The Caretaker of Lorne Field

by Dave Zeltserman

  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.”

  “What do they look like after eight days?”

  “They don’t look anything like weeds then or anything else for that matter. After eight days they’re ready to rip themselves free from the ground. Nine feet in length by then, big razor-sharp fangs everywhere. Bloodthirsty suckers who move like the wind. Not much anyone could do about them at that point.”

  “If they’re not weeds, why don’t you bring one home?” Lester asked, some nervousness and uncertainty edging into his voice.

  “Can’t do it,” Durkin said. “Contract specifies all Aukowie remains must be burnt in a stone pit on the eastern side of Lorne Field, with the ashes first mixed with lime and then buried. But I can bring you there. Let you see for yourself.”

  “How about me?” Bert asked.

  “Sorry, son. Contract allows me to bring the eldest son to train on the killing of the Aukowies. I can’t bring you, though. Not allowed by the contract.”

  “When are you taking me?�
�� Lester asked.

  “A few days.” Durkin appraised his older son carefully. “Need to make sure you’re prepared first. I got to get you a pair of good quality work boots and gloves. This ain’t no fooling around. These are dangerous critters.”

  “I want to go too,” Bert said, pouting.

  Durkin sighed. “You’re just going to have to be satisfied with your brother telling you about it. I got to call the town sheriff now, tell him about those delinquents violating the contract. It’s serious business, and their punishment’s spelled out clearly in the contract—”

  “What’s their punishment?” Lester asked, his voice a nervous squeak as he interrupted his dad.

  “Nevermind that. But you boys ask around. You hear anything, you let me know.” Durkin hesitated, his leathery features softening. “I thought it important to talk to you boys about what I do. It’s important business, ain’t no joke. You hear your mom talking foolishness or other kids in the town making jokes about it, just remember, they don’t know any better. You boys want to go back to your TV now, go ahead. Bert, get me the phone.”

  Lester moved slowly off the sofa and took his time making his way up the stairs. He stopped when he got to the top. Half crouching in the shadows of the upstairs hallway, he strained to listen to his dad’s phone conversation with the sheriff.

  Sheriff Dan Wolcott tried to remain patient while he sat in the front seat of his Jeep and listened to Jack Durkin, his face wearing the same patient smile as if he were listening to the ranting of an elderly person suffering from dementia. After a while, though, some color tinged his angular face and before too long his large ears were burning red.

  “Jack,” he said, “we’re not going to publicly hang some boys for throwing tomatoes at you.”

  “They violated the contract,” Durkin argued stubbornly, his own face redder than the sheriff’s. He held the contract up in front of him and pointed a thick finger at it. “It says right here anyone interfering with the Caretaker’s sacred duties needs to be hung publicly for all the town to see.” Durkin found the clause and read it to the sheriff for the sixth time, his voice shaking with anger.

  “Jack, let’s be reasonable. If you really want to make a big deal over some kids throwing tomatoes, then fine, I’ll ask around, and if I can find the kids, I’ll talk to their parents. Maybe see if we can arrange for them to do some of your weeding as punishment. How’s that sound?”

  Durkin was too furious to talk. All the color he had bled out of his face leaving it sickly white. Sheriff Wolcott watched him for a while, then shrugged. “I’m sorry some teenage boys did that to you, Jack, I truly am, but that’s what teenage boys do.” Wolcott paused to shake his head, his thin patronizing smile shifting back into place. “Look, why don’t you go back inside your house, clean yourself off, maybe take a nice hot bath and try to relax. I’ll talk to some of the teenagers around town, put a little fear in them and make sure this doesn’t happen again. How’s that sound?”

  “You can’t just turn your back on the contract,” Durkin forced out, his voice harsh, barely above a whisper. “This is a sacred document. You have an obligation.”

  “Look, Jack, that piece of paper is a relic, a fairy tale, nothing more. Some towns have apple festivals, some have pumpkin contests, we have a quaint tradition of having a family weed a field sitting out in the middle of nowhere. Just be thankful you’re being given a nice house for your family and some spending money for what you do, okay, Jack?”

  “Sheriff Ed Harrison believed in what I did!”

  “Yeah, well, last I heard Ed’s sitting in a senior care home right now having his diapers changed a dozen times a day without a clue what planet he’s on, so excuse me if I don’t put much stock in what he has to think. Sorry if I’m a bit blunt, Jack, but if you’re going to start talking nonsense about hanging kids in the town square, then this is what you should expect.”

  “Those ain’t weeds I’m pulling out of that field everyday.”

  “Yeah?”

  Flustered, Durkin took the baseball cap from his back pocket and handed it to Wolcott. “One of the Aukowies did that,” he said. “After the cap was knocked off my head.”

  Wolcott held the cap up and examined it, running his finger along the torn fabric. “This looks pretty threadbare to me,” he said. “It could’ve ripped open just by being hit by a tomato. At least that’s how it looks to me.”

