by Lisa Lutz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Lutz
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Lutz, Lisa, author.
Title: The swallows : a novel / Lisa Lutz.
Description: New York : Ballantine Books, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019011519 (print) | LCCN 2019013010 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984818249 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781984818232 (hardcover)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3612.U897 (ebook) | LCC PS3612.U897 S93 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019011519
Ebook ISBN 9781984818249
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Diane Hobbing, adapted for ebook
Interior art by Jaime Temairik
Tree drawing by Kate Golden
Cover art and design: Emily Osbourne
v5.4
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part I: In the Dark
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Mr. Ford
Announcements
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Announcements
Ms. Witt
Mr. Ford
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Mr. Ford
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Part II: Allies
Announcements
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Gemma Russo
Mr. Ford
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Mr. Ford
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Announcements
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Mr. Ford
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Announcements
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Mr. Ford
Announcements
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Part III: The Army
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Mr. Ford
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Part IV: The War
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Mr. Ford
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Announcements
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Mr. Ford
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Norman Crowley
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Gemma Russo
Mr. Ford
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Norman Crowley
Ms. Witt
Gemma Russo
Ms. Witt
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Lisa Lutz
About the Author
PART I
in the Dark
Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.
—Winston Churchill
Ms. Witt
Some teachers have a calling. I’m not one of them.
I don’t hate teaching. I don’t love it either. That’s also my general stance on adolescents. I understand that one day they’ll rule the world and we’ll all have to live with the consequences. But there’s only so much I’m willing to do to mitigate that outcome. You’ll never catch me leaping atop my desk, quoting Browning, Shakespeare, or Jay-Z. I don’t offer my students sage advice or hard-won wisdom. I don’t dive into the weeds of their personal lives, parsing the muck of their hormone-addled brains. And I sure as hell never learned as much from them as they did from me.
It’s just a job, like any other. It has a litany of downsides, starting with money and ending with money, and a host of other drawbacks in between. There are a few perks. I like having summers off; I like winter and spring breaks; I like not having a boss breathing over my shoulder; I like books and talking about books and occasionally meeting a student who makes me see the world sideways. But I don’t get attached. I don’t get involved. That was the plan, at least.
I came to Stonebridge Academy because it was the only place where I was sure of a no-questions-asked job offer. The dean of students, Gregory Stinson, is an old family friend. I don’t know if he offered me the job knowing everything or nothing. Back then, Greg never spoke of unpleasant things.
Why I wanted to give it another go is beyond me. It’s not like I thought of teaching as my life’s work. I doubt I’ll ever have that. Maybe I just wanted to wrap up my career in education with a memory that didn’t make my skin crawl.
It was July 2009 when I first laid eyes on the campus. During my preliminary visit, Greg and I hammered out my contract in his musty old office, which overlooked fifty acres of dense woods. Under the thick brush of summer, I couldn’t see the veins and arteries of the interconnected hiking and cross-country-skiing trails that Stonebridge boasted of so proudly in its brochure. It seemed like too much space for four hundred or so high school students. Despite the classic prep school ar
chitecture—cathedral buildings, everything stone—I had heard rumors about the lax academic environment. Warren Prep kids had called Stonebridge students “Stoners.” I considered that detail its most attractive quality.
Greg was sure I was perfect for the libertarian style of his school, and his certainty compensated for my hesitation. We discussed my course schedule for the new year. I would teach three English literature classes and one American lit.
After that, Greg took me on a brief tour of the campus. His office and several classrooms were housed in an imposing stone structure that had no formal name. Later, I learned that the students called it Headquarters. It was the only building on campus without a literary appellation. You know the game where you take your first pet’s name and add the street you grew up on and, voilà, there’s your porn name? I think Stonebridge used a similar formula for naming their buildings and recreational grounds. Take the last name of a British (or occasionally Irish) poet or author and add House, Manor, Hall, Field, Commons, or Square to it. The center of campus was Fleming Square; students ate in Dahl Dining Hall; Tolkien Library and Samuel Beckett Gymnasium flanked Fielding Field.
Across from Headquarters, adjacent to Beckett Gym, was the headliner of the tour: the Oscar Wilde Bathhouse. We passed through double doors with a sign that read NO STUDENTS ALLOWED, NO EXCEPTIONS. The marble compound, which housed a whirlpool tub, sauna, and steam showers, was apparently an extravagant gift from a former student.
“If this doesn’t seal the deal, I don’t know what will,” Greg said.
I had a feeling that Greg was using the bathhouse as camouflage. I suggested he show me faculty housing.
In silence, Greg led me across the square to a four-story brick building. There was a heavy drizzle outside, which made everything look like it was on the other side of a cheap, transparent shower curtain. We strolled past Dickens House, the boys’ dormitory. And, yes, they called it Dick House. Next to Dickens was a similar four-story brick structure. The sign above the door read WOOLF HALL.
“Yes. After you,” Greg said, opening the thick paneled door.
“No thanks,” I said, taking a step back.
