by Alan Lee
The United States was fracturing. Sectionalism arose and the students knew that the Civil War loomed. The closer they got to violence, the more they enjoyed the material.
“Mr. Jennings,” said Jamal Murray, a wide receiver on the football team. Good-looking guy, a natural leader, his father was the Academy’s athletic director and football coach, and Jennings’ only friend. Jamal raised his hand. “Like you tell us. There’s nothing new under the sun.”
“That’s right, Mr. Murray.”
“The hate was going on then, and it’s going on now.”
“Correct.”
“But tell me this. Why didn’t they just…get rid of John C. Calhoun? Fire him. You know what I mean? Guy’s a prick. Sorry Mr. Jennings, I mean, guy’s a jerk.”
“Can we get rid of all jerks?”
“No, but…the guy helped start the Civil War, looks like. Guy’s a racist, right?”
“What about Henry Clay? He was a sectionalist, but he wasn’t for the North or the South. He was for the West. Should we get rid of everyone who disagrees with us?”
“No, but…I mean, it was the Civil War. Look at the guy.” A painting of Calhoun was on the screen and Murray nodded at it. “That’s a crazy-ass lookin’ white dude.”
“In 1830, they didn’t know there’d be a war in thirty years. The Civil War wasn’t a thing then.”
“But they shoulda known about Calhoun.”
“It’s easier to identify pricks in hindsight, Jamal,” said Jennings and the class laughed. Even Benji.
“See? Calhoun was a prick, right?”
Another student spoke. “Someone should’ve assassinated him.”
“We don’t assassinate. We vote,” said Jennings.
“But it’s like Hitler. If we could go back in time, we’d kill Hitler. Wouldn’t you?”
“Kill Hitler before it was too late?” said Jennings.
“Yeah.”
“Tough question.”
“No it’s not! We’re talking about Hitler.”
Jennings said, “Dietrich Bonhoeffer tried to assassinate Hitler and it backfired.”
“Who?”
“A Christian theologian. He was part of an assassination attempt using a bomb in a briefcase. Hitler survived, though, because someone unwittingly moved the briefcase out of the way at the last minute. Bonhoeffer was executed and Hitler became convinced God had saved him, proof that his war was holy and just. He killed a lot of people because of it. So you see, that’s a tough question.” It was time for the bell and Jennings closed his textbook.
“You think America’s gonna have another one, Mr. Jennings?”
“A civil war? If there is, better hope you’re on my side.” The boys laughed. “But I hope there isn’t.”
“Hope there isn’t? But you were a Green Beret,” said the boy.
“Doesn’t mean I like war.”
“You ever see any action? When you were in the Army?”
Jennings crossed his arms. Gave the class a little smile. Waited. The bell rang and the class groaned. Mr. Jennings never answered questions like that, no matter how much they wanted him to.
Jamal Murray stopped by Jennings’ desk on the way out.
He said, “I’d do it.”
“Do what?”
“I’d go back in time and kill Calhoun. Pop that racist. Save the world a lot of trouble.” Jamal made a gun with his fingers, pointed it at his head, and dropped the hammer. “Pow.”
“I think, Mr. Murray, the Civil War still would’ve happened.”
“Maybe. But I’d’a done my part to stop it. Later, Mr. Jennings.”
Three boys came to Jennings’ classroom for lunch. He gave them copies of their late work and they sat in student desks and he played Vitamin String Quartet on Spotify over the speakers.
Jennings was popular with the student body. Sometimes kids came to eat in his room sometimes just to talk or because it was safe, and occasionally because Ms. Hathaway had booted them from her room for inappropriate remarks.
Today, Tuesday, the dining hall sent up a plate of spaghetti for Mr. Jennings with a hot roll and iced tea.
Benji arrived late. He dropped his backpack heavily beside his normal desk and Jennings held up a packet of late work. The boy mumbled thanks and sat.
