by Alan Lee
“It felt like I did. I wish I hadn’t. I wasn’t good at it.”
“Weren’t good at it? You were a Green Beret! I don’t know much about it, but Mr. Barry told me that’s good.”
“I was special forces but I didn’t belong. For example, you can want an MBA, and earn it and look the part, but then realize you were wrong. Realize you don’t want to do business and you suck at it.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.” Hathaway was quietly pleased she’d gotten the stoic Daniel Jennings talking.
“Maybe. At the time, I didn’t know what else to do. I was listless during college. I wasn’t social and popular, like you.”
“Who said I was social and popular?”
He grinned. “Come on, Ms. Hathaway.”
“Come on what, Mr. Jennings?”
“Look at you. You’re a moveable party.”
Some mild outrage. Like she’d been accused of a crime but she liked it. “What’s that mean? I didn’t party. I mean, not like that, not like you’re inferring.”
“I read books and studied and ran on the track team and went to bed early. See? Not like you.”
“You went to the wrong college. JMU is social,” she said.
“I know I did. But they offered. Very little of my life do I look back on and think, I did that right. But I’m getting better at it.”
They paused for Fork Union’s drum line to thunder and the crowd cheered for a kickoff.
“I bet you dated,” she said.
“I had a girlfriend for two years.”
“What happened?”
“She was deeply stupid.”
Hathaway laughed and his chest filled with something like pride and victory.
He said, “She wasn’t stupid. That was a joke.”
“I know, Daniel, I’m not stupid either.”
Craig Lewis, the elder statesman of the instructors, came down from the stands. They hadn’t spoken since the restaurant. He patted Jennings’ arm and pointed into the seats.
“There might be trouble momentarily, Mr. Jennings, and I’m too old to deal with it. A fight is brewing between two young women. See the pink hat?” he said.
Jennings nodded. “I see her.”
“I told her she would be kicked out soon, but she didn’t take my advice to heart. Keep an eye on it?”
“I got it.”
Lewis thanked him.
Alone again, Hathaway said, “So what happened? With your girlfriend?”
“We were different. I wanted to jog or hike or play tennis or something. She wanted to watch Netflix or go to parties. We tried. Didn’t work.”
“We would’ve been friends in college, Mr. Jennings.”
“I doubt it.”
“Ooh trust me,” she said.
The half ended and the foretold fight erupted. Jennings left the gate to break it up. Two girls, including the pink hat. Screaming and clawing, and Jennings got scratched on the neck. He knew Monday morning his students would show him videos of the fight and his part in it. He wished Hathaway wasn’t watching. Officer Riddle and another cop took possession of the fighters, steering them apart.
“The girl-fights are the worst,” said Riddle. “They don’t know how to quit.”
The girls screamed all the way to the squad cars, where they would cool off and parents would be called. Jennings shifted his jacket back into place and surreptitiously adjusted his left leg at the knee.
The second half started. Benji Lynch took the field, one of the taller boys out there. Big 58, his nickname.
Hathaway remained by the fence. Waiting for him? He regarded her from behind, not thoroughly in case students were watching. She was popular, a stopping point for faculty and parents passing.
She turned and found him and beckoned. The gloved hand.
“Keep talking to me. Are you happy now?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You said you were listless. That you haven’t done life right, but you’re getting better. Are you happy now?”
He took a breath and a risk. Feeling intoxicated and brave by her interest in him. He twisted to look at her, smile at her, face to face.
Flying on waxen wings near the angel. There could be no romance, nothing sexual. But he could enjoy a brush with the divine.
“Yes. I’m as happy now as I can remember ever being.”
It was true. Jennings realized it as he heard his own words. Without his left leg, starting a new job, battling some depression, the struggle was worth it because he was happy.
“What makes you so happy?”
“I’m not sure. Act Two of my life is over, I think. And Act Three will be different. That make sense? Act Three holds optimism and hope and education. I’ll earn my place as quickly as I can.”
