The Caretaker of Lorne Field

by Dave Zeltserman

  He pushed the wheelbarrow over to the boxes and nearly fell over when something large crawled out of one of them. He turned his flashlight on it and saw four raccoons digging into the box.

  “Git out of there!” he yelled.

  The raccoon nearest to him arched its back and hissed. The others ignored him.

  “I said git!”

  This time all the raccoons ignored him.

  Durkin picked up a stone and threw a fast ball hitting the nearest raccoon in the ribs. It let out a loud hiss, turned towards Durkin, then changed its mind and scampered off. Durkin zipped a couple of more stones at the other raccoons and they followed, disappearing into the nearby woods.

  He hobbled over and saw the box they were digging into was one of the ones with perishable food packed into it. He pushed it away and found the boxes with the canned goods, then loaded the cans into the wheelbarrow.

  “Almost forgot the can opener,” he muttered to himself. “A lot of good those cans would do me without it.”

  Durkin searched through more boxes until he found the can opener. The same box had the family silverware, and he grabbed a fork and spoon. He went through the rest of the boxes and loaded blankets, sheets and a pillow into the wheelbarrow, along with a small suitcase that he packed most of his clothes into.

  In one of the boxes he came across a plaque naming him the state’s most valuable baseball player his freshman year of high school. He had forgotten about the plaque. He probably hadn’t seen it since the night he was awarded it at the celebration dinner. He lingered for a moment looking at it, and then dropped it back in the box.

  He was pushing the wheelbarrow away from the cabin and onto the path to Lorne Field when he saw flashing lights approach the house. He checked his watch and saw it was a couple of minutes to midnight. The idea of Dan Wolcott checking his garage and house to make sure he wasn’t there infuriated him, but he was too damn tired to do anything but trudge forward.

  When he was two miles away from the cabin he remembered that he had forgotten the aspirin again. He thought about turning back, but decided if he did he’d never make it back to Lorne Field by morning.

  Jack Durkin tried setting up some bedding on the floor of the shed, but couldn’t stand the cramped quarters. Boards from the wood floor dug into his back and it was unbearably hot and stuffy. After a while, he realized there was no reason he couldn’t camp outside instead. It wasn’t raining, and no bugs or critters came within a half mile of Lorne Field. He pulled the blankets and sheets and pillow outside and set up behind the shed so he wouldn’t have to see the field. It was completely still out there. No crickets chirping, no insects buzzing, absolutely nothing but a dead quiet, interrupted only occasionally by the groans that accompanied his restless movements. He wished to hell he had remembered the aspirin. He also prayed his ankle was only sprained and not broken. As it was he left his work boot on his injured foot. He knew if he took it off he’d never get it back over the ankle in the morning.

  Earlier he had organized the food he brought, and if he was careful he would have enough for three weeks. First frost was four weeks away. Maybe it would come early. Whatever happened, he wanted to be prepared to last the season in case things dragged out with Hank’s litigating.

  Once he was camped outside, he could only sleep fitfully for a few minutes at a time before either the hard ground or his ankle woke him. At one point he got up and loosened the ground with the spade. It didn’t help. Within minutes of tossing and turning, his weight packed the ground hard again. He’d have to stop by the Army Surplus store the next day and see if Jerry Hallwell could loan him an air mattress.

  After a few hours he couldn’t take the hard ground and his throbbing ankle any longer and slowly rolled onto his knees. Using the shed for support, he pulled himself to his feet. He tottered for a moment, and grimaced as he tested his ankle.

  The sun was hours from appearing in the sky. It wasn’t quite dark, wasn’t quite light either. More of a murky gray-ness. Looking through it was like looking through a fog. Jack Durkin squinted at his watch and saw it was only four twenty-nine. He hobbled past the shed and looked over the field. It was completely dead, and it would probably be another couple of hours before the first wave of Aukowies pushed their way through the dirt. He stood transfixed by the emptiness of the place and the eerie stillness of it. After a few minutes, he turned away from the field and made his way into the shed. He opened a can of baked beans and ate it cold for breakfast. Then he waited until the Aukowies appeared.

