by Alan Lee
“You’re excused from the English department meeting, Ms. Hathaway. Say the word and I’ll fire them all.”
“Mr. Lynch—”
“Call me Peter.”
“Mr. Lynch—”
“English is a remarkable language, Ms. Hathaway, isn’t it. Did you know we have far more words than other modern languages?”
“I did not know that.”
“It’s true. English has a melting pot ancestry. England has Celtic roots but the land was invaded by Norse speaking Vikings, and also by the Germans and the French, each depositing their own words. And don’t forget the Roman Empire imparting Latin. All those influences generated our language. Thus the synonyms.”
“Fascinating, Mr. Lynch. I’ll include that in my lessons.”
“Take horny for example, Ms. Hathaway.”
Her expression flattened. “Horny.”
His thigh muscles fluttered hearing her use the word.
“Yes, how many synonyms can you name for horny?”
“I’d rather not play this game.”
“Titillated. Aroused. Stimulated. Lewd.”
“Mr. Lynch—”
“Prurient, that’s a good one.”
“How about lecherous? It connotes an offense.”
“I prefer lust, Ms. Hathaway.”
“Maybe depraved. Is that a synonym?”
“Do you dabble in the depraved?”
“I do not accept this conversation, Mr. Lynch. It’s objectionable and I’d like to leave.”
“Oh we’re just having fun. There’s no harm in mild porneia.”
“I need to go. Now,” she said.
She said it but made no move toward the door. She said it but didn’t mean it. Yearning for him to be more aggressive. She’d quit wearing her engagement ring; he noticed months ago. Took it off for him.
Lynch came to the middle of the room.
“Let’s chat.” He lowered himself into a student desk and indicated she sit with him.
“I have a meeting.”
“I need your help with a school function, Ms. Hathaway.”
“Is that so.”
“The Academy’s holiday gala is a significant soirée. A can’t-miss event, compared to the flops of other schools. Each year I reserve the lavish Hunting Hills ballroom for the party. I’m the host.”
“Yes, I always attend,” she said.
“For this year’s holiday party, I’m changing the venue to my own home. I’m inviting you to be my co-host. Or hostess. You will help me plan.”
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Lynch—”
“Remember when it used to be a Christmas party? Before the losers changed the facts. Include us, we need to be included.”
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Lynch, but I decline.”
“Oh come now, don’t be shy. I could use a hand. I could use your hand.” He smiled and a small gurgle of laughter escaped his teeth.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“I’m afraid I insist.”
Hidden under his hair, Lynch’s ears twitched. He heard the door unlock and swing open. His face darkened and he twisted in the chair, ready to skewer whoever dared—
Daniel Jennings stood in the doorway.
“I’m late for the meeting?” He pushed the door wide and propped it open, ruining the intimate atmosphere.
The key remained in the lock. Lynch recognized the dangling lanyard—it’d been circling Angela Pierce’s neck a moment ago. The insipid slut ran to Daniel Jennings and gave him her key and asked him to check on Ms. Hathaway’s conference.
Fire crept through the hallways of Lynch’s mind, spaces clean and fragrant with Daisy Hathaway now turning ugly.
“Hello Daniel. Still moving with the limp, I see.”
“Let’s race at the track, Mr. Lynch. See if you can beat a guy who limps.”
“This meeting is private, Dan.”
“He can stay, I don’t mind.”
Jennings said, “Thanks, I’ll stick around.”
“No, Daniel. You’ll be a good boy and do as you’re told. Leave.”
Jennings walked into the room. Sat in a student desk.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Hathaway said, “Mr. Lynch was telling me about all the synonyms for horny in the English language. Including porneia.”
“Porneia,” said Jennings.
“Daniel, I’m sure, is very familiar with the root word. Miserable handicapped men often are,” said Lynch.
“Just as I’m sure you’re familiar with aischrologia, Mr. Lynch. And biaios.”
Lynch was breathing through his open mouth; the movement rattled his airways, constricted with anger. There was a slight pause in the rattle.
“You’re pronouncing them wrong, Daniel, but I’m impressed,” he said.