“I think you might be a romantic, Mr. Jennings.”
“I like teaching better than marching. Teaching is collegiality and knowledge and books. Plus the other instructors smell better than a ranger.”
At the compliment, the eye contact became too much and he and Hathaway looked away.
On the field, the ref flew a yellow flag. Unsportsmanlike conduct, he announced. Number 58.
Benjamin Lynch. He’d clobbered someone after the play.
“Dang it, Benji.” Jennings muttered it. A fog of syllables. “Go easy, kid.”
“What’d you say?”
Eyes still on the field, Jennings answered, “I met with Craig Lewis. You know him?”
“I do. He teaches philosophy and Latin and he never leers at me.”
“He told me about Peter Lynch’s past. Wild story about his step-daughter accusing him of sexual assault.”
“Oh yeah. I heard that rumor. It went down right as I moved to Roanoke and I didn’t know anyone, so I didn’t pay attention.”
“He said the wildest thing. He said he wished Peter Lynch was dead.”
“That’s not wild, Daniel, I wish that every time he clumps into my classroom.”
“Sorry, I quoted him wrong. Lewis said he wished someone would kill Lynch. Big difference.”
“Do you think you could?” she said.
“Kill Peter Lynch?”
She nodded. A goofy smile.
“Of course not,” he said.
“You were in the Army, though.”
“Oh. You mean, do I have the ability? Yeah I could do it.”
“With a gun? Do you have one?”
“I have two.”
“Big enough to kill that giant jerk?” she said.
“They’re big enough. But I’d go to jail the rest of my life.”
“What if you could get away with it?”
“I’d still choose not to.”
“What are we talking about?” She covered her mouth with both hands and laughed. “How did we get on this?”
“You’re homicidal, that’s how.”
She pushed her hair back. “Apparently. I’m glad no one heard that minute of madness.”
On the field, the Fork Union quarterback rifled a pass across the middle. Caught. The stadium volume ramped up. Benji Lynch lowered his shoulder into the wide receiver. A jarring collision. Benji wrapped his hands under the receiver’s legs, suspending him briefly in midair. Benji drove him into the turf, a pile-drive, all Benji’s weight landing on top. Illegal tackle. The fans went incoherent.
Benji stood and walked backward, the referee hurling a yellow penalty flag at him. The Fork Union receiver writhed on the ground and his teammates shoved Benji in retaliation. Whistles blowing, coaches shouting.
“Benji again? Oh no,” said Hathaway.
Coach Murray waved Benji off the field. He pointed at the deep sideline, benching him. Jennings watched it from a distance in pantomime. Watched Benji stomp and smash the bench with his helmet. Watched Benji’s teammates forsake him. Watched Coach Murray furiously chomp his gum and deal with the penalty yards.
Murray had to sit Benji. He had to.
“What happened?” said Hathaway. �
�Is Benji out?”
Jennings’ fingers were laced in his hair, eyes on the coach.
Murray now had to worry about losing the game and his job. A wife at home, a teenager nearing college. Lynch threatening him in the hospital. But no coach would leave Benji on the field after two unsportsmanlike penalties. No way. It wasn’t fair to anyone.
“Mr. Jennings? Daniel? What’re you looking at? I can’t see it, you’re taller than I am.”
Jennings eyes shifted from Murray to the titan suite at the peak of the stadium. Down to Murray and back up. In the light of the suite, high above the field, a big man stood at the window. A silhouette. Watching.
11
The next day Jennings woke to a rare commodity—an off day. A Saturday free from responsibility. Jennings’ coffee maker woke him at 7:30, the timer clicking on, and he stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes without moving.
His suite consisted of his bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen/living room. About the size of a small apartment. The sparse decorations were mainly photographs. A picture of his family smiling with Vice President Al Gore when Daniel was just a child. Another photo of his father shaking hands with Republican senator John Warner, the chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Another of him and his mother smiling brightly at the beach. His suite attached to the dormitory, so no feet pounded above him. Occasionally he’d let students in to demonstrate how a man should keep his room. There should be order, not chaos.