  “Damn it, an Aukowie sliced that open. Did it right in front of my eyes.” Anger choked him off. When he could, Durkin sputtered, “If you saw what they were you’d be treating this contract with the respect it deserves!”

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ll stop by the field tomorrow and you can show me, okay?”

  “I can’t do that. It’s in the contract—”

  “Yeah, of course. The contract. How could I forget. Awfully convenient, that contract. Look, it’s been a long day, Jack, and I have to get back to the wife and kids. I’ve got no problem with this quaint little tradition we have here. You want to play the part, act cantankerous and eccentric, that’s fine too, but if you start acting insane we’re going to have a problem. A big problem. And you demanding that some kids get hung because they threw tomatoes at you is acting insane. Goodnight, Jack.”

  Wolcott waited patiently for Durkin to realize there was no point in saying anything else. After Durkin left the Jeep, the sheriff drove off, honking twice as he turned the blind corner leading away from the Caretaker’s cabin.

  Durkin stood frozen for a long moment, his skin color not much different than the moon overhead. It was late already. Usually by this time he was asleep in bed, but with the way his stomach was grumbling and the rage he was feeling tightening his chest, he knew he’d just be lying awake all night. Instead he got into the rusted-out Chevy Nova Bill Chambers had given him brand new twenty years earlier. It took several tries before the engine turned over, then he headed towards town.

  Jack Durkin sat alone at the bar at the Rusty Nail watching the baseball game on a TV set mounted on the back wall. The owner, Charlie Harper, had brought over a cheeseburger, a plate of fries and a pint of ale, all on the house. He always treated Durkin on the house, not that Durkin ever abused the privilege, usually only stopping by once every few months. Charlie was in his seventies and was one of only a few shop owners still around town who believed in the Caretaker’s importance. Charlie poured a couple of black and tans, brought them over to a table, then moved back behind the bar to keep Durkin company. He listened grimly as Durkin told him about the day he’d had.

  “Those punk kids,” Charlie said.

  Durkin nodded, draining what was left of his pint. He waited while Charlie refilled his glass.

  “That wouldn’t have been tolerated when your pa was Caretaker. Or his pa before him.”

  “There’d be holy hell if they tried that with either of them,” Durkin agreed.

  Charlie shook his head, frowning. “It’s just not right,” he said. “Sheriff Wolcott just blew you off?”

  “Yep. He thinks all I do is pull weeds all day. That my job’s nothing but a joke. ‘A quaint tradition’ was how he put it.”

  Charlie’s frown deepened, his large face forming into a massive crease. “That’s the problem today,” he said. “When I was a kid we were taught to respect what you Durkins did for us. But it’s just not done these days. Parents worry too much about upsetting their precious little kiddies. Making it all into nothing but ghost stories instead. It’s just not right.”

  “Big part of the problem’s the size of the honorarium,” Durkin said. “You pay someone so little, how can you respect what they do? But it didn’t used to be so little.” He paused to wipe some beer from his mouth and watch a groundball go up the middle putting runners on first and third. “You know what the president’s salary was when the county added the honorarium?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I dunno. Two hundred thousand?”

  “Nope. I looked it up once. Twenty-five thousand dollars. T
hat’s all. And you had a whole country to come up with that money. The eight thousand figure was damned good in comparison, especially since you only had a small county to raise it, mostly nothing but farmers back then.”

  Charlie joined Durkin in watching the game. The runner on first stole second standing up.

  “Pitcher’s delivery’s too slow,” Durkin observed. “Even I could’ve stole that base.”

  Charlie nodded in agreement.

  The next batter hit a two-hopper down the third base line and over the diving glove of the third baseman, scoring both runners on base. Durkin turned away from the game in disgust.

  “He wasn’t positioned right,” he said. “He should’ve been guardin’ the line.”

  “Yep.”

  “And he shouldn’t’ve dove like that. If he just stayed on his feet he could’ve at least knocked the ball down and saved a run. I don’t know what the hell they teach players today.”

  Charlie looked away from the TV, distracted by the sound of muted laughter coming from a corner of the bar. Sitting at a table were the two Hagerty brothers, Jasper and Darryl, both red-faced as they laughed and elbowed each other over a private joke. The Hagerty brothers were in their early thirties and worked construction. Dressed in stained tee shirts and overalls, the long greasy brownish-blond hair on both their heads looked as if it hadn’t been washed in months. Jasper pointed a finger at Jack Durkin’s back and laughed harder, spitting out beer as he did so. He caught Charlie’s eye and elbowed his brother, signaling him with a hushing-type gesture by placing his index finger to his lips. The two Hagerty brothers struggled to keep quiet, but both burst out laughing harder than before. Charlie asked Durkin to excuse him, then walked over to Jasper and Darryl Hagerty.

  “You two boys finding something amusing?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Jasper giggled, his cheeks inflated as he tried to control himself. Darryl said, “We were only talking about produce. Heard of a new use for tomatoes.” Both brothers sprayed beer over themselves as they exploded with laughter.