  The day of weeding was the hardest he ever had to endure, even harder than the two weeks when he had pneumonia. Maybe it was because of his injured ankle, but he felt feverish and all day alternated between sweating profusely and shivering in the eighty-five-degree heat. He was only able to complete two passes of weeding with each one taking over seven hours. The Aukowies sensed that he was injured. He could see their indecision as they were torn between playing possum or acting more boldly, but they chose to keep playing possum.

  He couldn’t carry the canvas sack on his back. Once the weight of the Aukowie remains reached twenty pounds, the canvas sack would collapse him to his knees. He ended up having to cart it around in the wheelbarrow.

  He had started weeding early—as soon as the first wave of Aukowies broke through the field—but it was still after sundown before he finished the second pass. He looked over the field and saw small Aukowies covering the first half of it. He decided to let them wait, that he’d start early the next morning and get to them then. After he burned the pile of Aukowie remains and buried their ashes, he ate a can of sardines and wearily mounted Lester’s mountain bike and headed towards town in the hopes of obtaining an air mattress from Jerry Hallwell’s store.

  It was past ten by the time he reached the town center. The Army Surplus store was already closed for the night, as was the town drugstore. Somehow he’d have to leave the field earlier the next day so he could get an air mattress. Earlier when he had passed the Caretaker’s cabin he saw that his belongings had been taken away as Hank had promised, so if he wanted aspirin he was going to have to ride out to the all-night supermarket. Every muscle in his body ached, and his ankle hurt to the point where he was fantasizing about chopping his foot off. He needed aspirin badly, and he needed to sleep on something other than hard ground.

  He dialed Hank on a payphone outside the town drugstore. As the phone rang he thought about Hank’s offer to put him up. He found himself wondering again about that offer. Maybe one night wouldn’t be so bad…

  Hank Thompson’s wife answered the phone and curtly asked who was calling.

  “Hello, Jeanette, this is Jack Durkin. I know it’s late, but can I speak to Hank?”

  “No.”

  There was a sharp click as she hung up.

  Durkin stared at the receiver befuddled. Even though he had recognized Jeanette’s voice, he still couldn’t help wondering whether he had dialed a wrong number and talked to someone who only sounded like her. He dug out change from his pocket for another call and tried Hank’s number again. On the third ring Jeanette answered, a chill coming from her voice as she demanded to know who was calling.

  “Jeanette, I know it’s late and I apologize,” Durkin said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “But I know Hank’s expecting me to call—”

  “My husband’s dead,” Jeanette Thompson said. “He died last night from a massive coronary, in no small part due to the agitation your hysteria caused him.”

  She hung up the phone again.

  Durkin took several steps away from the phone, dazed, and then stumbled back to it. He searched his pockets, found enough change for another call and dialed Hank’s number again. When Jeanette Thompson picked up, he told her how sorry he was about Hank. “Your husband was a good man,” he said. He stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. On the other end there was only a stone-cold silence.

  “I know this is bad time to be asking this,” he said, “but Hank had thing
s of mine that are important. A contract and a book. I need to get them back—”

  “Yes, Mr. Durkin,” she said harshly, “this is a bad time for you to be asking me for anything. I saw my husband die last night. I spent today arranging his funeral. If you want those items returned, call me back in a week, and if they haven’t been disposed of, I will see that they are returned to you. If you call back before then I will make sure those items are thrown in the trash.”

  She hung up again.

  Durkin took several steps away from the payphone and sat down on the curb with his head in his hands. He had never felt more lost. He sat for a long moment, wondering how he was going to save the world without Hank’s help and cursing himself for letting the contract and Book of Aukowies out of his possession. But what difference did it make? Let her throw it away. He was no longer Caretaker, so what difference did any of it make?

  He thought of his pa and his grandpa before him. How weeding that field turned them both into old men before their years. How they were both in their early fifties when they died, only a few short years after retiring as Caretaker. He thought about how much they had sacrificed of themselves. He thought about how much he himself had sacrificed.

  There was a reason for all of it.

  He steeled himself and fought against the despair crashing down over him. What he did was too important to let his feelings overwhelm him.

