Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  It’s far worse than you realize.

  How had Mr. Lewis known? Maybe Coach Murray told him Jennings was spooked. Or Daisy Hathaway mentioned Jennings was asking about rumors.

  How could it be worse? What else was there?

  In his ear, Ms. Pierce reminded him he wasn’t a parent. He couldn’t save them all. It’s a marathon, Jennings.

  He hadn’t begun his education classes yet. If the Academy had been a public school then he wouldn’t qualify for a license. But he’d been reading. He knew teachers were mandatory reporters, compelled to disclose signs of abuse. He’d done his duty. Yet it wouldn’t quit nagging.

  On field, the running back took a pitch and came around the offensive line. He was a punishing runner, a senior named Mickey King. King turned the corner, packing on speed until he met Benji Lynch. King was powerful but he wasn’t Benji. They collided, pads popping, a smack Jennings felt. The linebacker tackled through him, wrapped up King’s legs, and drove him into the turf, eight yards from Jennings.

  Shouting. Whistles blew.

  Jennings winced. Hard tackles like that were banned from practice for a reason. Killing your teammates was no way to keep cohesion or a healthy roster.

  King bounced up, hot. He yanked off his red helmet, pulled out his mouth guard, and advanced on Lynch. “The shit, boy!”

  Lynch used both hands to remove his helmet. Held it by the face mask.

  “It’s football, Mickey. Don’t cry about it. You come on my field, I knock the hell out of you.”

  Coach Murray was back at the line of scrimmage, regrouping the players. He called for a penalty and Lynch was ordered to sit out for five minutes, but neither boy moved.

  Mickey King was wincing, holding his chest. “Watch that mouth, white boy, or I’ll kick you home to daddy. Hear me, Lynch?”

  “No, I didn’t hear you, King. Get your black ass back to the line.”

  Jennings saw it coming. Climbed to his feet, too late.

  King had enough. He dropped the helmet, dropped the mouth guard and shoved Lynch hard.

  Harsh whistles blowing.

  Benji came undone. He broke the implicit rule and used his helmet like a weapon. Swung it in a wild arc, catching King flush in the face. A sick thunk. King’s sweat scattered. Jennings would find out later the impact broke two molars. King staggered sideways, his legs losing power. Benji hit him again as he fell, helmet to the back of his head.

  The force dented King’s skull and his skin split like a sleeping bag unzipping. Before he hit the ground, King’s eyes were rolled up and he was out.

  Benji rampant above the limp boy, raising the helmet again, the eyes shining without reason, a rabid dog.

  Coach Murray sprinting now, the defensive coordinator too, whistles shrieking.

  Jennings reached him first. Caught Benji’s arm before the downswing. Tugged and spun the boy. A fit of madness, Benji twisting, spitting and throwing a fist at whoever dared touch him.

  A sloppy punch and Jennings ducked it enough to only receive a glancing blow above his ear.

  “Benji! Benjamin Lynch!”

  Benji cocked the helmet to destroy Jennings, not seeing a man but a threat.

  Jennings hit him in the nose, a short straight punch with his right.

  Everyone wants to fight until they get hit in the nose.

  Benji stepped backward. The fight inside him vanished. He grabbed his face, that awful feeling nothing can stop. A gout of blood from his nostrils. His coaches and teammates reached him, restraining the boy.

  The turf below Mickey King was turning crimson.

  Jennings knelt awkwardly and whipped off King’s hand towel and pressed it firmly to the base of the skull.

  “Damn it,” said Coach Murray. “Got’damn it, Lynch.”

  “King’s okay.” Without looking Jennings knew the occipital bone of King’s skull was exposed. “He’s going to be fine. But he needs a hospital. Everyone back. Get back.” With his free hand, he pointed at the defensive coordinator. “Get your car. Right now. Drive it here on the field.”

  “Yes sir.” The man left.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” said Murray.

  “Coach, we’re three miles from Carilion. We’ll get there faster if we do it. There’s no neck trauma, just a head injury that bleeds too much, and I want to get there now. Everyone back.”

  Two of Lynch’s friends were hauling him away, his face running.