He got up and drank coffee and checked his phone.
His friends still in the Army had uploaded new photos on Instagram. A USO event at Camp Buehring, it looked like. Jennings felt the deep ache of an outcast. Standing on the lonely fringe looking in.
He allowed himself a moment of self-pity before engaging his will power. Reminded himself he hadn’t enjoyed the Army. He had felt like an outsider even when surrounded by these same men in the photos. Reminded himself he was content, and he was. Or close.
Behind the thoughts lurked another truth but he refused to acknowledge it—the aftermath of losing the foot and getting medically discharged had been something of a relief, an excuse for being out of the military.
Jennings hopped into the shower before the malaise of depression could settle. Before his ancestors could turn over in their grave and before his friends could bleed to death in the sand and rock.
He took the Erik Larson novel to Our Daily Bread. Ordered breakfast and ate in the corner. Lost himself and returned an hour later. Drove downtown to the farmers’ market next to Center in the Square. He purchased coffee roasted locally, plus homemade bread and cinnamon apple butter. In November, everything was pumpkin and spices.
His M4 carbine was housed in a climate-controlled storage locker downtown. An assault rifle similar to the one he’d trained with and carried. Leaving the Army, he’d purchased the M4 in a fit of panic—his buddies held a ‘retirement’ party for him and he’d been struck by how different from them he already was, by how his life was slipping away, and he made arrangements that very night to buy one.
He retrieved it and parked at Safeside Tactical on Shenandoah. From behind the seat he fetched the shotgun kept there in a tactical bag, and he took both weapons inside to the shooting bay he’d reserved.
The shotgun had belonged to his grandfather, handed down. A Browning BT-99. A single-shot 12 gauge, the wooden stock and the barrel polished and shining. A shooting range wasn’t ideal for the shotgun but he fired a few rounds because he enjoyed the booming recoil, the heady smell of burnt nitroglycerin, the connection to happy memories in his family’s forest. A weapon for hunting and sport, not war.
There was nothing beautiful about the M4. He jammed a loaded magazine into the receiver and smacked the bolt catch, loading a round. He let the barrel rest on its grip pod and he pushed the selector lever with his thumb.
Jennings had seen action twice with the Green Berets. The chatter of opposing assault rifles would never leave him.
He worked through two magazines, semi-auto. Forcing himself to glare down the Aimpoint dot scope and punch holes in the target. A painful exercise but he needed it. Needed to bear down on the parts of himself he didn’t enjoy. Like learning to run with a new gait—pretending it never happened would make it worse. During the second magazine he forsook the bipod stability for a fighting stance modified to his artificial strong-side leg. His grouping widened but he stayed on target.
He cleared the rifle and pointed the barrel up. Metal shells glinted dully on the floor.
Jennings felt better. Like processing pain in therapy. He hadn’t enjoyed his time with the Army but it was inside him now, threatening to fester if ignored.
A part of his brain noted the silhouetted target he’d obliterated was smaller than Peter Lynch.
Yeah, I could kill him. If I had to.
Jennings packed but didn’t immediately drive away from the shooting range lot. He sat in the cab and surfed on his phone, his thumb moving without permission.
Peter Lynch’s step-daughter Kelly Carson had moved from Roanoke to Philadelphia three years ago. Jennings found several Kelly Carson accounts on Facebook and he matched the photograph.
The Kelly Carson he wanted owned a business page advertising a dog-walking service in the Washington Square West neighborhood of Philadelphia. At the bottom of the page Kelly offered professional pet portraits.
Kelly looked too thin, like she consumed cigarettes instead of calories. A dragon tattoo wound circles down her arm, ending at her wrist. Beneath the heavy makeup and the hard edge was a young woman who could be stunning with little effort.
