Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  “You need it.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Then let this thing go.” The coach turned toward the field and his waiting players.

  “Pretend Benji isn’t being beaten?”

  “He’s at boarding school now. The beatings are over. You’re too late, Jennings.”

  “Lynch has a little girl at home,” said Jennings.

  “He’s nice to her, I hear. Trust me. Let it go. Or they’ll let you go.”

  6

  The sun dipped behind the houses in Daisy Hathaway’s neighborhood and she parked her red Lexus IS convertible in the driveway. She hoisted two grocery bags from the trunk and carried them to the door. Carefully balancing the bags, she turned the knob and used her hip to bump open the door.

  She dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter and put the dirty cups and cereal bowls into the dishwasher.

  “Hi babe,” she called.

  From down the stairs. “Hey! How’s your day?”

  “Long. I got groceries.”

  “Nice, thanks!”

  Daisy returned to the car. Got the rest, closed the trunk, and distributed the supplies to cabinets and the fridge.

  Finished. A weary sigh, stretching her back and considering dinner.

  She and the guy in the basement, Byron Horton, lived on the outskirts of Grandin Village. A little ranch that reminded her of the house she grew up in. And a mortgage payment fat enough to keep her awake at night. That and the car, a lease she never should have taken. But it was how things were done. She hadn’t stayed the extra year for a Masters degree for nothing. Her family had some wealth but she refused to run to her father.

  Music drifted from the Amazon Echo speaker and she turned it up. It was a song written and performed by Byron Horton’s former band. The song, Rush and Ruin It, was catchy and she’d always liked the verses. To silence noises from the television, she closed the basement door. Kicked off her heels and slid into slippers.

  Salad it was. She cooked chicken in a pan and added spices. Brewed tea, adding ice and sugar because Byron liked it sweetened. She set the chicken aside to cool as she cut vegetables with a red ceramic knife and she tossed the greens. Hathaway wasn’t a great cook and she knew it. She was a rule follower, and precisely obeying a recipe should result in a delicious dish but somehow the magic eluded her. Eventually it would happen like it should if she tried hard enough.

  The speaker was playing another song by Byron’s band, running through his old albums on Spotify.

  Daisy opened the basement door. “Want some dinner?”

  “Yeah, up in a sec. Gotta finish this…four minutes left, maybe.”

  She moved the food to the laminate two-person dining table and sat. Crossed her legs and kicked her toe a few minutes and decided on a glass of wine.

  Daisy hadn’t tried alcohol until turning twenty-one, and not again until twenty-three because it was so awful. These long days, however, often called for it. She poured a glass of Pinot Grigio from a yellow Barefoot bottle. She had tried more expensive brands but liked them less.

  Byron bounded up the stairs eight minutes later. He wore socks and khakis and a blue Nike sweatshirt.

  “Drinking again? Those students are gonna kill you, huh,” he said.

  She smiled, trying for warmth. Fake it till you make it.

  Daisy had met Byron at Belmont University in Nashville. He was the Cru worship leader, a boyish guitarist with energy to spare. All the Christian girls fawned over him. All the Christian boys panted after her, so she and Byron choose each other. He proposed their senior year and suggested they wait to set a date until life was settled. With her perfect grades and a teaching license, she received multiple job offers. He took a job as a youth pastor in Roanoke. She followed him. The church didn’t pay well, and neither did the fledgling private Academy. Tired of living apart, and waiting, they bought a house and moved in together. Against her better judgment. Against the scruples and ideals she clung to.

  Soon Byron tired of his job and quit, building websites instead. A job that gave him time to chase his dreams of becoming a professional musician.

  While he did, Daisy sat up at night worrying about the mortgage, listening to the boy snoring next to her. Waiting for it all to work like she’d been promised.

  He kissed her and sat at the dining table.

  “This song.” He took a bite of chicken and pointed at the Amazon Echo with his fork. “If I could get a record company to listen to this song, it would land me a deal, I know it. It’s so good, right?”