Outside, temperatures rose to sixty-seven degrees, warm for November, and Jennings opened two windows, letting in life. He propped his right foot on his desk and leaned back and ate spaghetti—the Academy’s chef was expensive and excellent—and thought over teaching and its benefits.
The three other boys left, leaving only Benji. He worked and stared out the window intermittently. When the bell rang, he hoisted his bag and turned in three pages.
“Keep it up, Benji. If you do, you can still play Friday.”
Benji nodded and stayed at the desk.
“Something I can help you with?”
“Um,” said the boy. “So. Listen, about my dad.”
“Yes?”
“I’m… He’s got trouble with his anger. And I’m sorry about that shit he said. I mean, oops. About the stuff. The stuff he said.”
Jennings set his plate down.
“Your dad has trouble with anger?”
“Yeah, just… You know the way dads get mad? Well, he gets that way with a lot of people.”
“He gets mad at you, Benji?”
“Sure, some.”
“He shouts?”
“Don’t all dads?”
“He got mad at me, didn’t he.” Jennings forced a grin. “I thought he might take a swing.”
“Hah. Well, you know, you wouldn’t be the first. But he’s okay.”
“Are you glad you live here at school, Benji? And not at home?”
The boy nodded and shifted the backpack. “Oh yeah.”
“Less fighting than at home.”
“Yep. Just him and my little sister at home but he never shouts at Ann.”
Jennings had a question vibrating between his ears, one that bordered on too far. He needed the answer though. He bore down on it and said, “Your dad ever swing at you?”
Benji shrugged. “Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Only when it’s good for me. When I need it or deserve it. Same as most guys, I guess.”
“Understood.”
“I gotta run to class. See ya, Mr. Jennings.”
Jennings followed to the door and watched him jog down the hall, where Ms. Pierce was demanding students hurry but not run.
Jennings couldn’t bring himself to eat more spaghetti.
5
The final bell rang and Jennings opened his laptop.
Look Mr. Lynch up on Google sometime.
Beats his boys to toughen them.
Handle him, Mr. Jennings.
He searched for Peter Lynch and got a browser full of the celebrated financial investor Peter Lynch, now pushing eighty. Wrong guy.
He searched instead for Peter Lynch, Attorney, Roanoke, Virginia, and the man’s hairy face invaded his screen. Jennings had seen this photo on billboards, that smile on television.
The saccharin voice from the commercials autoplayed in Jennings’ brain, “Were you injured in an automobile accident? Hurt at work or by the negligence of others? Here at the law offices of Peter Lynch, we know life can be unfair. We will fight for you and for justice. We’re concerned for your well-being.”
The result page was full of Lynch’s sponsored ads and his various legal websites, law articles he’d penned and announcements concerning settlements he’d secured for his clients. Nothing sinister.
Through search engine optimization it’s possible to bury stories within Google’s algorithms, Jennings knew, so he surfed to the second page. Then the third…
Attorney Peter Lynch, Disbarred in California, Moves his Practice to Virginia.
Local Attorney Settles Out of Court with Accuser.
No Comment from Judge Lynch, Brother of Accused.
Peter Lynch’s Ugly
Battle Behind Closed Doors.
Jennings leaned back in his chair, article headlines shouting at him.
He read for thirty minutes, enough to get a bird’s eye view of the scandals.
The California state bar association revoked Lynch’s license ten years ago after he physically assaulted not one, not two, but three opposing counsels. His practice there had been lucrative. He moved to Virginia, aced the exam, and the bar somehow awarded him a license to practice. Unnamed sources expressed frustration, espousing Lynch’s brother had influenced the vote.
The Honorable Francis Lynch, Peter’s brother, sat on the bench for the 23rd Judicial Circuit Court in Salem, ten miles from the Academy.
Jennings’ eyebrows rose. High achieving family.
