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

big deal about our ancestor being Henry Jennings, a general in the Union Army. He’s my great-great-great-whatever-grandfather. He was in Appomattox when Lee surrendered to Grant.”

“You don’t think that’s a big deal?” she said.

“It is, I guess. It’s an odd thing, assuming the rest of us have to be in the military because he was. If your great-great-whatever-grandmother was a respected CPA or dentist, would you think you had to be one?”

“I’d rather teach.”

“Me too, but I’m going off the family script. My grandfather was a major general in Vietnam. My father retired as a colonel. My brother broke ranks and went to the Naval Academy. A huge scandal.”

“What a traitor. Is he still in the Navy?” she said.

“Yes. A captain stationed in Italy. My mother’s forgiven him.”

Hathaway watched him with eager eyes. Jennings got the impression it mattered what he said. It mattered and her interest was a physical force. He shivered, not from the cold.

“So you had to join the military,” she said.

“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