There was no point in entering the building. I would not live among them. That was a deal breaker, I explained. I thanked Greg for the tour and told him I had to be on my way. He told me I was being rash. I had driven two hours; the least I could do was take some time to think it over.
Greg gave me a hand-rendered map of the school grounds, which I think he drew himself. Either way, it was not beholden to any concept of scale or structural accuracy.
Greg walked me to the edge of Fielding Field and suggested I take some more time before I made a final decision. I come back to that moment again and again. So many lives would have taken a different course had I not gone for a walk in the woods. That walk changed everything.
From Fleming Square I followed George Eliot Trail past Evelyn Waugh Way, and continued for about a quarter mile, until I came upon a tiny stone cottage. It was at least ten minutes’ walk from Fleming Square and, at that time of year, surrounded by vibrant wildflowers. Cedar, pine, and maple trees towered over everything. A pond nearby rippled under the drizzle. It sounded so much better than that machine I’d bought to help me sleep.
The perfection of it all I now see as a trick, not of nature but of my own mind. I needed a sign, even a wink, from the universe to believe that I was making the right decision. I ignored the fact that the foundation was cracked and some of those stones resembled Jenga pieces. When I looked for the cottage on the map, it wasn’t there.
For someone looking for a place to hide, that was as good a sign as any.
I returned to Greg’s office and told him I would take the job if I could live in the cabin with no name. He said the place wasn’t habitable. He mentioned the absence of a shower. I reminded him of the bathhouse. He continued to resist. I told him those were my terms, take it or leave it. Greg reluctantly agreed.
* * *
—
I returned to campus on Labor Day, after dark. Classes were to begin the next morning. I picked up the key to the cottage from the guard at the security gate and followed the blue ink on my annotated map. A muddy fire lane took me just shy of twenty yards from my new front door.
Inside the cabin, I stood on the cold stone floor and wondered what the hell I was thinking. I was struck by a fresh memory of the perils of dorm life and forced myself to feel at home. I wiped down the cabinets above the kitchen sink, which contained a sparse collection of dishware and an unopened bottle of bourbon. I pulled the bottle from the shelf and noticed a small square of folded paper attached to the neck. I unfolded the paper and read the note written in small block letters.
WELCOME TO STONEBRIDGE. BE CAREFUL.
I sat outside on a rickety chair and considered the message. Was it a warning or just a piece of advice? I drank half the bottle as I tried to decide. Then I crawled into bed and fell asleep.
The next morning, regretting the booze, I washed up in the kitchen sink, mourned the absence of coffee, and dressed in the first shirt and pair of jeans I could find.
I stumbled through the woods to Headquarters and entered Agatha Christie Admin (aka AA). Ms. Pinsky, the school secretary, handed me an envelope that contained my class schedule for the semester.
WITT, ALEX (FALL 2009)
Instructor Schedule
PERIOD
COURSE
ROOM
1. 8:00–9:10 A.M.
CRWA400–Advanced Creative Writing
203
2. 9:20–10:30 A.M.
CRW100–Creative Writing, Elective
203
3. 10:40–11:50 A.M.
PHYSED501–Fencing, Intro
GYM
(no number)
12:00–1:00 P.M.
Lunch
4. 1:00–2:10 P.M.
Office Hours
5. 2:20–3:30 P.M.
CRWAW410–Advanced Creative-Writing Workshop
203
After I reviewed my schedule and noticed the bait and switch, I asked Ms. Pinsky if Dean Stinson was in his office.
“End of hall. On the left,” she said.
I stormed in hot. I shouted some things, including fraud and liar. Greg had a student with him, whom he quickly dispatched. I waved my class schedule in the air and then smacked it down on his desk.
“I teach English. Not creative writing. We had a deal,” I said.
I braced myself for a fight. Instead, Greg sat down in his chair and deflated. I swear, he lost four inches with a single sigh.
“Oh my,” he said, cradling his head in his hands. “My apologies, Alex. Len said that you wouldn’t mind the schedule change. I tried to reach you repeatedly. Len said you were at the monastery.”
“You spoke to Dad?”
“I did. Len insisted that if I simply presented you with a new schedule, you wouldn’t notice the difference.”
That trick worked once, maybe twice, when I was fifteen and smoked a lot of weed. I was stunned my father had the balls to provide tactical advice against his own daughter, and lousy advice at that. I sat down in one of the well-worn chairs across from Greg’s desk.
“You can’t change my schedule because my father told you it was okay,” I said.
Greg scrunched up his forehead like a shar-pei. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. I could tell he was settling in for a lengthy negotiation.
“I should not have listened to your dad, but I am in a terrib
le bind.”
“What happened to your previous writing teacher? Did he die?”
“No, no. Of course not. He is still on the faculty and I’m sure he’d honor our old agreement, if need be. However, he is currently working on a novel and feels that teaching writing at this time is stifling to his art.”
I liked the dead version of him better.
I wasn’t going to do any favors for an unpublished hack who thought of himself as Van Gogh with a laptop.
“I know this is all last minute. And I deeply apologize. But I need you to be flexible here, Alex. In fact, if you do this for me, we can forget about fencing.”
