhere to sit. He’s surprised not by Brandon’s calculations—he’s never trusted Brandon—but at how lucky he is that Brandon believed Wyatt’s commitment to the cause meant he would be willing to sacrifice his best friend.

  “You okay?” Wyatt says.

  “No.”

  “You going to pass out, man? You look like crap.”

  Jessup bends over, puts his hands on his knees. Sucks air deep into his lungs, breathing like he’s just finished wind sprints, has that same feeling of wanting to puke. “Yeah. Give me a minute.”

  Wyatt does.

  Jessup stands there, staring at the ground beneath his feet, catching his breath. Finally, he can stand up straight again.

  “So you shot Brandon instead?”

  “Well, like I said, gust of wind. With all the cops and the SWAT fellows, I had to take that shot from four hundred yards—”

  “You said two hundred and twenty.”

  “Four hundred,” Wyatt says forcefully. “As far as Brandon knows, it was four hundred yards and the wind kicked up at just the wrong time, and man, I am so sorry about your shoulder.”

  “What if you’d missed for real? What if you’d killed him?”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “Better him than you, brother.”

  ONE, TWO

  You know better than that, though,” Wyatt says. “I don’t miss. Hit him right where I wanted, high, in the meaty part. Right shoulder. Had to make it look like I simply missed you. He’s the only other person who knew what was supposed to happen, and I have to convince him that I did my best and we just got unlucky. He’s going to need some rehab, but he should be okay.”

  “What did you shoot?”

  “Like you said, what if I’d missed? Best rifle I’ve got for distance is the Remington. It’s what I’m comfortable with.”

  The Remington means Wyatt shot a .30-06. Jessup says, “Could have used a .22. Would have done less damage.”

  “Nah. Not enough bullet for the distance. Would have been worried about being sloppy. Plus, Brandon Rogers might be a rich kid, but he’s not an idiot. They tell him he got shot with a .22 and he’ll know it wasn’t a miss, that I did it on purpose. Nobody tries to go for a kill shot from two hundred yards with a .22. I’ll take a .22 from fifty yards, but not from two-twenty, and hell, I’m telling him I shot from four hundred yards. Jesus, Jessup, how the hell do you ever bag a deer? And what, you’re second-guessing me here? First you’re pissed I shot Brandon, now you want me to have used a different rifle?”

  “But it wasn’t just Brandon, was it? What about the other people? One of the protesters got killed, a couple of them got shot. Was that you?”

  “No.” Wyatt shakes his head. He looks unhappy, scared. In that moment he looks his age, seventeen, just like Jessup. But that’s almost old enough to go to war, Jessup thinks. At seventeen, rounding the corner to eighteen, Jessup’s birthday in January, Wyatt’s in March, they are almost the age to enlist—to be drafted in a different time—and go overseas to shoot and kill in the service of their country. “None of the protesters were me. I fired three shots. First one took Brandon, and it worked out perfect, because he took you down with him. Second into the rear window.” He reaches out but doesn’t touch Jessup’s neck. Lets his hand drop. “I’m sorry about that. I just wanted it to look good. Figured the broken window would make it look like the shooter was trying.”

  Jessup doesn’t want to ask. Has to ask. Wyatt is staring at him, waiting for him to ask. “That’s two shots,” Jessup says.

  “Good counting.”

  “But you said you fired three shots. I remember three.”

  Wyatt doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

  Jessup thinks of the man with his face torn open, lying by the gate, his AR-15 on the ground beside him, body armor doing nothing to stop a head shot. He can’t bring himself to ask explicitly, can only summon up the energy to say a single word: “Why?”

  “Orders, man. Orders. It needed to look real,” Wyatt says. “Brandon wanted it to look like the radical Left was starting a war. A real war. He said there had to be casualties and I had to kill somebody else along with you. To start a fire, first you’ve got to set a spark. We sacrifice two men, and in return we get thousands. I could get away with missing you by a few inches, but I couldn’t pull that same trick twice. Not without Brandon figuring it out. Trust me, I only did this to protect you.”

  PROMISES MADE, PROMISES KEPT

  No,” Jessup says. “Don’t lay this on me. You can’t kill somebody and say you did it for me. This is on you, not me.”

  “You’ve got to understand,” Wyatt says, his voice quavering, his mouth twitching. “I made a promise.”

  “To Brandon?”

  Wyatt looks shocked. Like Jessup’s got tentacles sprouting out of his face. Or, Jessup thinks, as if Jessup told him that he was in love with a black girl. “To Brandon? You think I’d care about a promise to Brandon? No, man. Look, I believe in the cause, but just because Brandon is part of it doesn’t mean I owe him anything. Who cares what Brandon thinks? I made a promise to David John.”

  “He knew?” Jessup is furious. He doesn’t even realize he’s grabbing Wyatt’s jacket until the fabric is bunched up in his fingers, Wyatt pulled close. But Wyatt doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t push Jessup’s hand away, doesn’t resist. Just meets Jessup’s gaze with peace and love. It deflates Jessup’s anger immediately.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course David John didn’t know,” Wyatt says. He’s clearly asking for forgiveness. Jessup doesn’t let go of the jacket, but he doesn’t do what he knows he should do, which is to wrap his arm around Wyatt and tell him it’s okay, that he trusts him and he loves him, too, that blood doesn’t matter when it comes to brothers.

