The Caretaker of Lorne Field (5 page)

Jack Durkin’s day usually ended at seven, but it wasn’t until eight o’clock that night he finished his third pass of the field and emptied the sack into a stone pit behind Lorne Field, adding to the small mountain of Aukowies picked earlier that day. Kerosene wasn’t needed. Just throw a match on the Aukowie remains and they lit up as if they’d been soaked in gasoline. The contract required him to watch them burn, so after setting a match to the remains, he stood and watched the flames shoot skyward. After the fire died out he gathered up the ashes, mixed them with lime and buried them. Then he headed home.

At a quarter to nine Durkin stepped through his front door, too bone-tired at first to do anything but glare angrily at his wife. He would’ve fallen over when he took off his work boots except he was able to throw out his right hand and grasp the wall and keep himself on his feet. Lydia’s color paled to a dead white as she watched him.

“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice unusually brittle.

He shot her a withering look, then hobbled past her and collapsed into a worn imitation-leather recliner that had been patched up in places with duct tape.

“You ain’t going to tell me what happened?” Lydia demanded, a hot white anger chasing out whatever concern she had felt moments earlier.

“Get me a bucket of hot water first,” Durkin said. “My damn feet are swollen to twice their size.”

“Oh, no! You tell me what happened or you just sit there and rot! I’ve been worrying half to death the last hour!”

Durkin stared at her, his mouth moving as if he were chewing gum. Finally, whatever internal dialogue he had been engaged in ended and his lips closed, his eyes livid.

“You want to know what happened?” he forced himself to say. “I’ll tell you what happened. Some punk kids violated the contract, that’s what happened. They nearly got me killed. And not just me, this whole goddamn world too.”

“How’d they do that?”

“How’d they do that? By violating the contract, that’s how.” Jack Durkin gripped the armrests of his chair and pulled himself up so he was sitting straight. His leathery tanned skin looked waxen as waves of indignation rolled through him. He could barely sit still he was so mad. “Those damn fool kids snuck down to Lorne Field, that’s how.” Hurt and embarrassed, his voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper as he added, “They threw tomatoes at me, goddamit. They threw tomatoes at me.”

Lydia’s jaw dropped open. She stood gaping at him, and all at once burst out laughing. She doubled over as tears of laughter streamed down her face. She almost collapsed to the floor she laughed so hard, her small bony hands holding her stomach.

“You think that’s funny?”

She nodded, her body still convulsing too much for her to say anything. Durkin’s lips pressed into thin bloodless lines as he watched his borderline hysterical wife. Gasping for air, she said, “You bet I find that funny. Boys throwing tomatoes at you almost killed you, huh? And that almost killed off the world? Jesus, is that funny. Thanks, I needed the laugh.”

“One of them tomatoes almost knocked me off my feet.”

“And that would’ve killed you?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. ‘You ain’t worth wasting my breath on. Now get me that bucket of hot water for my feet!”

“Get your own bucket. And there’s macaroni and cheese on the stove. You can get that for yourself too.”

Lydia walked out of the room laughing to herself, weaving as if she were drunk. Durkin sat fuming, too angry and tired for several minutes to do anything other than sit where he was. Gritting his teeth and with his arms shaking he pushed himself to his feet. He took a crippled, hobbling step towards the kitchen, stopped, and instead turned and headed towards the basement door, moving as if he were walking barefoot on sharp stones. A narrow wooden staircase led to an unfinished dirt basement, the ceiling low enough that he had to crouch as he moved around down there. Using a flashlight he found the two stones along the back wall that he was looking for. With a little bit of muscle he slid them out. Behind them was a wooden box that held the contract for the Caretaker of Lorne Field. Durkin brushed off his hands and took the contract out of the box. He tried to read it with his flashlight but was squinting too much and couldn’t make it out. He put the box back into its hiding place and replaced the stones. Grimacing from the pain radiating through his feet, he gingerly held the vellum paper by its edges and headed back upstairs. Once he was out of the basement, he hobbled to the head of the staircase leading to the second floor and bellowed for his two boys to come downstairs. Bert emerged from the boys’ bedroom and asked him what he wanted.

“Get my reading glasses from my night table drawer, and get your ass down here.”