“And, worst of all, phoneuó.”
“If I was familiar with phoneuó, believe me, you’d know,” said Lynch.
“Like last night?”
All the lines and wrinkles in Lynch’s face vanished. His hairline rose up his skull a fraction, like his scalp had tightened. “Last night?”
“Yes, Mr. Lynch, last night.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?”
“What the hell happened last night, Daniel?”
Lynch’s confusion was so profound and genuine that no one would accuse him of acting. He was off kilter, angry at his lack of control. Jennings’ understanding of ancient languages had thrown him. What’s more, the little twat accused him of being arrogant, violent, and murderous. A hell of an insinuation from a pathetic teacher, a man whose salary he subsidized. Their simmering feud was ratcheting up a notch. In front of Daisy Hathaway.
Lynch smacked his hand on the table. “Daniel. Answer me when I speak. What about last night?”
“Nothing.” Jennings shifted in the chair, also confused. Like a man struggling through cognitive dissonance. “Nothing, I was mistaken. Forget I mentioned anything happened last night.”
“I told you to make friends with the general. Not toy with him. A good sergeant knows when to salute.”
“If I see a general, I will. Do you know the insignia of an Army general, Mr. Lynch?”
“A star, but the number depends on whether he’s a Brigadier, Major, Lieutenant, or four-star. I read a fact, Daniel, I know it forever. Our minds are not equivalent.”
Jennings’ turn to be impressed. “You’re a student of the Army? Why didn’t you join up as a JAG?”
Lynch heard his father’s voice as if he were standing in the room—Drives you nuts, don’t it. Jennings being from a family of war heroes. And you, fat and slow, couldn’t even make the military as a JAG.
Lynch’s teeth ground so loudly that Hathaway and Jennings heard the noise but they couldn’t identify it. Lynch tasted blood. “Only nobodies chase glory over cash, Daniel. I had better things to do.”
“I get it, those rifles are heavy. Too bad, you could have been my superior officer.”
“I am your superior.” He turned away from Jennings. “Certainly you noted Daniel’s limp, Ms. Hathaway.”
“I don’t find it noticeable.”
“Didn’t he tell you about the injury?”
“I haven’t asked,” she said.
“The story’s juicy.”
“If Daniel wants to tell me sometime, I’d be happy to listen. To him.”
“Here’s the short version, Ms. Hathaway. His foot was blown off by friendly fire.”
Her fingers, drumming on her desk, stilled.
“Dismaying, isn’t it. I see your pity,” said Lynch.
Her voice sounded small. “That’s not pity, it’s compassion. I honor our veterans.”
“It happened outside Darzab, Ms. Hathaway. A skirmish between Taliban and ISIS. Officially the American forces weren’t involved. But if you pull on a few unofficial levers you see Daniel was there, the Green Berets on loan. You see, the skirmish was over and Daniel survived intact, until he didn’t. He
and his small detachment were returning. Something went wrong and his own friends launched a salvo at him.”
As Lynch spoke, he watched the color drain from Jennings’ face and he found it exquisite.
Jennings cleared his throat. “That’s true.”
“Of course is it. I don’t lie.”
“An Apache got jumpy. We took a volley of hellfire. No fun.”
“Daniel the medic survived but the others didn’t. A medic not worth his epsom powder, apparently. Did you know, Ms. Hathaway, that the Jennings family tree has an odd shape? They produce only boy babies. No girls. It’s real, look it up. For generations, not a girl has been birthed. A bizarre genetic trait, isn’t it, the men providing no X chromosomes.”
Hathaway appeared dizzy. Overwhelmed and weak. Lynch pressed his advantage.
“Within Daniel’s kin, the boys join the military. Every single male. Yet Daniel is the first to be discharged due to friendly fire.” Lynch felt dizzy too but his was from intoxicating mirth, delighting in the sheen of perspiration on their faces. It felt so good. He closed his lips and sucked the taste of blood from his teeth. Swallowed. “I wonder, Daniel, sometimes at night when you’re lying in bed awake, sweating from the PTSD, from the existential angst and sexual frustration, do you question whether your friends shot you on purpose?”
