The Caretaker of Lorne Field (24 page)

Bert didn’t come back the next Saturday.

Durkin thought about it and decided the bike ride must’ve been too much for the boy, or maybe someone at the foster home had found out about his first trip to Lorne Field and took his bike away. Twenty miles back and forth was a lot of riding, and he couldn’t blame Bert for not doing it again. In a way he was glad he didn’t. He didn’t want his boy seeing him the way he was; besides, he’d have plenty of opportunities to see Bert after the weeding season was over. He had too much on his mind as it was. His ankle wasn’t getting any better, his back was stiffer and more bent each day, and he kept thinking about his last phone call with Jeanette Thompson. As she had asked, he waited a week before calling her again. This time her voice was shriller than before, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. She told him that she couldn’t find the items he had asked about and must’ve thrown them out. Before hanging up, she warned him not to call again, and that if he did, she’d take out a restraining order against him.

When he got off the phone he almost rode out to the town dump, but he was just too tired. As exhausted and near panicked as he was, he knew he’d have no chance of finding his contract and book buried in a mountain of garbage—that all he would accomplish would be getting bit up by rats. He decided that was probably what Jeanette Thompson wanted. It made no sense for her throw those items away, and she was probably just trying to work him up and send him on a wild goose chase as punishment for Hank’s death.

Later, after first frost came, he would call her again and explain the importance of getting his contract and the Book of Aukowies back. Given a chance to calm down, she’d return them.

It was more than two weeks after Bert had showed up at the field that Durkin started hearing noises. It was low at first, sort of a mechanical rumbling sound, but every couple of hours or so it appeared to get louder. The next day he started hearing men’s voices mixed with the mechanical rumblings, and the day after a bulldozer pushed through the path with a tractor following behind to roll over and flatten the ground. Both pieces of equipment stopped at the edge of the field. The driver of the bulldozer squinted hard at Durkin. “No one’s supposed to be here,” the man called out. He stepped out of the bulldozer and stood next to it with his hands on his hips, a baffled look on his face.

He was a square man with a pudgy face, who was either bald or had his hair cut close to the scalp—hard to tell which with the hardhat covering his head. Durkin didn’t recognize him and guessed he was from out of town. He pushed himself off his knees and onto his feet. It took him some time to straighten his back and for his head to stop swimming.

“No one’s supposed to be here,” the construction worker yelled out to him. “Get off the field!”

Durkin surveyed what he had done so far. While he had two-thirds of the field weeded, he had started from the other end and the field between him and the two construction workers was covered with four-inch Aukowies. As the scene fully registered on him and he saw the sneakers that one of the construction workers wore, he knew if the man stepped into the field he’d have his ankles sliced to ribbons. Durkin almost turned his back on him, knowing that if that were to happen it would convince the town once and for all what the Aukowies really were. He couldn’t do it, though. Sighing heavily, he tried waving the men away and yelled out in a voice that wasn’t much more than a hoarse croak for them to leave. He could see it wasn’t doing any good. The two workers just stared back at him with confused expressions screwing up their faces, one standing by the edge of the field, the other sitting on his tractor. Reluctantly, Durkin shuffled slowly over to meet them.

“You have any idea where you are?” Durkin asked. He peered at the man sitting on the tractor. He didn’t recognize him, either, but saw that the worker had taken out a cell phone and was talking hurriedly into it.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The pudgy construction worker took a step away. Durkin saw the nervousness flash on his face and had a good idea what was behind it. He was afraid he was either dealing with a crazy person, or a contagious one.

“Ron,” the man on the tractor yelled out to his co-worker, “I made a call. Let’s just wait until some people show up, okay?”

Ron exchanged glances with his co-worker, then slowly backed up to his bulldozer and got into it. He sat with his arms crossed, his eyes small and piggish as he watched Durkin.

Looking at the way both men stared at him, Durkin could feel his temper slipping away. “You want to learn about where you’re at?” he heard himself asking them. “Just stick your hands in those weeds and you’ll learn all about Lorne Field.” He started to move closer to the bulldozer, but Ron made a shooing motion with his hands. “Just go back to what you were doing and stay away from me,” he said.

Durkin stumbled back on his heels, dizzy. He knew it was mostly his fever, a constant since hurting his ankle, but it was also partly not knowing what to do. He couldn’t fight either of those men, not in the condition he was in. And even if he could, what would be the point? The one in the tractor had already called the police. They were going to come and remove him from the field like they did his home. Then these two were going to be left to do God knows what. He broke out laughing then. A hoarse, aching sound that hurt deep in his chest. He noticed their reaction to it and it only made him laugh harder.
So what
, he thought.
He was no longer Caretaker. This was no longer his problem. The hell with it. The hell with all of it.
He took a couple of short, shuffling steps away from the field, then froze, slumping, his knees turning to jelly under him. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just walk away. Not with only a week or so before first frost. He had no idea what else to do, so he made his way back to the Aukowies and continued his weeding.

It didn’t take long for Sheriff Wolcott to arrive down the dirt rode that the bulldozer and tractor had made. Wolcott stepped out of his jeep and started towards Durkin, who turned his head and saw with some disappointment that Wolcott was wearing boots. Durkin turned back to his weeding.

Wolcott walked up to Durkin and watched him silently. After a few minutes Durkin acknowledged him, muttering “
Sheriff”
half under his breath.

“Jack,” Wolcott said. “I had no idea where you had gone to. Don’t tell me you’ve been living out here all this time?”

“Ain’t against the law, is it?”