  “Coach, I’m sorry.” Benji’s busted nose turned it into Ib sorry. “Coach, I didn’t mean…tell him I’m sorry. Let go.”

  King was out nine minutes, coming to as four men heaved him onto a rolling bed from the car, Jennings refusing to release pressure with his towel.

  In the emergency department, a surgical team shaved Mickey’s head and sewed his split flesh together. His maxilla had a hairline fracture, but there was nothing to be done. Both molars were splinted; an oral surgeon could probably salvage one tooth with a root canal and a crown. Mickey was taken to a recovery room. An hour later he was awake but the concussion was significant enough to warrant overnight observation.

  Jennings was sitting in the waiting area at seven. He’d stayed by the bed in loco parentis until Mickey’s mother arrived from Richmond, and then he gave them space. He texted Dean Gordon as requested to let him know the mother was there.

  Jennings hated hospitals—too many bad memories of waking up the day after surgery, of occupational therapists, of nurses, of that damn prosthetist. He’d skipped his previous two appointments at the Salem Veteran’s Medical Center. Weak and grouchy, he stretched and walked for coffee. He’d wait until Gordon or Coach Murray arrived before heading home. Coach Murray was returning at eight.

  He had blood residue under his nails despite scrubbing twice in the bathroom. He poured a styrofoam cup and mixed in sugar.

  When he returned, Peter Lynch was there.

  The big man lumbered into Mickey King’s room.

  Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it.

  The hell was he doing here? Gloating? Bullying the mother? Smothering Mickey in his sleep?

  Jennings stood at the door and listened, out of Lynch’s line of sight, ready to sound an alarm.

  Lynch said, “Ms. King, my name is Peter. I’m the father of the other knucklehead in this fracas. My son Benjamin, he’s beat up pretty good but the physicians said he didn’t need to stay.”

  A half truth. Jennings himself told Coach Murray Benji didn’t require a hospital. A busted nose heals on its own.

  He wondered if Lynch knew it was he who popped his son.

  A Green Beret picking on a high school junior. Your grandfather must be turning in his grave.

  He couldn’t see her but Mickey King’s mother made no reply.

  Lynch said, “These are regrettable things, Ms. King. This is my second time with a boy in high school and they’re like wild animals, aren’t they, Mickey and Benji and their friends. The stuff they get into.”

  Jennings barely heard her reply. “Mickey is my only child. He wasn’t a wild animal when I dropped him off. He’s not a wild animal when I pick him up. He’s a sweet boy.”

  “Take my word for it, these things happen, Ms. King.” Lynch’s voice moved slow and gentle, his commercial voice.

  Jennings knew Mickey didn’t come from money. He came to play football and he received a scholarship. His mother wore Target bargains while Peter Lynch wore Armani.

  “I’m told it’s impossible to tell who started the fight, Ms. King, but I feel awful about it.”

  Partial truth. Jennings had seen it all. Hard tackle, words exchanged, a shove, then the helmet.

  Lynch continued. “Regardless of that, Ms. King, you should know that Mickey’s medical bills are covered. I just left the billing department and it’s settled. We’re a family at the Academy, after all.”

  “Oh. That’s…” said Mickey’s mother into the quiet. “That’s very good of you.”

  Don’t, thought Jennings. Don’t let him of
f the hook. He wants something.

  “The Lord’s been generous to me and it’s an honor to share, Ms. King. Like I said, I feel awful about the fight.”

  Jennings coffee cup was shaking. Lynch didn’t want the story in the news! That his son half-killed a poor black boy.

  “I’d like to put you up in a hotel for the night, Ms. King.”

  “That’s very kind but I’m staying. My boy’s already thrown up twice,” she said.

  “I understand. I’m worried too, about my Benjamin. I think his nose’s broken, poor guy.”

  It wasn’t. No structural damage.

  Should Jennings step into the room? He didn’t know. The wild notion entered his head, Teddy Roosevelt wouldn’t just be standing outside listening.

  Who makes you the arbiter? It’s only November.

  “I’m sorry your son’s nose might be broken, sir. Mickey has to come home with me. He needs his teeth pulled, they tell me, and…and a partial denture put in…” A sob from her.