Four years ago, something happened. Kelly Carson, Lynch’s step-daughter, accused him of abuse and incest; Jennings found that on Facebook, not exactly the most trustworthy source. But then…nothing. Jennings couldn’t figure it. He followed broken links and nonexistent articles, pages redirecting to social media posts, mostly hearsay. For such a lurid crime it was oddly sanitary. The accusation had gone away. One little article mentioned the case was presumed to be settled with a financial payment and a nondisclosure agreement. But…that should be a bigger deal. Was child abuse and incest not a crime? Did that have no bearing on his right to practice law? The investigation stopped three years ago without a stated reason. Not only that but the story had obviously been scrubbed from the internet. Residue of headlines remained, as did some outrage, but no details. Articles about Lynch’s ugly battle behind closed doors led to deleted landing pages.
Jennings finished chasing another dead end and remembered himself. He glanced around his classroom, feeling like a peeping Tom and Lynch had caught him, grinning in the corner with his teeth too big.
Jennings closed the laptop and stood to stretch. The school felt hollow and lifeless but outside the world carried on. Students had left their classrooms for afternoon sports like a bee hive emptying its drones. Jennings followed the buzz in search of the sun and people and sports.
Instructors at boarding schools have afternoon duty—sports, theater, weight-lifting, etc. Hathaway was an assistant choir director. Because this was Jennings’ first semester, his duty was flexible. He ‘floated’ around the outdoor sports and subbed for coaches when necessary.
Valley Academy played football games at the Salem Stadium but practiced on campus in Roanoke. Jennings unzipped his windbreaker and carried it to the practice field. The team was working on endurance. Boys in red helmets jogged in place, then dropped, rolled, and hopped up. Over and over.
Jennings groaned and grinned. He’d played one year of football. That was enough. What the hell was wrong with people? Practices were awful and the games hurt. Two boys with broken legs watched from the bench, crutches resting beside them. A kid dashed off the field to vomit in the taller grass. How did this sport endure?
Because guys like him loved watching it, that’s how.
If the Academy won Friday, they had one final game, the championship.
Benji wasn’t hard to spot. Taller than most, broad and thick. Jennings had heard from Coach Murray that Benji would almost certainly play in college but not for a national contender. VMI was possible. Benji wasn’t light on his feet. He had his father’s plodding gait which kept him good instead of phenomenal.
Jennings sat on the grassy hill above the field and pulled a Kindle from his jacket pocket. The device blinked on and he continued Theodore Rex, a biography by Edmund Morris about his favorite president. Football practice was boring to watch but made great background noise; Jennings wanted to be near people.
He was deep in the plot, glowing with vitamin D, when Coach Murray sat beside him.
“You’re a book worm, huh,” said Murray.
Jennings clicked off the device. “I prefer book nerd.”
“I only read books written by coaches. Everything else’s a waste of time.”
On the field, his assistants had lined the boys up into offense and defense and they were demonstrating the proper way to kill each other.
“Read John Wooden?” said Jennings.
“Oh yeah, Wooden’s my man. My players have to memorize the pyramid.”
“I used to know it.”
Murray wasn’t a tall man, but he carried the imperial authority good coaches have. His hair was buzzed close and his spine was straight. “I hear you’re helping Benji Lynch. Thanks for that. We’d be soft up the middle without him.”
“I’m only treating him fair. He’s doing the work.”
“If I don’t play him Friday, his old man’s gonna whip my ass.”
Jennings heard a subterranean dread. Coach Murray’s gaze was too fixed on the field—he worried about his job, something Jennings might hold in his hands. Perhaps Peter Lynch really was omnipotent on campus.
“He whipped mine yesterday.”
Murray, a half grin. “I heard. Like a damn rite of passage.”
“Tell Benji to keep coming to lunch. He’ll get the work in and I’ll make sure to update my grade book in time.”
“Appreciate it. We only dress twenty-six players. Fork Union dresses forty. Be good to have the big kid out there.”
Jennings nodded. “I bet.”
“You feel like addressing the team sometime? Green Beret and all. We could use the motivation.”
