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.