Bert nodded and disappeared into his parent’s bedroom. He reappeared a minute or so later grinning stupidly and holding a pair of glasses. Before he could take a step down the stairs, Durkin stopped him, asking him if he knew where his brother was.

“Lester’s watching TV.”

“Tell him to get his ass down here, too!”

Bert disappeared again. Durkin heard his younger son tell Lester that he was wanted downstairs, then heard Lester complain that he was busy watching one of his shows and to tell dad he’d be down later. Durkin yelled out for Bert to tell his brother that unless he wanted to watch TV standing up and holding an icepack to his bottom he’d better do as he was told, ’cause if he had to go upstairs that’d be the only way Lester would be comfortable enough afterwards to watch anything. Even though both boys heard what was yelled, he heard Bert repeat it to Lester, then Lester complaining and bitching and moaning about it all the way to the top of the stairs. When his older boy saw him, his eyes went blank and his mouth formed into a small hurt oval. He asked what was so important.

“I want you two boys down here now,” Durkin ordered brusquely. “I got something important to say to both of you.”

Bert good-naturedly raced down the stairs, but Lester grumbled as he walked down them, moving as if he were as exhausted as Durkin felt. Durkin couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret that the boys’ births hadn’t been reversed. Even though Bert was small-framed, he would’ve made a fine caretaker, but Durkin had his doubts whether Lester was of the proper material.

Well, the boy will just have to grow into it
, Jack Durkin thought solemnly.
If he didn’t, God help us all
. He moved back to the recliner and sat, trying to hide from his boys how damned tired he felt. After Bert handed him his reading glasses, Durkin told him to fetch him a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts for his feet, then directed Lester to get him a plate of macaroni and cheese and something to drink. “Afterwards you two take a seat on that sofa. I got something important to say to the both of you.”

Bert raced into the kitchen. Lester continued to grumble to himself, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. Durkin sighed to himself as he watched him. This was going to have to change. Somehow that boy was going to have to develop the right attitude. He slipped his reading glasses on and read through the contract until he found the clause he was looking for. Grimly he reread it. It was as he thought.

Bert returned first with the bucket of hot water. Durkin took his socks off, rolled up his pants and stuck his feet in it. Bert bounced onto the sofa, eager, attentive. “Dad, what’s so important?” he asked.

“Wait until your brother’s here,” Durkin muttered without much enthusiasm. He tried to keep his expression stone-faced and hide the relief he felt soaking his sore feet. It was another five minutes before Lester emerged from the kitchen with a plate of food and a glass of water. Durkin took both from him, putting the plate on the end table next to him. The water was lukewarm. Lester couldn’t bother putting an ice cube in it. And of course, he couldn’t even think of bringing a fork with him from the kitchen. Without bothering to hide his disgust, Durkin ordered his son back to the kitchen for a fork. It was five minutes more before Lester returned with it. He then joined his brother on the sofa, rolled his eyes and stared sullenly at his dad. Durkin picked up the plate of food and took a few bites of it. The macaroni and cheese was tasteless. Cardboard mixed with breadcrumbs and stale cheese wouldn’t have tasted much worse. He dropped the plate back onto the end table and gave his two boys a hard look.

“You boys hear of anyone sneaking down to Lorne Field today?” Durkin asked, his tone icy, dispassionate. Both boys shook their heads, both taken off-guard by his manner. “Why?” Bert asked. “What happened?”

“Never you mind.”

“It looks like something happened,” Lester said, recovering enough to show a smirk. “You smell like tomatoes. Looks like you got it on you, too. Your clothes, even your face and hair.”

“Is that what happened?” Bert asked wide-eyed. “Did some kids sneak down there and throw tomatoes at you?”

Durkin’s eyes narrowed as he studied both his boys; Lester making no effort to hide his smirk, Bert looking honestly concerned. “You two ask around,” he said. “You hear anything, you tell me.”

“Wow,” Bert murmured. “That really happened?”

“Don’t you two say nothin’ to no one about it. Just ask around. See if any of your friends know about it.” Durkin held up the three-hundred-year-old document he had brought up from the basement. “I never showed you boys this before, but this is the Caretaker contract. Most important document in this world.”