  “He would never have let you out there if he knew about this, never have brought Jewel or your mom. And anyway, you think David John would go along with something like this? That man’s a fucking saint. He might be the best man I’ve ever met. I went to visit him, you know, a couple of times.”

  Jessup is stunned. One second he’s thinking of Wyatt as his brother, the next he has to wonder if he knows Wyatt at all. He keeps his fist clenched on Wyatt’s jacket, but he drops his head back, looks at the sky. The promise of snow still waiting to be delivered.

  Wyatt’s voice is low, hushed. He says, “You didn’t know that, did you? That I went to visit him?”

  Jessup can’t look at him. “In prison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. I didn’t know that.” He swallows. It hurts. “I never did.”

  “I know. And I get it, man, but I don’t think you understand. All your dad tried to do was to keep Ricky safe, and—”

  Jessup sn
aps his head down, turns on Wyatt, his voice a hard, quiet fury, pulling the jacket so that Wyatt stumbles into him. “Bullshit. This is his fault.” Says it before he realizes that it is the word “dad” that triggers him. But he’s already going: “All of it. You think Ricky would have been in that alley without David John, that he would have had those tattoos on him, that those . . .” He can feel the word splinter on his lips. Thinks of Deanne. Thinks of Coach Diggins telling him that it’s just a matter of time before the word spills out of him. He can’t say it. “And this, this . . .” He lets go and waves his hand, encompassing Wyatt, the woods, the trail, searching for the right word, fumbling, coming up with nothing better than to say, “. . . all of it. Blessed Church of the White America. This isn’t normal. We might be rednecks, but neither one of us is stupid. You know this place isn’t normal. If it was normal, none of this would have happened.”

  “Jessup.” Wyatt meets Jessup’s anger with an equanimity that seems to come from nowhere. It’s the voice and calm of a man who is entirely certain he has done the right thing. “Jessup,” he says again.

  Jessup voice is glass. “What?”

  “You know I love you. You know that, right?”

  Jessup still has Wyatt’s jacket grasped in one hand, and yet Wyatt hasn’t pulled back, not once. Hasn’t tried to separate himself from Jessup. Instead, Wyatt opens his arms, wraps them around Jessup, holds him like the brother he is, and Jessup doesn’t know if Wyatt starts to cry because Jessup is already crying or if Jessup starts to cry because Wyatt is already crying, but it’s just the two of them, the woods, the pond, the sky starting to open, snow beginning to flutter to the ground, the afternoon light dull and gray, nothing but Jessup and Wyatt, brothers holding each other in solace.

  (STEP)FATHER

  Wyatt’s holding him tight, and Jessup holds firm, too. They hug for half a minute, which is an eternity, and finally, when they both let go and both step back, they meet each other with the same chagrined smile.

  “I’d call you a pansy,” Wyatt says, “but I think I’m the one who hugged you first.”

  “You said you love me, too,” Jessup says, and they both laugh.

  Wyatt is still laughing when he says, “I do love you, brother, but can I just tell you one thing? One thing about David John?”

  Jessup looks up to the sky again. The snow is starting out light. Enough to look picturesque, not enough to be impressive. Later tonight, back in the trailer—assuming that’s where he ends up, instead of in jail, he thinks, allowing himself the fantasy for a moment—if it keeps snowing, it will be nice to light a fire in the woodstove, put on a movie, sit in the love seat with Jewel, let his mom and David John have the couch. With the lights turned off inside, the blue glow of the television painting the walls, the snow outside will dance through the porch light, and he’ll spend as much time watching that as he does watching the movie.

  “Sure,” Jessup says. “Tell me one thing about David John.” He knows that he’s gone from hugging his best friend and crying with him to sounding like a petulant child, but he can’t help himself. He meant what he said. None of this would have happened if his mom and David John hadn’t gotten together. But then again, none of the other stuff might have either: his mom quitting drinking, Jessup’s grades and football, his ticket out of Cortaca. And he knows for sure that none of this would have happened: David John carrying him off the field in his arms, the way his mom smiles at David John, how happy he makes her. And above all else, Jewel. Without David John, he wouldn’t have his sister.

  “I went to visit him four times, I think, five times.” Jessup opens his mouth but Wyatt rushes on. “Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I do actually understand why you didn’t visit, and I do understand that you’re angry. It’s just the two of us here, okay, and we’ve known each other long enough that we can drop the bullshit. This isn’t about whether or not you went to visit him. This is about a promise.” Wyatt looks up at the sky now, too. “Told you it would snow.”

  “Okay,” Jessup says. “So? You went to visit my stepfather?”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “I went with my mom, the few times your mom couldn’t make it with Jewel. When she had the chicken pox, I think strep once or twice, something else. Your mom didn’t want him to have to go without a visitor, and my mom offered, and she asked me if I’d keep her company. It was mostly just small talk. Him and my mom chatting. He’d ask me about school and football and stuff, but nothing serious. But every time I went, he’d tell my mom he wanted to talk to me alone. You know, man to man. Just for a few minutes. And every single time, he made me promise to take care of you.”

