by Alan Lee
Sunken Graves
Alan Lee
Sunken Graves
by Alan Lee
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Alan Janney
First Edition
Printed in USA
Cover by Damonza
Paperback ISBN: 9798731685344
Sparkle Press
Created with Vellum
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part II
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Part I
“Though the mills of God grind slowly,
yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience He stands waiting,
With exactness grinds he all.”
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1
A fleet of luxury cars snaked its way through Valley Academy, plucking students off the curb, all boys. The final bell had rung and afternoon activities were concluded. Valley Academy was a boarding school but not all students resided there—some returned home each day, those ducking into Lexus sedans and Mercedes SUVs.
Daniel Jennings, standing near the Academy’s exit, was on parking lot duty. One hand waving, the other shoved into the pocket of his red Academy windbreaker. A mid-November chill had blown into Virginia, tearing golden leaves off maple trees, and Jennings shivered and turned back toward the campus, the final car gone.
The inherent chaos of a boarding school was halved as the day concluded. Instructors and administrators relaxed, handing responsibility off to dorm proctors.
It takes a village.
Today Jennings was intercepted by his supervisor near Monty Hall. Angela Pierce was young for her position, Director of the Upper School. The faculty believed her inexperience ate at her and that she compensated with her sharp wardrobe and a glare.
“Mr. Jennings, you have a parent conference in your classroom.” The wind blew some brown hair into her mouth and she spat it out.
“Do I,” said Jennings. Parent conferences were rare.
“It’s unscheduled. I’m sorry to drop it on you.”
Jennings shrugged and walked by her. “I don’t mind. I’m free.”
“Wait.” She caught up. “Let’s talk first.”
“Yes ma’am.”
In front of him now, Ms. Pierce pivoted on her heel, looking all directions and guaranteeing their privacy. She was shorter than Jennings; her head tilted up and her cheeks reddened.
“It’s about Benjamin Lynch,” she said.
“Benji. Okay.”
“You haven’t met his father yet.”
“I did at orientation. Tall guy, noisy, big-shot attorney.”
Pierce nodded. “What else do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“You haven’t heard any rumors?”
“I haven’t. Why?”
“Good,” she said. “Good.”
She looked away and Jennings noted her anxiety. He’d known since meeting her in August that she was in over her head. A commanding officer overcome by events wasn’t hard to spot.
Jennings was only three months into his first year and already he bore the same signs of fatigue she did. Training in the Army was harder than the first year of teaching, he’d decided, but it was close. The effects were probably the same—a winnowing of those who couldn’t endure it.
“Ms. Pierce.”
She shook her head and came back. “Yes. I’ll fill you in, about Benjamin’s father. Peter Lynch. He’s a lot. He’s one reason you were hired.”
“Why’s that?”
“A couple things. One, because he had the history teacher before you fired, thus the vacancy. And two, we’re hoping he respects you. We put Benjamin into your class knowing this day would come.”
“Sounds scary, Ms. Pierce. Scarier than you?”
She smiled a little.
“We’re speaking in confidence, Mr. Jennings.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Yes? Because I shouldn’t have told you about the previous history teacher. I don’t know how that slipped out. I’d prefer you didn’t repeat it.”
He thought she could use a friendly pat on the shoulder. Hang in there, Pierce. We’re all in this together. But she’d resent it if he tried. His hands remained in his pockets.
She said, “He’s direct. Intense. And he’s wealthy, Mr. Jennings. He has new money and a lot of it. Mr. Lynch is one of our school’s primary benefactors and that provides him leverage. Leverage he’s not afraid to use. Do you understand?”
Jennings knew about the school’s benefactors. The faculty called them titans. “I follow.”
“I hate saying that but it’s true.”
“There should be some give and take.”
“He purchased the give and take in advance.”
“No big deal. That’s life,” said Jennings.
“I looked at your record book on PowerSchool. Benjamin’s grades are…”
“Suboptimal.”
“Yes, a good word, Mr. Jennings. They are suboptimal. What can be done?”
“He can turn in assignments. I don’t think Benji will ever ace a test put in front of him but if he turns in work he’ll pass.”
“Benjamin has to pass. You know what he means to the school,” said Pierce.
“He’s a good kid.”