  “Yes, though I like your upbeat songs better.”

  “Those are harder to write, Hathaway. Percussion isn’t my strength, you remember that.”

  She winced at Hathaway. In college, when he called her Hathaway, she thought it was endearing.

  “Were you working on a website?” she said.

  “Nah. Playing a few games. I tried earlier and couldn’t get into it. I’ll try again tonight. My client’s in no rush.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. Great, I’ll tell that to our savings account.

  “I’m good at Overwatch, Hathaway. I mean, really good. If I’d started earlier I think I could be in a league.”

  “That’s a video game?” she said.

  “The one where you cooperate with teammates. You probably hear me yelling at them.”

  “I can.”

  “Sorry about that, I get worked up.” He set his fork down, his chicken gone, the greens and vegetables pushed around.

  “Did you work on your music today?”

  “No but I listened to some great songs I hadn’t heard before. You know, searching for inspiration.”

  “When can I hear your new stuff? I’m excited.”

  He fidgeted in the chair. “Soon. Soon. It’s not ready. Gotta get my gears turning. I loved the songs I listened to today. Really soaring melodies.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I forget. I can check in the history. You said your day was long?”

  Hathaway swirled her glass of white wine, watching the waves. Their voices echoed in the kitchen like a marble bouncing around a bucket. She wondered if a rug would help. Or paintings on the wall to dampen the ricochets.

  “What would you think if I got my administrative license?” she said.

  “I dunno. What’s that mean?”

  “It means I could be a school administrator. A principal.”

  “You want to do that?”

  “Not especially. It pays more.”

  “Don’t you like teaching?” he said.

  “I do. I really do.”

  Byron kinda laughed. “You’re a funny duck, kid. If you’re happy, why would you change things?”

  Who said anything about being happy, Byron?

  She said, “I suppose. But I can’t shake the feeling I’m missing something.”

  “Missing? Missing what?”

  “You don’t ever feel that way? Like we did this wrong?”

  He squinted. “Tell me what you mean.”

  “I’m not positive. Like my career, my life, is close to what it’s supposed to be, but not quite there. I’ve got all the pieces…or I think I do… And yet…” She held up her hand, like hoping life would set something in her palm. “It’s not correct, not entirely. I know what my life should look like. I was so certain of it in college. But now I’m here, and… I think I forgot a step. I did something out of order or left a box unchecked. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Absolutely. I thought I’d be touring by now. Did you get ice cream?”

  “I forgot,” she said.

  “No sweat, I’ll get it later.”

  Byron had put on twenty-five pounds since college, despite joining and bailing on three gyms. She knew this. He knew this. Talking about ice cream would result in a fight, so she forced her mouth to smile.

  “Sounds perfect,” she said.

  “We’ll watch Breaking Bad after?”

  “Can’t wait.”

 
; “First.” He stood and drained his ice tea. “I’m feeling creative. Gonna go bang out a couple hours on the website.”

  Hathaway wrinkled her nose at the dishes.

  Byron clomped down the stairs, and a minute later she got a belated, “Thanks for dinner. You did great!”

  “Mmm,” she said.

  The ice in his glass clinked, melting. She took one of the uneaten vegetables off his plate, a slice of cucumber, thought different, and dropped it onto hers.

  “Alexa, stop,” she said and the speaker silenced. So did the room.

  In the quiet, Hathaway’s mind thought over what he said, you did great. That was the same thing Peter Lynch told everyone at school.

  You’re doing great, Ms. Hathaway, he told her. And I love the skirt. When are you going to take me out, Ms. Hathaway? You don’t have to be lonely.

  She drank some wine and her thoughts drifted to Daniel Jennings. The history teacher down the hall. He was new and unsure of himself, trying to fit in. He didn’t fit in, though, and that was a good thing, the former soldier who kept the muscle. His confidence was shot, and Hathaway blushed thinking about his efforts to be the perfect gentleman, to keep his gaze on her face. Not on her mouth, not on her body, just her eyes.