  “Oh Ms. King, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Jennings peeked around the corner far enough to see reflections in the window. Lynch had set one hand on Ms. King’s shoulder. She was resting her forehead in her palm, bent over Mickey’s bed.

  Lynch said, “Here’s some comfort for you. Most of my mouth is fake. Dentures and veneers. I never felt a thing. And you won’t pay a thing.”

  “That’s very…considerate…but—”

  “I tell you what, Ms. King, I’d like to cover Mickey’s tuition for the remainder of the year, too. I hope that doesn’t come across as condescending. It’s me who needs the favor here. I’m a wreck looking at Mickey sleeping. Do you think we can come to an arrangement? You and I, we keep this within the family, and it’s better for the school and it’s better for our boys. That’s what is on my mind, Mickey’s future.”

  Jennings took a step back.

  Tuition for the remainder of the school year. Even considering the partial scholarship, Lynch was dangling fifteen grand in front of Mickey’s mom. Play ball, Ms. King, it’ll only cost your soul.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Fifteen thousand dollars could mean everything.

  Dean Gordon and Coach Murray arrived fifteen minutes later. Jennings had moved to the couch by then.

  Lynch emerged from the room and collided with Gordon and Murray. He grinned at them, not like the commercials.

  “You’re too damn late, boys. Long day for you educators.”

  Dean Gordon had intelligent eyes, built by peering at angry boys and angrier parents and still winning. He said, “You’ve been speaking to Ms. King?”

  “Oh yes. The woman’s fine. Fine and dandy and financially secure. We have an agreement in place. Like today never happened.”

  “You need to return my phone calls, Mr. Lynch.”

  “I’ll ring next time I’m on the toilet, Gordon. Deal with all the shit at once.” The slow soothing voice was gone. Lynch leaned over Coach Murray and pushed him with a finger. “Murray. My boy’s playing football on Friday, Murray.”

  The way he said Murray it sounded like Murra. Was he aping a deep south accent?

  “Benji is suspended from the team, Mr. Lynch.”

  Lynch’s smile was wild and manic. Reminded Jennings of the crazy cat in Alice in Wonderland.

  “Oh is he.”

  “He is.”

  “Didn’t you hear, Coach? Today never happened. Just ask the poor widow Ms. King.”

  “My team, my rules, Lynch.”

  “Your team? Your team. Spoken like a man with a lot of career options. Spoken like a man who is ready to make a stand, to die on that hill for his team. Good for you, all that gumption. Are cushy head coach positions thick on the ground these days?”

  Dean Gordon said, “Mr. Lynch, you’re helping build the Valley Academy and you know how highly we value our staff. To even insinuate—”

  “You don’t preemptively state my opinions, Gordon. Ever. And shove the flattery up your ass. I’ll bring your starting middle linebacker to school on Friday, Murray. There’s a lot riding on that game. Isn’t there, boys.”

  Lynch walked down the hall, the stomping gait, and didn’t bother replying to anything the dean and coach said. They were dismissed.

  Left alone, Murray muttered, “The man’s not afraid to throw his weight around.”

  “Do you know what’s worse than new money, Coach?” said Gordon.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Lynch hadn’t seen Jennings in the corner of the waiting area. Nor did the coach and the dean.

  In his fingers Jennings held the note from Mr. Lewis.

  It’s worse than you realize.

  He didn’t remember twitching the note from his pocket. But there it was, quivering, beckoning.

  Jennings punched out a text message.

  Mr. Lewis, it’s Dan Jennings. Let’s meet.

  Tomorrow.

  9

  The Academy burned with news of the fight. Two secretaries were discussing it as Jennings checked his mail that morning. Boys reenacted the beating in the hallway.

  Mickey King hadn’t been released yet. Benjamin Lynch wasn’t on campus either. Their absence was felt like a black hole, giving greater freedom for the legend to swell.

  After third period, Jennings passed Daisy Hathaway in the hall. The colder weather meant she wore short skirts less often and he could breathe easier around her.

  “I heard you were in on the action yesterday, Mr. Jennings.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Was it gruesome?”