Sitting in his truck, Jennings dialed the number listed on the page. He didn’t think about it; the phone call happened on its own. The ringing sounded like an alarm.
Bad idea. A really bad idea. What am I doing. This isn’t my fight.
At the bottom on her webpage, he read a note.
*Sorry but I’m only working with clients who don’t identify as male at the moment. A personal choice as I recover from PTSD issues! Thanks!
A woman’s voice answered, “Hi, this is Kelly!” and he disconnected the call.
Jennings punched his steering wheel with the heel of his right hand. Stupid. Stupid stupid.
She’d moved to get away from Peter Lynch and she sure as hell wouldn’t want me dropping the guy in her lap again.
Jennings’ phone vibrated. Kelly Carson calling back.
Helet it ring, hating himself and his ugly mistake. He could send it to voicemail but then she’d have his name without his story or reason for calling.
He closed his eyes and answered.
“Hi, this is Dan.”
“It’s Kelly Carson. We got cut off?”
“Yeah I hung up too late. I’m sorry about that. I, ah, I noticed at the bottom of your page you aren’t working with men, so… Maybe pretend I didn’t call?”
“Bullshit, Dan.”
“No, really, I—”
“You’re calling from a Roanoke number.”
Jennings winced. “I am.”
“This better not be Peter.”
“No. No, this isn’t Peter. My name’s Dan Jennings.”
“This is about Peter Lynch, isn’t it. Calls from Roanoke are always about Peter.”
Jennings couldn’t find words quick enough.
Into the pause she said, “I fucking knew it.”
“Ms. Carson, I teach at the school Benji goes to. I was calling about Peter but I regretted it as soon as I dialed. My issues shouldn’t be foisted on you and I apologize."
“You teach at the Academy.”
“I do.”
“And you realized you shouldn’t be bothering me, Dan, is that right?”
“That’s right. I’m sure you’ve been through enough.”
“Well that’s the first decent thing anybody’s said to me in a long time.”
He winced. Again he couldn’t find words.
“You teach Benji?”
Alone, Jenni
ngs nodded. “I do.”
“He’s in, what, the tenth grade now?”
“Eleventh. He’s a junior.”
“Is he okay?”
“I hope so. I’m worried about him.”
“You said you’re who? Dan…what?”
“Dan Jennings.”
“Imma call you back, Dan Jennings.”
The line clicked off.
“Shoot,” he said. “Such a bad idea. So misguided, Jennings.”
He gunned the Tacoma’s engine and left the firing range’s parking lot, hoping she wouldn’t call back.
But she did five minutes later. He pulled to the side of Brambleton and answered.
“Okay, Daniel Jennings, history teacher at the Academy. You check out. My source says you’re tall, you’ve got muscles, all your hair, and you’re good looking. How nice to be born with every advantage imaginable. What do you want?”
“I’m not sure. I’m…lost.”
“You said Benji’s okay? I like that little punk. More than his brother, at least.”
“Not so little anymore,” said Jennings.
“I haven’t seen Benji in a few years. Is he getting hairy?”
“I think his father beats him.”
“For sure. Makes them a man, Peter says. But I can’t help with it. Give Child Protective Services a ring, but they did nothing last time, not a damn thing.”
“Ms. Carson, I don’t want to dredge up your past, but…I’m worried about his daughter.”
“Eh. I’m not. She’s an entitled shit. But that’s not the point, is it. Peter isn’t, like, what’s the word, he isn’t incestuous. He’s violent, that’s his deal. He has an uncontrollable temper. When he’d hurt me, it was punishment, not sexual. He’d get pathetic women for sex.”
Jennings felt the words like a wave of nausea.
“Ah, Dan, shit, never mind. Pretend I didn’t say that.”
“Why…” He cleared his throat, searching for a voice. “Why not?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Because of documents you signed? He could come after you financially.”
“I’m not going to answer that, Dan. But take my lack of response for your answer.”
“You’re worried I’m recording this.”