  She’d seen him in a t-shirt once. He was tattooed on the shoulder, ink visible below his tight sleeve. It was hard to define what a man was, but she knew one when she saw one.

  Lynch and Jennings, two warriors—one boisterous and arrogant, the other quiet—and already they disliked one another, potentially on a collision course. A battle in which the monster had all the ammunition.

  She took the laptop out of her bag and surfed to the school’s email server to check her inbox. Mr. Jennings had emailed her after-hours in September, asking a question about PowerSchool. Ever since, she made sure to give her inbox a scan in the evening.

  Just in case.

  Nothing tonight. Oh well.

  She finished the wine and set down her glass. Went to change into something warm. Their bedroom looked ridiculous. Her side perfect, Byron’s a tornado wreck. Their compromise was, he kept the bathroom tidy. In the bathroom she insisted he act his age.

  He tried. He managed to pick his things off the floor, though civility around the sink was beyond him. A lopsided arrangement she tried to ignore.

  Daisy Hathaway was learning something about compromise. She’d done it often since college and the truth was catching up—if she kept compromising too long, there’d be nothing left of her.

  7

  After school on Wednesday, Daniel Jennings waited outside the office of his supervisor, Ms. Pierce, Director of the Upper School.

  Jennings was jazzed, full of energy. Benji had come to his classroom again for lunch and he’d watched the boy work, wondering when the last time was he’d been struck in the face to test his manhood, and Jennings decided then to act. Even if he wasn’t in a place to deal with Lynch, he’d force the administration to take action. Like hell would he sit around and pretend it wasn’t happening.

  Pierce returned from supervising the parking lot and did a little jump, finding him at her door.

  “Mr. Jennings, what can I do for you?”

  Jennings opened the door to her office and went in. Pierce followed, showing some anxiety.

  He closed the door and said, “I think Peter Lynch beats his children.”

  “Oh really.”

  “Is that the rumor you indicated Monday?”

  Pierce pulled the lanyard over her head and let it drop onto her cluttered desk, overrun with paperwork. Manila folders were stacked like a sandbar and they’d keep her in the office until seven that evening.

  “What evidence do you have, Mr. Jennings?”

  “At my conference with Lynch, he nearly lost it. Like you said he would. He came close to hitting me because I wouldn’t budge with the grade book. I read about Lynch online and he has a history with violence. Plus I have it on good authority that he beats Junior and Benji to toughen them.”

  “Who is your authority? A fellow teacher?”

  He shook his head. “I won’t say.”

  “Then you have nothing to report, Mr. Jennings. We can’t go to the police or social services with that.”

  “Benji said his father has hit him. That’s direct testimony.”

  Pierce was lowering into her chair but she stood again. “You asked Benjamin if his father abuses him?”

  “In a roundabout way.”

  “And he said yes?”

  “He said his father hits him when he deserves it, same as other dads.”

  Pierce relaxed. “That’s called discipline.”

  “That’s abuse, Ms. Pierce.”

  “Do you know how many parents spank their children? A lot, even if they won’t admit it.”

  “A phonebook to the face is different.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Jennings. Please.” She waited until he did and she put on administrative armor and used her strongest voice, of a woman twenty years older. “I think your concern is admirable. You’re the exact kind of man we want at the Academy for the next thirty years. But I want you to consider something. You’re brand new. It’s November in your first semester and you’re already chasing shadows. Do you know how many rumors you’re going to hear on a monthly basis? You keep this up and you won’t make it two years.”

  “We can’t ignore child abuse.”