“Sure. I’ll tell them that reading is more important than football,” said Jennings.
“Aw hell.”
“It’s true.”
“Look at you, Jennings. Still built like a college safety. You didn’t get into the Green Berets reading damn books. I see you sweating in the weight room early mornings.”
“I’m compensating.” Jennings rapped twice on the metal shin rod connected to his left knee.
“I was in the military, you know. Failed out of college and joined up.”
“Which branch?”
“Air Force.”
“Oh.” Jennings smiled. “I thought you said military.”
“Yeah yeah.”
“Army wouldn’t let you in? You’re too little?”
“Nah, just didn’t want to get my foot blown off.”
“You think I did?” said Jennings.
“You see a lot of brothers in special forces?”
“Some.”
“But mostly white guys?” said Murray. “Black guys, we got common sense. Don’t need to get shot at to be a man.”
“You Air Force boys talk about that over pedicures?”
“Anyway, you want to address the team about overcoming hardship and perseverance, shit like that, let me know.”
“Will do.” The autumn sun hung low over the horizon. Jennings shaded his eyes with his hand, watching the players. He’d liked Murray since they met in August. They clicked from the start. “Lynch has me spooked, Coach.”
“What’d you mean?”
“I think he hits Benji.”
On field, the offense ran through the same running play four times, the assistant coaches howling.
Murray hadn’t replied. He’d gone still, as if he didn’t move the problem would vanish.
“You know anything about it?” said Jennings.
A sigh. Mixed with a grunt. “Yeah I know some.”
“What do you know?”
“I know Lynch’s a crazy bastard. That ain’t a secret.”
“What else?” said Jennings.
“Different men raise their boys differently. Some do it well, some don’t. Peter Lynch wants his sons tough. And they are.”
“You’re dodging the question.”
“You aren’t gonna like this, Jennings.”
“I already don’t.”
“I coached Benji’s older brother. Peter Lynch, Jr. We called him Junior. Mean kid. Junior told me his dad hit them with phonebooks. Started when they were little, smack them in the ass. Then the stomach. Eventually the face. Goal was to toughen them up. If Lynch saw tears
, they’d get beat harder. Beaten until they stopped crying. Junior was proud of it, told me he was tough.”
“That’s child abuse, Murray.”
“I know it’s child abuse. I told that Sasquatch to his face.”
“How’d it go down?”
“I met him after practice. Told him I was worried about some marks on Junior. Kept my voice down, letting him know this was man to man. Told him, I kept seeing the bruises I might call the police.”
“What’d he say?” asked Jennings.
“Sonofabitch smiled at me. Said I was doing a good job and he drove away. Next day? I get called into the dean’s office. This was two years ago. Gordon told me some of the board of trustees were questioning my leadership. Gordon got up, closed the damn door, and told me that if the trustees saw fit to fire me then there was nothing he could do. He told me I couldn’t do the kids any good if I got let go and I should be careful.”
“Lynch shouldn’t be able to fire faculty for personal vendettas.”
“He spent millions on this place, Jennings. Guy can do whatever the hell he wants. And unlike you, single white dude, I gotta wife and a kid nearing college.”
On the field, one of the assistants called for the coach. Murray stood and brushed his pants.
Jennings rose too. The hill was tricky so he stood perpendicular to the slope. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I did. More or less.”
“And?”
“It’s complicated, my man. Trust me. There’s a lot to the story.”
“I read about the other stuff,” said Jennings.
“What other stuff?”
“Accusations I found online. Coach, I’m brand new. I’m not stupid enough to take on our school’s biggest supporter. But…shouldn’t somebody?”
Murray took a breath and let it out through his nose slowly. A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“You like it here, Jennings?”
“Love it.”
“Tell me why.”
Jennings shrugged. “A lot of reasons. A boarding school is similar to the military. But better suited to me, much better. It’s a built-in family. I’m trying to earn my place.”