“That’s enough,” snapped Hathaway.
“I bet you wish the hellfire had consumed you. I wish that sometimes, about myself. What a high.”
“Mr. Lynch, it’s time for you to go.”
“Is it?” Lynch made a show of looking at his watch. “For you, I’ve got all the time. But perhaps you’re right—this conversation would be better over drinks.”
A knock at the door. Another intruder and Lynch rolled his eyes. These teachers with nothing to do other than mingle and chat.
It was Coach Murray. Whistle around his neck.
“Hey,” he said. “I been looking for you, Jennings.”
Lynch stood. Tugged his shirt and jacket into place.
“You have practice now, Coach Murray. Or did you get yourself fired already?”
“Nah, championship game is tomorrow, Lynch. I was wondering if Jennings wanted to address the team. Give us that Green Beret perseverance speech. Ms. Hathaway, you want to come too?”
It was a lie. Lynch’s animal instincts were keen on fear and he sensed it from Murray. Fear and some defiance. The man kept his eyes locked on Lynch, like a good football coach, but was breathing heavily—he’d run here.
Sent by Angela Pierce, more backup. All of these fools trying to slow him down.
Lynch’s vision began to turn red and cloudy at the edges, a dangerous sign. When he died, it would be from a heart attack.
“You cowards. Absolute cowards…” He closed his mouth before blood trickled out. His gums throbbed with his pulse. A long pause and he swallowed. “I’m leaving. You boys hold each other and run back to Ms. Pierce and everyone have a good cry. Maybe your periods are in sync, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Lynch went for the door, moving like an angry hippopotamus, heavy, shaking his head. Murray gave way, backing toward Jennings’ desk.
Near the bookshelves, Lynch caught sight of novels waiting to be taught, neatly stacked. He took one.
“Catcher in the Rye. Read this one, Daniel? It’s about a pissant little boy trying everything to be happy and nothing works. Maybe you can relate.” Lynch threw the book in a soft frisbee-toss and it landed on the floor next to Jennings.
“What about this one, Daniel, The Invisible Man. Do you feel unseen? What a coincidence, you were just invited for a speech. Too bad you can’t live up to your name.” Lynch threw that book too, harder, and stoic Jennings caught it.
“Mr. Lynch, please leave,” said Hathaway.
“Oooh, this one, Daniel, The Right Stuff. You and Chuck Yeager, losers who never got picked.” This novel was in hardback and he flung it. The cover opened like an airplane’s flaps and veered it off course. The book landed on Ms. Hathaway’s deck and knocked a picture frame to the floor. The glass shattered.
“Hey, easy now, Lynch,” shouted Murray.
“Next, To Kill a Mockingbird! What’s the matter, Daniel, losing your innocence and faith in mankind? There’s NO Atticus Finch to save you!” Lynch threw the book and missed Jennings, who’d stood. The book hit the wall and the binding broke and the pages scattered like a shot pigeon.
“Lynch!”
“Maybe Moby Dick! Think you can handle your white whale, Sergeant fucking NOBODY!” Lynch howled the insult. The novel, heavy, four hundred pages, was a fastball at Jennings’ head and he ducked, slipping. Instead of hitting him, the book connected with the electric pencil sharpener across the room. Batteries and wooden shavings erupted as a mini grenade.
Lynch was gone before they could recover. He frothed crimson into his jacket sleeve, held to his mouth. He hoped Jennings would come after him. He hoped the grunt would hop hop hop this way and get his back broken. There was no question who’d win a contest of brute strength.
But Daisy Hathaway couldn’t see him like this. Not like this, Mr. Hyde peeking through the curtains, grinning and mad.
Lynch had enough self-awareness to know it better to wait. She would be worth the effort.
Jennings’ pulse hadn’t risen. He’d used the antagonism to force focus and he’d deal with the anger and fear later.
Hathaway lowered unsteadily into her teacher’s chair.
“Jesus,” said Coach Murray. “I mean Jesus help us.”
Jennings let the book he’d caught, The Invisible Man, drop onto the desk.