“Well, yeah, technically it is. This is town property and trespassing notices have been posted. But forget that for now.” He hesitated, his tongue wetting his lips. “Jack, we need to talk.”

“Go ahead and talk. It’s a free country. But I got weeding to do.”

Wolcott stood silently for several more minutes, then in a quiet voice said, “You don’t look well, Jack. It doesn’t even look to me like you’ve been eating. How much weight have you dropped, forty pounds? Let me take you to the hospital. We can talk after you see someone.”

“I’ve been eating fine. And I told you, I’m busy.”

“You’re no longer Caretaker, Jack.”

“It don’t matter. Somebody’s got to keep saving the world each day.”

Wolcott watched while Durkin pulled up another dozen Aukowies and then repeated that they needed to talk.

Durkin turned and looked at Wolcott through red-rimmed eyes. “You think I ain’t nothing but a crackpot, huh? How about I prove to you what these Aukowies really are.”

He pulled his work glove off his left hand and reached down into a clump of Aukowies. He had his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for them to tear his fingers off. He could feel them bristling against his skin, but nothing else. He opened his eyes and could see them weakening. They’d been waiting for this chance for years, and he knew the temptation was too much for them. He could feel the tension building in them as they struggled to keep from ripping him apart.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

“Just give me a minute,” he forced out, his voice sounding like his throat had been scraped with sandpaper. “They ain’t going to be able to hold out much longer. A little while longer and they’ll show you their true colors.”

“For Chrissakes, Jack, just stand up already!”

He felt the Aukowies rustling harder against his skin. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before they’d lose control, but before that could happen he was dragged to his feet. Wolcott had his arms around his chest and was lifting him up, and Durkin was too weak to fight it. He looked angrily in Wolcott’s eyes and saw nothing but sadness.

“You arrestin’ me, Sheriff?” he grunted out.

“I don’t want to, Jack, but if you don’t leave the field I’ll have no choice. We do need to talk. It’s important.”

“What about?”

“This is not a good place, Jack—”

“You want to talk to me, talk now!”

Wolcott filled his lungs and let it out slowly. He looked away.

“There was an accident. Two weeks ago last Saturday. Your son, Bert, was riding his bike on the highway and he was hit by a truck. I’m sorry, Jack, but he didn’t survive.”

Jack Durkin’s stare turned blank. Breathing heavily, he left the wheelbarrow and canvas sack where they were and started towards the new dirt road that had been built. Wolcott kept pace with him.

“Jack, if I had any idea you were out here, I would’ve sent someone for you.”

Durkin continued to walk straight ahead as though deaf and dumb to the world. He went past the bulldozer and tractor and kept going. Both construction workers looked questioningly at the sheriff, who signaled for them to look away. Wolcott stepped quickly and grabbed Durkin by the elbow.

“Let me drive you somewhere. I can’t just leave you like this.”

Durkin ripped his arm free and kept his short shuffling pace until he reached the shed that his great grandpa had built. There, he stored his work gloves inside the shed, took Lester’s bike and pushed himself on it. The bike tottered for a long moment as he pedaled. For a few seconds it looked almost as if he were on a stationary bike before it started to roll forward. Wolcott stood watching. When the bike was rounding the bend, he yelled out that if Durkin came back to the field he was going to have to arrest him, that he would have no choice.

Jack Durkin bought a machete at the Army Surplus store for twenty-five dollars. Jerry Hallwell eyed him suspiciously as he rung up the sale.

“What are you buying a machete for?” he asked.

“Wha’cha think for? My weeding.”

“I heard you weren’t doing that anymore.”

“You heard wrong. Put that in a bag.”

Hallwell gave Durkin a long look before doing as he’d asked. Durkin handed him thirty dollars and Hallwell counted out the change.

“It looks like you lost a lot of weight.”

“Special diet.”

Hallwell nodded soberly. “I’m sorry to hear about Bert,” he said.

Durkin’s lips formed two grim lines as they pushed hard together, but other than that gave no indication he heard. He took his change and the machete and left the store. After buying some aspirin at the drug store, he took out what he had left from the money Hank had given him and counted six dollars and change. He chewed on a handful of aspirin, then walked across the street to the diner and took one of the booths.

When the waitress came over, he ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, pancakes and a pot of coffee. The waitress hung around looking uncomfortable. Durkin thought it was because of the way he looked and smelled, but then she started to tell him how sorry she was about what happened to Bert. He looked up at her and saw her smiling somewhat sad and brittle. She was young, no older than twenty, blond, and thin as a stick—maybe even skinnier than he had become. He saw her name tag read
Nancy Wilkens
and realized she was Lucy and Ed’s little girl, all grown up.

“Thank you, honey,” he told her.

She nodded, her smile growing sadder. “I used to see Bert riding his bike around town, always carrying his fishing pole. He was such a nice boy.”

The muscles along Durkin’s jaw hardened. He turned and looked out the window. After he felt her leave, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

She brought the coffee pot first and he emptied it quickly, drinking six cups from it. She brought another pot with her when she brought the food. He had no appetite and barely tasted any of what he ate, but he knew he was going to need his strength. He knew he was going to have a hard night in front of him. He methodically finished what was on his plate, then sat back and drank more coffee. When the second pot was empty, Nancy came over and asked if he’d like more coffee or anything else.

“Nothing more, thanks,” he said, trying hard to smile at her. “Just the bill.”

“There’s no bill, Mr. Durkin. This is on me.”

“That ain’t right—”

“No, please.”