Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

level, a significant improvement. He brushed his short brown hair back, which had no effect.

He felt okay. He looked okay.

He looked like he was supposed to.Like he was an instructor, not a hollowed out man.

A fake life was better than no life.

No, it wasn’t fake. It was new. Like the school, Jennings would probably survive this beginning.

Eyes forward. Ahead of him, greener pastures. He’d do life right this time.

Jennings drank his coffee, watching more students arrive, and he felt better with his gaze off himself.

Jennings’ first period of the day was full of sleepy juniors dressed in khakis and long-sleeved school polos. Benji was in the class and he didn’t make eye contact, resting his chin in his hand and staring down.

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