“I’m ready,” he said, “to deal with this.”
23
Lynch called his office manager to cancel the rest of his appointments that day. When Jerry balked, Lynch threatened the man’s job and hung up.
He drove home but didn’t park at the homestead. Instead he braked hard where the blacktop ended at his new barn, still under construction. Workers had left for the day, the worthless immigrants.
He flung his jacket into the trees. Enough blood had trickled down his beard to ruin the white shirt but he kept it on against the November chill. He stalked through the pine and naked oak to a little clearing he’d created himself with sweat and an ax. The clearing was dotted with stumps and great stacks of split logs, piled as high as his head. Two oaks were felled and ready for limbing.
Multiple black walnut trees surrounded the clearing. Towering and straight, they were worth as much as ten thousand dollars each, prized for furniture and gun stocks. Lynch was eager to chop the walnut down and burn them in his fireplaces. He might invite some Amish master craftsmen over to watch the valuable resources reduce to ash for no reason other than his pleasure. If black walnut was valuable then that’s what he wanted heating his house and the furniture artisans could go to hell.
By now his daughter would be home, driven by her Homer. But he couldn’t see her yet. Not like this.
Lynch rolled up his sleeves and foisted a heavy section of oak onto his chopping stump. He had a new ax but preferred the old maul, thirty-six inches, felling size, bigger than most men used to split wood. But he wasn’t most men.
He hefted the maul and busted the wood in half. Spit out blood. Picked up the two pieces and split them too. Left the maul buried and quivering in the chopping stump and hoisted another big section of oak trunk beside it.
Lynch fell into a rhythm that soon relieved pressure on his gums and his mind. He’d been forced to chop wood as a child. He’d despised it. Now, though he disliked manual labor and disliked getting dirty, it was an exercise that kept him sane. It was part of him. This and digging. Purgative violence, opening the flues of his mental smokestack. Sometimes he could do neither so he pressed the fish hook on his keychain into his thumb and the pain was good. A fish hook like the ones he used as a hungry child, desperate to catch food.
He wanted to chop Daniel Jennings into pieces but he couldn’t yet so he project
ed onto the wood. He imagined the man’s skull breaking open instead of the wet lumber. A spine cracking, not the log. Daniel Jennings’ bones splintering, his fingers scattering across the ground, not oak slivers.
He hated that they both wanted Daisy Hathaway.
He hated that they were both younger siblings.
He hated they both lived in the shadow of a brother who’d taken the more respected route.
Screamed at the similarities.
Hated that his own brother kept him at a distance. Hated himself for wishing he and Francis were closer—that decision often wasn’t the younger brother’s to make, and he hated that too.
The muscles in his powerful back and long arms bunching and releasing like pistons, his body a grotesque machine, and he filled the forest with echoes of his exertion.
Dusk settled into the forest like a depression and he finished chopping an hour later. Some of his callouses were cracked but overall he felt refreshed. Some hard-won freedom from the hate.
He needed to dig a deep hole in the field beyond the trees, where he knew the black earth was soft and free of rock for at least ten feet. Deeper the better, but those holes required eight hours of work with a Bobcat and shovel, so maybe tomorrow.
Homer Caldwell, his full-time help and the Giant Mongoloid, had been drawn by the noises. He waited outside the clearing and when he saw Lynch finish he filled a wheelbarrow with firewood for their seasoning shed. They didn’t speak to one another. Lynch stared at the dark field for several minutes before walking toward his Jaguar, dripping sweat. Caldwell watched him go, like a dog eager to please.
Lynch went in through the backdoor to avoid his daughter and he locked himself into the master bathroom. A room without mirrors—Lynch hated a lot of things and one was the sight of himself naked. He didn’t have hypertrichosis; he’d been tested as a teenager. The physician had said it was simple bad luck to be born the hairiest son of a bitch he’d ever seen.
It wasn’t until Lynch started to undress that he realized he still held the splitting maul in his left hand. He’d driven the car without noticing. He forced his fingers to release the haft and he dropped it in the corner, its sharp toe chipping the marble tile.
