He should have been expecting it, but Jessup is still taken aback when Earl focuses his attention on the front row. He goes through it quickly, how Jessup—his nephew, he calls him, no mention that Jessup is actually David John’s stepson—is a victim, Corson provoking him but Jessup turning the other cheek. And now, even though it’s clear that Jessup did nothing wrong, there has to be a scapegoat, doesn’t there?
“Isn’t that how it is today? No black man can die without it being some white man’s fault,” Earl says, shaking his head. It’s clear that he’s both amused and deeply sorry about the situation.
Somebody from the back yells out, “Dindu nuffin!” and there’s an appreciative chuckle.
“That’s right,” Earl says. He leans forward in the pulpit, hands grasping the side of the podium. “We hear that all the time from black folks, don’t we?” He looks around the church, makes eye contact. “I didn’t do nothing.”
Jessup tries not to stir. Doesn’t want to call more attention to himself than what is already being thrown at him. He feels sick. An acid swelling in his throat. Whatever grace he felt is gone. He doesn’t want to be here. Shouldn’t be here. Doesn’t belong here. This was a mistake. All of this. Everything from the moment of the thump of Corson’s body against the truck.
What if he had simply stayed in his truck, driven away after the accident? But what then? Somebody would have found Corson’s body on the driveway, called the cops that night, and Jessup would still be in the same place, a dent in his truck, a dead body, his own life hanging in the balance. What if he’d done the right thing right away: called the police on himself, told the truth, it was an accident, nothing more, taken his medicine? He’s only seventeen and it was slippery with snow. He’d lose his license, community service. The police would understand. A slap on the wrist, the guilt enough, right?
But he glances over at David John, holding his mother’s hand, hears Earl’s voice, thinks about the Confederate flag sticker on the back window of Wyatt’s truck, the tattoos on Ricky’s back, the flaming cross, “eighty-eight” on Ricky’s right shoulder, standing for the letter H, eighty-eight meaning HH, meaning Heil Hitler, and on his left shoulder, “pure blood,” no explanation needed, David John’s tattoos marking him just as clearly as Ricky, lightning bolts and swastika, unambiguous, the entire family marked, no matter that Jessup is clean of ink. He’s stained anyway.
All this thinking of a different set of choices is fantasy. He knows that. There’s nothing he could have done differently. Nothing that would have allowed him to walk away unscathed.
“We aren’t asking for anything radical,” Earl says. “Africa for Africans, Asia for Asians, America for Americans. Every other group can play identity politics, but when we do it, when we fight for the rights of good, white Christians, we get labeled as racists.”
Jessup has heard all of this before, but he’s aware of how tight his body feels right now. Every muscle clenched. He can feel the pulse of the congregation, the way they are leaning forward slightly, every word that Earl says soaking through them.
Earl raises his hand, open: “We aren’t trying to take anything away from anybody. We just want to keep our God-given rights. If we don’t fight against reverse discrimination, then we’ll be left with nothing.” His cadence has picked up, and his voice goes into a roar as he comes to the fourteen words: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children!”
The congregants answer back, amens and applause, but Earl gestures for quiet. “This is an opportunity for us. We’ve got television crews here. Protesters on the road outside.” A few boos. “You don’t have to worry. We’ve got some of our brave soldiers out there”—he means the church’s militia—“right now, keeping the peace. When you leave today, I want you to leave as Christians. I want you to be polite to those people outside of the gates.” There’s a smattering of unrest, sounds of dissent, but Earl isn’t bothered. “Let them be angry. Let the world see what the radical Left looks like. Besides, doesn’t Jesus tell us to turn the other cheek? If the social justice warriors want to spend their Sunday mornings standing around with signs instead of praising the glory of our lord and savior, if those snowflakes think they don’t need Jesus’s blessing, well,” Earl says, a wink, enough charm to explain why there is a church here at all, “I know I’m going to heaven, for I have faith. And to that, I say, let us pray. Our father . . .”
It’s a sea of voices joining him.
Jessup is alone and adrift.