  Jessup feels like he should have seen it coming, but he’s blindsided. “Take care of me?”

  Wyatt has the temerity to laugh. “Come on, man. Everybody sees it but you. You’re a big old marshmallow. He saw it. I see it. Everybody sees it. You can knock the snot out of somebody on the football field, and you’re a mediocre wrestler—”

  “Hey!”

  “—and fast enough for high school track, but that’s it. Ricky was skinny, but he was tough in a way you’ll never be. He’ll do his time and he’ll be okay, but man, you could never do it. You wouldn’t last a week in prison. You can take care of yourself physically, but that’s not the half of it, not in life. You’re not built for any of it.”

  “Come on, Wyatt.”

  “It’s true, Jessup. That’s why he asked me to look after you. Didn’t ask, really,” Wyatt says. “He made me promise. Every time I went to visit him he said the same thing. He said, ‘Promise to watch out for Jessup. You promise to keep my son safe.’”

  BACK INTO THE MAELSTROM

  Wyatt shrugs. “Swore to God, swore to Jesus, swore on my mom that I’d take care of you, and, well, I did.”

  Jessup realizes his phone is buzzing. It’s buzzed a bunch in the last twenty minutes, texts coming through. He hasn’t checked, but now it’s ringing, a call. He pulls it out and looks at it. His mom. But he’s got a bunch of texts from Deanne, from Derek and Mike, a couple of other guys from school—what happened at the gate is on the news already, and everybody wants to know if he’s okay—some texts from his mom and at least one from David John. Jessup sends the call to voicemail.

  “We better head back,” Jessup says.

  Wyatt has his phone out, too. “Yeah. My mom is having kittens.”

  Jessup texts his mom to say he’ll be back in a few minutes, looks up at Wyatt. “What do we tell them?”

  “Nothing,” Wyatt says. “We went for a walk because we were freaked out. They’ll believe that. They’re freaked out. The only person other than you who knows what really happened is Brandon, and I can’t imagine he’s going to tell the cops that the reason he got shot was because the guy he asked to shoot you in the head missed.”

  “You okay?” Jessup says. “I mean, you . . . Jesus. You killed Brody Ellis.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Wyatt says. “Besides, I didn’t pick Brody. Brandon picked Brody. Whatever. I’m sure that I’m supposed to say all of this has fucked me up, but the truth of the matter is that, at least right now, I feel pretty good. I saved your life. You owe me. I’m serious. I saved your life. Think it through. If I’d said no, Brandon would have found somebody else and you’d be dead. And if I hadn’t shot Brody Ellis, Brandon would have figured out that I didn’t miss you on accident and he’d have me killed, afraid I’d tell somebody. Kill you, too, to protect himself.”

  “Seriously? You think Brandon Rogers has the stones to kill somebody?”

  Wyatt shrugs. “Doubt he’d do it himself. More likely he’d find somebody to do his dirty work. It’s not that hard to convince people that the ends justify the means. And I wouldn’t underestimate what Brandon will do to save his own skin.”

  They start walking, back to Earl’s house, faster now, a destination ahead of them, a purpose.

  “But are y
ou going to be okay?” Jessup asks.

  Wyatt says, “Don’t see that I have a choice.”

  Jessup shivers. “But what about the other people? There was somebody down on the road. A woman. And a couple of other protesters got shot.”

  “Like I said, not me,” Wyatt said. “Our guys were jumpy. Couldn’t tell who it was, but definitely our guys. They can call themselves a militia all they want, but they’re a bunch of amateurs. Fingers on the trigger. As soon as I fired there were at least two, maybe three of them that let loose. Got to hand it to the cops. They actually held their shit together pretty well.”

  “Man,” Jessup says. “This is going to be a spectacle.”

  “Yeah, well,” Wyatt says. “People are going to go to jail over this. There’s a dead protester, people shot. The cops will match ballistics and some of our guys are going to do time. This is national news, man. Somebody has to take a fall. The good thing, though, is that with all the noise, it won’t be you. Maybe you can just slip through the cracks.”

  Dead bodies, Jessup thinks. He thinks of Corson. The sound of Corson’s body. He doesn’t deserve to be able to just walk away.

  HOMEGOING

  Inside Earl’s house, Jessup’s mom hugs him and then immediately starts to lecture him, tell him how scared she was, tell him he shouldn’t have left like that, but she runs out of steam quickly. The television is on to Fox News, and Jessup catches a glimpse of himself standing on the truck next to Brandon, Brandon suddenly falling and knocking him down. It’s unsettling to watch, and Earl turns it off.

  Wyatt goes with his mom to find the rest of his family, and after a minute, David John and Jessup’s mom usher Jessup and Jewel out. They want to go home. The cops are trying to get people off the compound, and the congregants of the Blessed Church of the White America are happy to oblige. It’s not clear if people are angrier about the shootings at the gate than they are shell-shocked.