  “Like a nature show, animals chewing on each other.”

  She got close enough for him to smell her shampoo. A whisper, “Did you hear? Benji got hit with a one-day suspension. One day! And he’ll play the second half of the game Friday.”

  “He’s only docked two quarters?”

  “So Mr. Barry says.”

  Jennings glanced up and down the hallway. “I was at the hospital. Lynch paid off Mickey’s mother and threatened Coach Murray’s job.”

  “Unbelievable. This is unbelievable. What makes it worse, Peter doesn’t care about his son. His insistence on Benji playing football and attending a military institute on scholarship is all about his own need for relevance. In your conference with him, I bet he barely acknowledged Benji.”

  Jennings searched his memory. “I think you’re right.”

  “At another school, Benji would be off the football team and suspended from school for a week. But at the Academy? We have to keep the titans happy.”

  “Like the incident never occurred,” he said.

  A few students watched them and she lowered her voice further.

  “Benjamin should be tested for drugs. He’s never been violent before.”

  “All his rage surfaced. Lost his mind. Another few seconds and he would’ve cracked Mickey King’s skull.”

  Hathaway made hard eye contact with him. “Like he’s repressing childhood trauma? Trauma from his father, perhaps?”

  “Rage comes from somewhere.”

  She patted his arm at the elbow. His sleeves were rolled up and her fingers made contact with his skin.

  “It’s a good thing you were there, Mr. Jennings. Poor Mickey might be dead.”

  After the Army, Jennings had traded his Nissan Frontier with manual transmission for a Toyota Tacoma, an automatic. He itched to shift gears but the clutch pedal was cumbersome with a prosthetic. A necessary concession.

  That evening Jennings drove the Tacoma off campus and into the purpling dusk. His old dog tags dangled from the mirror. He parked at 419 West, a steak and seafood restaurant in the county, and found Craig Lewis already there. Set up at a table in the corner.

  Lewis raised his glass and said, “Already started. You better catch up, Mr. Jennings.”

  “Dan.” He sat.

  “Sure, you better catch up, Dan.”

  Their server was a former student of Mr. Lewis’ and she claimed he was the
best teacher she ever had. Jennings ordered a Dogfish Head IPA and Lewis asked for another Tom Collins.

  “How’s teaching so far, Dan?”

  “The first year is like the Q-course. Only the strong survive.”

  “Q-course?” said Lewis.

  “Part of special force selection.”

  “Do you miss the Army?”

  “I miss the Army. Parts of the Army. But I wouldn’t go back.”

  Lewis gave him a sad smile. “Not even after watching two boys attempt murder?”

  “Only one of them attempted it, Mr. Lewis.”

  “Craig. Call me Craig, please.”

  The server took their orders, both men getting bacon cheeseburgers.

  “Not high class, are we,” said Lewis.

  “Never have been. I’d eat a peanut butter and jelly if they served it.”

  “Have you made any friends in the faculty yet?”

  “Coach Murray. You’re my second,” said Jennings.

  “Not Daisy Hathaway?”

  Dammit. Was he ogling Hathaway and didn’t know it? Were people talking? Lewis was old enough to be his father and it felt like a paternal ribbing.

  Jennings said, “It’s hard to function around her. I keep my distance. How’d you know I was talking to Principal Pierce about Benjamin’s father?”

  “I pay attention.” Lewis drained half his cocktail and set the glass down. Leaned forward, hands clasped under him on the table. “Tell me what you know.”

  “About Peter Lynch.”

  “About Peter Lynch, yes. That’s why we’re here.”

  “You said it’s worse than I realize?”

  Nodding. “Oh yes, Mr. Jennings. Dan.”

  Jennings looked around the restaurant. They had space, a buffer of secrecy. Two tables over, a group celebrated a fiftieth birthday with volume.

  “I know he was disbarred in California for attacking other lawyers. I know he insulted my profession and my past and my masculinity. I know he bought off Mickey’s mother to keep the attack quiet. I know he bullies the coach and faculty, and makes inappropriate sexual comments at Ms. Hathaway. I think he hits his boys to toughen them. I think something happened a few years ago involving a sexual abuse scandal.”