“Big deal,” Lester said under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.”

“He said ‘big deal,’” Bert said.

“You bet it’s a big deal,” Durkin said. “You’re going to be Caretaker in less than four years.”

“No, I’m not,” Lester argued stubbornly. “I asked mom and she says I don’t have to.”

“Oh yes, you do, son. It’s stated so in the contract. When you turn twenty-one, you become Caretaker. That’s the way it’s going to be, Lester.”

“Mom says I don’t have to listen to you.”

“That’s ’cause your mom’s a damn fool. This contract’s the most important document in this world. You’re going to honor it. You got to. There’s no choice in the matter.”

Lester’s oval mouth contracted into a small dot as he stared blankly at the floor. Bert interjected that he could take the Caretaker job if Lester didn’t want it.

Durkin smiled sadly at him. “Don’t work that way, Bert. The contract clearly states the eldest son must be the Caretaker. So unless something were to happen to your brother, it just can’t be done.”

“Why don’t you just pretend something happened to me,” Lester said, his lips forming into a bitter smile.

Durkin brought his hand up to his face and squeezed his eyes. When he pulled his hand away, his eyes had reddened some. “Lester, what do you think I do all day?”

Lester looked up from the floor and stared at his dad, a hurt look playing on his mouth. He pushed out his bottom lip and said that he walked around some stupid field all day and pulled out weeds. That it was the lamest job in the world.

“That’s what you think I do, huh? How about you Bert, is that what you think I do?”

Bert shrugged, smiling noncommittally.

“Those ain’t weeds I pull out,” Durkin said. “They’re Aukowies. I’ll go over the book with the two of you later, but the only reason the world’s safe is ’cause I go out there every day and pull them from that field.”

Lester smirked, but he didn’t say anything. Durkin couldn’t help feeling hot under the collar watching his son. He held his breath, counted to ten trying to cool off. “Lester,” he said, struggling hard to control his voice, “you don’t think I’d rather be doing something else with my life? You think I like carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders? But it’s our burden to bear, son. When you think about it, it’s a great honor—”

“Yeah, such a great honor. That’s why it pays you eight thousand dollars. I’d make twice that working at McDonald’s.”

Durkin fidgeted, turned away from his son to look out the window. “It’s more than just eight thousand dollars, Lester. This home is deeded to the Caretaker and his family.” He stopped for a moment to stare at the crescent moon in the sky. In the dusk a bat flew in a herky-jerky motion across it and then zigzagged out of sight. He turned slowly back to his son. “Used to be no honorarium was provided in the contract ’cause it was expected of the townsfolk in the county to provide for the Caretaker’s needs. They amended the contract back in 1869 to add the honorarium. Then eight thousand dollars was a lot of money.”

“It’s squat now.”

Durkin shrugged his stooped rounded shoulders. “Maybe so,” he said, “but back in 1869 it was a lot of money. Enough for a man and his family to be well taken care of.” He fidgeted more in his chair, picking at some dirt under his nails. Without much conviction, he added, “That was what was intended with the honorarium. But you’re right, eight thousand dollars ain’t what it used to be. When I started as Caretaker it was a good enough salary but, well, now things have to be fixed. I’m going to bring it up to the town council. They’re going to have to fix it. It’s only right that they do.”

“Dad, what are Aukowies?” Bert asked.

“They’re bogeymen,” Lester said with a knowing smirk.

“No, they ain’t bogeymen. Bogeymen are imaginary. Aukowies are real. I kill thousands of them every day.”

“Sure you do,” Lester said with another eye roll.

“You bet I do. I pull thousands of Aukowies out of that field every day. Weeds don’t have a mind of their own like these things do. They don’t try to cut off your fingers with razor-sharp pincers. And they sure as hell don’t scream when you kill them.”

“They scream?” Bert asked.

“If you listen carefully enough you can hear them. Sounds kind of like a mouse in a trap.”

“Do they look like weeds?”

“When they’re small maybe. But if you know what to look at you can tell they ain’t no weeds. You got to remember, though, I pull them up before they get a chance to mature. A one-day-old Aukowie looks a lot different than an eight-day-old one.”