Is that what this is about?” David John says. “Some boy is angry because he thought Jessup wanted to call him the N-word? That’s enough to get the cops all the way out here in the country?” He doesn’t emphasize the word “boy,” says it like it’s just part of the conversation, but he doesn’t have to emphasize it.
Jessup says, “This is bullshit. I didn’t call him anything. Corson’s the one who said ‘nigger,’ not me. I don’t say that word.”
Cunningham looks like he’d be happy to draw down on both him and David John if he thought he could get away with it, if there wasn’t anybody to see him. “For a word you don’t say, you’re saying it an awful lot,” he says, his voice almost a growl. “You’ve said it three times in the last minute.”
Hawkins still has his hand on his partner’s elbow, and now he gently pulls, turning the black man a quarter turn. He says, “Come on, Marcus, let’s talk for a minute.”
Cunningham is reluctant, but after a few more seconds of staring at Jessup and David John, a hard, tight, deep look in his eyes, he and Hawkins walk down the lane toward the road. They stop at the edge of the driveway, Hawkins talking quickly, emphasizing, Cunningham saying something occasionally, his arms crossed, even from fifty yards away the fury in his body as easy to see as the sun in the sky.
David John stands his ground. Jessup is expecting anger from his stepfather, but there’s only sadness.
“How much trouble are you in?” he says. “Did you get in a fight with this Corson kid at the party?”
“No, sir,” Jessup says. And it’s the truth. “Motherfucker came at me, talking shit about you and Ricky—”
David John cuts him off. “Watch your language.”
The muscles in Jessup’s chest go tight. There’s a bruise on his ribs he hadn’t noticed earlier. He bites his teeth together, remembers that the best thing he can do is take a breath, don’t respond right away. Gives himself a second. Realizes that he’s exhausted. Drained. Played his ass off, gave up his body on the field, everything that happened with Corson, with the truck, the party, the accident, dropping Corson’s body into the car, staying out late with Deanne, up early with the sun flashing off the snow, dragging the deer out of the woods, and now this, standing in his yard, covered in blood. All he wants is a shower. All he wants is for all of this to go away.
He’s still trying to decide what to say when David John softens. “Sorry,” he says. “You’re not a little kid. It’s just, you know, one of the hardest things about being in jail is how much swearing there is. It’s just not very Christian. Sets me on edge to hear it at home.”
Jessup stifles a laugh. “Really? The swearing was one of the hardest things about being in jail?”
Jessup can see the quick change from earnestness to humor, David John taking a glance to the end of the driveway and then broadcasting a smile. “Okay. Yeah, that’s as dumb as it sounds. But do me a favor, okay? Don’t swear like that. Don’t use the N-word. Don’t say ‘ain’t.’ Any of it. Don’t talk like that. It makes you sound dumb. Don’t give them any ammunition.”