“You don’t mind helping him?
“No.”
“And you can handle Mr. Lynch.”
“I can handle them both.”
“That’d be ideal, for all of us. I suppose you’re accustomed to being yelled at, from the Army.” Another small smile, a concession they were both human. “Although Mr. Lynch doesn’t really yell that I’ve heard.”
That was it. She’d named the source of Jennings’ confidence. Some inner conviction that parents couldn’t be as bad as a drill sergea
nt. Putting words to it released a small reservoir of anxiety in Jennings’ stomach.
“I’ve been yelled at. And I’m not the one missing assignments.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if parents thought that way, Mr. Jennings. You better go.”
“Wish me luck.” He went for the door.
“You don’t need luck. You have…built in respectability. Just don’t squander it.”
Jennings stopped again. Grinned and restored an inner order. “You don’t have to be nervous, Ms. Pierce.”
“I’m not. Well, not really. But thank you.”
“What are the rumors?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“You asked if I had heard rumors about Mr. Lynch.”
“Ignore them. Nothing was confirmed.” She walked away, toward James House, like she didn’t want to be a witness.
2
Daniel Jennings' classroom was on the first floor of Montgomery Hall, nicknamed Old Monty because the structure existed before Valley Academy purchased the property. Jennings hadn’t taken down his predecessor’s posters or wall maps, the space looking very much as it had for three years. Books were his only contribution. He filled the shelves with Stephen Ambrose, David McCullough, Ron Chernow, Doris Kearns Goodwin, John Lewis, and various biographies of presidents. An Erik Larson book, In the Garden of Beasts, was open on his desk, face down.
Classrooms looked like classrooms no matter how much private money was spent. Students still required desks resistant to graffiti. Floors needed to be impervious to stains and easily cleaned. Walls, accessible for annual painting. Technology had updated dry erase boards to Active Boards, but the appearance remained constant.
Jennings loved it, loved it all. His classroom, the hallway, the optimism, the pencils, the collegiality. Similar in structure to a military base but vastly dissimilar in spirit. He felt a desperation to earn his spot, because here sprang hope.
And here there were dragons.
Peter Lynch waited with his son. Three student desks were arranged in a circle. He and Benji, an enormous man and boy, overwhelmed two of them. Lynch was forcing Jennings to sit in the third, preventing him from using his teacher’s desk as a defendable fortress.
Oh yes. I remember him.
Lynch was the hairiest man Jennings had ever met. Black hair combed back and gelled in place, covering his ears. Long eyebrows. Black beard trimmed short. Hair grew under his Adam’s apple and sprouted from his sleeves. Like a black bear given a cut and shoved into a suit.
Lynch didn’t stand.
Jennings said, “Good afternoon.”
Lynch flipped through a history book. “Funny how facts change, isn’t it, Daniel. Pluto used to be a planet. Now it doesn’t measure up, the little shit.”
Jennings lowered into the third student chair, an awkward motion for him.
“Sorry I’m late.” Up close Jennings saw Lynch’s skin was pale beneath the hair, a disagreeable contrast.
“The rigors of academia,” said Lynch.
“I have car duty after sports.”
“Car duty after sports. What honorable responsibility for a man. Here.” Lynch jabbed a finger into the history book. Between knuckles, tufts of black hair. “The Civil War. Growing up, Daniel, we were taught it was fought over states’ rights. Now it’s about the African Americans. But you might be too young, raised after the facts changed.”
“We were probably overdue for a refresh. Some older history books were written by Daughters of the Confederacy.”
“Letting the losers write the account? How nice of the Union.” Lynch looked at Jennings for the first time and smiled. Stark white teeth, porcelain veneers too big. Jennings had seen the face and the smile on television commercials and on billboards all over Roanoke. “You’re our school’s new history instructor.”
“Dan Jennings.”
“Do you walk with a limp, Daniel?”
“An old injury.”
“My son, Benjamin, tells me he enjoys your class. Some of the instructors are too strict. Some are soft. Some are boring. But yours, Daniel, yours is fun. Did you hear that? Fun.”
“History is a narrative, Mr. Lynch. Humans learn better when facts are codified into a story. It’s fun organically if the instructor is willing.”