  “If the abuse exists. This is a marathon, Mr. Jennings, not a sprint. You’re a finite resource. Do you know Cedrick Moss, in the seventh grade? Probably not, you teach tenth and eleventh. His mother’s dying. Inoperable brain tumor, nothing we can do. There’s a boy who could use your support. What about Joshua Rose, you teach him. He’s the only boy, I think truly the only boy in the tenth grade without a smartphone and he’s in agony about it. Should we step in there? His parents are ostracizing him. He’s miserable, far worse than getting hit, I think he’d say. Should we step into that situation? How about Kemper? He hates football but his father forces him to play. Did you know Kemper has a five-million-dollar trust fund waiting for him? But it’s contingent on him playing football all four years. Kemper’s tiny and he’s already suffered two broken bones. That’s bullying, right? Should we intervene?”

  “There’s a difference between misguided parenting and hitting your children with phonebooks until they stop crying.”

  “If it’s happening, and you only have hearsay. Let me play the devil’s advocate with hard facts. Benjamin’s father provides for him. Cares about him. Spends a fortune on his education. Conferences with his teachers. Attends all his football games. I think Mr. Lynch is very likely too tough on his children, but who is the arbiter on parental strictness? I don’t think it can be you, a man in his third month teaching, a man without children of his own. Especially when we wish other parents were as invested in their children as Mr. Lynch seems to be.”

  Jennings felt his energy leaking away, losing power. He didn’t think Ms. Pierce was right but…had the woman said anything wrong? The rug was being pulled from under him. He felt brand new, suddenly.

  “Your concern is laudable, Mr. Jennings. But we cannot inject ourselves into every parent-child relationship that we fear may not be perfect.”

  Jennings found himself nodding, staring at the crystal paperweight on her desk.

  She said, “I hope you haven’t spread accusations of child abuse around to other instructors?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “I’ll request a guidance counselor call Benjamin in for a chat. I think he has Mrs. Wagner. If she hears anything alarming, she’ll alert me. How’s that?”

  “Good. Thank you.” Jennings stood. He refused to acknowledge feeling like a chastised boy. “I’ll keep my ears open too.”

  “Do so very carefully, Mr. Jennings. Like I said, Mr. Lynch purchased some leeway in advance.”

  “Maybe, but you don’t get to purchase the right to abuse your kids.” He held up his hand to stop her. “If he is.”


  “Right. If you learn anything else, contact me. Have a good day, Mr. Jennings.”

  The door closed and Ms. Pierce leaned forward in her chair. Rested her elbows on the table, and her chin in both hands. She wondered how long it would be before Mr. Jennings decided it was easier to pretend he didn’t see evil. Like most teachers did. Like she swore she’d never do.

  She was still sitting in the same position ten minutes later, eyes closed.

  Jennings was walking back to his room when Craig Lewis intercepted him. Lewis was the elder statesman of the instructors.

  “Mr. Jennings. I spotted you in the office,” said Lewis.

  “Principal offices never get less scary, do they.”

  “Important matters with Ms. Pierce?”

  Jennings did a half shrug. “I’m not sure yet.”

  Lewis had retired from teaching at fifty-six, all thirty-two years of his career spent in Roanoke’s public schools, only to have the Academy beg him return for a few more. A kind, soft-spoken man whom Jennings admired, Lewis often extolled the virtue and necessity of routines to the new teachers. “Will anything come of it?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.” Mr. Lewis held out a slip of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “My contact info.” Lewis stepped closer and dropped his voice. “I won’t discuss it with you now. Or ever, on campus. But we should meet outside of school and talk.”

  “Happy to. About what?”

  “About Peter Lynch.”

  The hairs on Jennings’ arms raised. “Yeah?”

  “It’s bad, Mr. Jennings. Far worse than you realize.”

  8

  Jennings liked the Academy enough that if he was fired from teaching he might apply to be a groundskeeper. He was that charmed. The fortune spent manifested itself in the carpet of bright Kentucky bluegrass and thick mulch, the health of the azaleas, the stately bronze plaques, the gurgling fountain, the brilliant columns.

  Jennings attended football practice again. He sat at the base of the hill, near the field, and thought about Mr. Lewis.