Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (life books to read txt) 📗

Harsh whistles blowing.

Benji came undone. He broke the implicit rule and used his helmet like a weapon. Swung it in a wild arc, catching King flush in the face. A sick thunk. King’s sweat scattered. Jennings would find out later the impact broke two molars. King staggered sideways, his legs losing power. Benji hit him again as he fell, helmet to the back of his head.

The force dented King’s skull and his skin split like a sleeping bag unzipping. Before he hit the ground, King’s eyes were rolled up and he was out.

Benji rampant above the limp boy, raising the helmet again, the eyes shining without reason, a rabid dog.

Coach Murray sprinting now, the defensive coordinator too, whistles shrieking.

Jennings reached him first. Caught Benji’s arm before the downswing. Tugged and spun the boy. A fit of madness, Benji twisting, spitting and throwing a fist at whoever dared touch him.

A sloppy punch and Jennings ducked it enough to only receive a glancing blow above his ear.

“Benji! Benjamin Lynch!”

Benji cocked the helmet to destroy Jennings, not seeing a man but a threat.

Jennings hit him in the nose, a short straight punch with his right.

Everyone wants to fight until they get hit in the nose.

Benji stepped backward. The fight inside him vanished. He grabbed his face, that awful feeling nothing can stop. A gout of blood from his nostrils. His coaches and teammates reached him, restraining the boy.

The turf below Mickey King was turning crimson.

Jennings knelt awkwardly and whipped off King’s hand towel and pressed it firmly to the base of the skull.

“Damn it,” said Coach Murray. “Got’damn it, Lynch.”

“King’s okay.” Without looking Jennings knew the occipital bone of King’s skull was exposed. “He’s going to be fine. But he needs a hospital. Everyone back. Get back.” With his free hand, he pointed at the defensive coordinator. “Get your car. Right now. Drive it here on the field.”

“Yes sir.” The man left.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” said Murray.

“Coach, we’re three miles from Carilion. We’ll get there faster if we do it. There’s no neck trauma, just a head injury that bleeds too much, and I want to get there now. Everyone back.”

Two of Lynch’s friends were hauling him away, his face running.

“Coach, I’m sorry.” Benji’s busted nose turned it into Ib sorry. “Coach, I didn’t mean…tell him I’m sorry. Let go.”

King was out nine minutes, coming to as four men heaved him onto a rolling bed from the car, Jennings refusing to release pressure with his towel.

In the emergency department, a surgical team shaved Mickey’s head and sewed his split flesh together. His maxilla had a hairline fracture, but there was nothing to be done. Both molars were splinted; an oral surgeon could probably salvage one tooth with a root canal and a crown. Mickey was taken to a recovery room. An hour later he was awake but the concussion was significant enough to warrant overnight observation.

Jennings was sitting in the waiting area at seven. He’d stayed by the bed in loco parentis until Mickey’s mother arrived from Richmond, and then he gave them space. He texted Dean Gordon as requested to let him know the mother was there.

Jennings hated hospitals—too many bad memories of waking up the day after surgery, of occupational therapists, of nurses, of that damn prosthetist. He’d skipped his previous two appointments at the Salem Veteran’s Medical Center. Weak and grouchy, he stretched and walked for coffee. He’d wait until Gordon or Coach Murray arrived before heading home. Coach Murray was returning at eight.

He had blood residue under his nails despite scrubbing twice in the bathroom. He poured a styrofoam cup and mixed in sugar.

When he returned, Peter Lynch was there.

The big man lumbered into Mickey King’s room.

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it.

The hell was he doing here? Gloating? Bullying the mother? Smothering Mickey in his sleep?

Jennings stood at the door and listened, out of Lynch’s line of sight, ready to sound an alarm.

Lynch said, “Ms. King, my name is Peter. I’m the father of the other knucklehead in this fracas. My son Benjamin, he’s beat up pretty good but the physicians said he didn’t need to stay.”

A half truth. Jennings himself told Coach Murray Benji didn’t require a hospital. A busted nose heals on its own.

He wondered if Lynch knew it was he who popped his son.

A Green Beret picking on a high school junior. Your grandfather must be turning in his grave.

He couldn’t see her but Mickey King’s mother made no reply.

Lynch said, “These are regrettable things, Ms. King. This is my second time with a boy in high school and they’re like wild animals, aren’t they, Mickey and Benji and their friends. The stuff they get into.”

Jennings barely heard her reply. “Mickey is my only child. He wasn’t a wild animal when I dropped him off. He’s not a wild animal when I pick him up. He’s a sweet boy.”

“Take my word for it, these things happen, Ms. King.” Lynch’s voice moved slow and gentle, his commercial voice.

Jennings knew Mickey didn’t come from money. He came to play football and he received a scholarship. His mother wore Target bargains while Peter Lynch wore Armani.

“I’m told it’s impossible to tell who started the fight, Ms. King, but I feel awful about it.”

Partial truth. Jennings had seen it all. Hard tackle, words exchanged, a shove, then the helmet.

Lynch continued. “Regardless of that, Ms. King, you should know that Mickey’s medical bills are covered. I just left the billing department and it’s settled. We’re a family at the Academy, after all.”

“Oh. That’s…” said Mickey’s mother into the quiet. “That’s very good of you.”

Don’t, thought Jennings. Don’t let him off the hook. He wants something.

“The Lord’s been generous to me and it’s an honor to share, Ms. King. Like I said, I feel awful about the fight.”

Jennings coffee cup was shaking. Lynch didn’t want the story in the news! That his son half-killed a poor black boy.

“I’d like to put you up in a hotel for