“Did you learn that from your training in education?”
“No I didn’t.”
“No you didn’t because you don’t have any training in education. I remember that from your résumé. That has to be a blow to your confidence. You’re new, you limp, and you have no training in education.”
Jennings was surprised but he hoped it didn’t show. He’d walked into a boxing match.
“Parents review résumés?” he said.
“I’m not just a parent, you know that. Or are they tossing you blind to the wolves?”
“I wouldn’t call Benji a wolf. Some of his classmates, maybe.” Jennings grinned at the boy. Benji grinned back, guarded, would only make brief eye contact. He still wore his football gear, coming straight from practice.
“They aren’t the wolf, Daniel. What did they tell you about me?” said Lynch.
A pause to select the correct words.
“I was told a moment ago that I had a conference with you, an esteemed member of the Academy’s community.”
“Your loyalty wastes my time. Or is it cowardice? You spoke with Angela Pierce.” He leaned back in the chair and its architecture groaned. “Angela. We’re a new institution. Turnover is inevitable and it takes a while to fill the posts with proper leaders. Inevitable but irksome.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Lynch?”
“Remind me. I’m thinking back to your Curriculum Vitae. You went to college at James Madison?”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t get into UVA or Richmond.”
“I didn’t try.”
“You majored in some exhausting social science, I imagine.”
“Management and Leadership, and a minor in History. Does it matter?”
Another flash of teeth. “Setting fire to fifty thousand dollars. I hope it got you laid, at least.”
“Dad,” said Benji.
“Let this be a lesson, son. Some men have to pay for it.”
“Dad, come on.”
Despite the unexpected antagonism, Jennings’ blood pressure remained steady. He’d faced worse. He learned to squeeze on the antagonism, use it to force focus. After the threat passed, he’d deal with the stress then.
He gave Lynch a small smile. He gave Lynch patience and nothing else, and he declined to reply.
But good grief, poor Benji.
“After that financial waste, you joined the military? Those broad shoulders you’re so proud of, that’s where they come from.”
“Does this have anything to do with your son, Mr. Lynch?”
“Of course it does, you’re his instructor. In theory. You joined the military after college?”
“The Army.”
“Not as an officer, though,” said Lynch.
“No, I enlisted.”
“Enlisted. A college degree does wonders at boot camp. I bet that comforted your parents after the tuition flush. You survive all four years, Private? Or should I say, Specialist?”
“Medical discharge after the fourth year. I was a Staff Sergeant,” said Jennings.
“Medical discharge. Your limp?”
“Yes. Would you like to talk about Benji?”
“Where were you assigned, Daniel?”
“Fort Bragg.”
“What battalion?”
“1st Special Forces.”
Lynch’s posture was naturally hunched, like a big orangutan, but now he sat a little straighter.
“You surprise me, Daniel. Surely not Delta Force.”
“Green Beret. 3rd Group in the 2nd Battalion.”
“Well well. Those little shits, bringing you here, thinking that’ll work.” Lynch took a deep breath, a noisy phlegmatic sound. “Benjamin, yo
u didn’t tell me your history instructor was a Green Beret. I’m surprised I didn’t notice special forces on your CV. Specialty?”
“Medic, assigned to battalion support,” said Jennings.
“Ah, a medic in a support company. Still, that’s something.” Lynch paused and searched the air, like a grizzly snuffling out a scent. “Jennings. Jennings. Are you related to Jim Jennings?”
“My grandfather.”
“God almighty, Daniel. Your grandfather was Major General Jim Jennings, Vietnam Veteran and kin to Henry Jennings, a general in the Union Army. And you were medically discharged as a Staff Sergeant? They must be turning over in their graves.”
Jennings felt the oxygen go out of his lungs. His head swam listening to his lineage used as a battering ram. He gripped the desk for support and he again chose not to reply.
No wonder Ms. Pierce fled.
“A medic,” said Lynch. “Don’t beat yourself up, Daniel, I hear RASP is damn hard.”
“RASP is for Rangers, Mr. Lynch. I passed the special forces’ 18D and I chose to be a platoon medic.” The defense sounded lame to his own ears. He wished he’d kept quiet.
“Good for you, Daniel. Those damn rifles are heavy, aren’t they.”