  He was going to get his contract and book back from Jeanette Thompson. He was going to finish this season and weed those damn Aukowies until first frost. After that he’d have all winter to talk sense into the members of the town council. He knew that he’d have to get Lester to come clean and tell them what really happened before they changed their minds. Later, after this season of killing Aukowies, he was going to find Lester and get through to his son.

  Jack Durkin wiped his hand across his eyes and then pushed himself to his feet. The streets were mostly empty. If anyone had driven or walked by, he hadn’t seen them. He hobbled over to his bike and walked it to the Rusty Nail.

  Charlie Harper stood impassively as Durkin hobbled into his bar. After Durkin laboriously seated himself on one of the stools, he ordered a shot of bourbon, defiantly meeting Charlie’s cold stare.

  “Three dollars,” Charlie said.

  With some difficulty, Durkin worked his wallet out of his back pocket, took out a ten dollar bill and placed it in front of him. Charlie stared at the bill for a good minute before picking it up and holding it to the light to make sure it was genuine. Satisfied, he put the bill in his pocket and poured Durkin a shot of bourbon.

  “Where’s my change?”

  Charlie had moved down the bar to pick up some empty glasses. Without looking at Durkin, he said, “It’s costing me forty bucks to fix the camcorder that you broke. I’m making those seven dollars a down payment towards that, and I expect the rest of the money later.”

  “You’ll get it,” Durkin said. “Every penny of it.”

  He lifted up the shot glass and stared at the amber liquid. Silently he said a prayer for Hank Thompson’s soul, then downed the bourbon in a single gulp. For a few seconds, the burn of it made him forget the throbbing in his ankle.

  He cleared his throat and told Charlie that the town council had cancelled the Caretaker position. “That means the contract’s no longer in effect as far as I’m concerned, either,” he added. “If you want to come down to that field with me I’ll show you what those Aukowies really are.”

  Charlie was wiping a rag over part of the bar. He froze, his muscles tensing. All at once he started laughing an angry laugh.

  “Is that so,” he said.

  “Yep, it is. What’s so funny about that?”

  “Nothing. It’s pathetic, that’s what it is.” Charlie walked over to the cash register and took out a folded up newspaper that had been shoved underneath it. He unfolded the paper and placed it in front of Durkin.

  “I’ve been saving this in case you ever had the nerve to step back in here,” he said.

  The page in front of Durkin had an article about his arraignment hearing from a few weeks earlier with the headline ‘I’m Only Pulling Out Weeds Everyday’. The gist of the article was that he had come clean in court and admitted that the legend of monsters growing out of Lorne Field was nothing but a hoax so that he, and his ancestors before him, could milk it for all it was worth. Durkin’s face reddened as he read the article.

  “I only said what I did because the judge needed me to,” he insisted.

  “Sure, that’s why you said it.”

  “If I didn’t I might’ve been locked up in jail. And then there’d be no one left to weed the Aukowies!”

  Charlie eyes glazed over as he stared at Durkin. He didn’t bother to respond.

  “Christ, Charlie, just come to the field with me, then! I’ll show you firsthand what Aukowies are!”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Charlie said. “Why don’t you go peddle your bullshit elsewhere. And unless you want to buy another drink, get the hell out of my bar.”

  Durkin opened his mouth to argue, saw the hardness settling over his former friend’s face, and instead lowered himself from the barstool and did as Charlie suggested.

  Chapter 10

  Over the next ten days Jack Durkin left Lorne Field only twice—once to try calling Jeanette Thompson, the other time so he could go back into town and ask Jerry Hallwell for an air mattress. That was the day after he found out about Hank, and he caught Hallwell locking up his Army Surplus store, but Hallwell turned him down flat. One look at Hallwell’s face told him that he had read the same newspaper article as Charlie Harper and, like Charlie, believed every word of it.

  “I can take you down there, Jerry,” Durkin told him. “You can see for yourself.”

  “Take me down there? What for, so you can cut off my thumb like you did your son’s?”

  Durkin watched helplessly as Hallwell turned his back on him.

  After that night, the idea of leaving the field exhausted him. Even when he ran out of aspirin he couldn’t get himself to mount Lester’s bike and ride the six miles to the supermarket for more. So when he finally finished the day’s work, he’d eat a dinner of either cold beans, sardines or tuna fish, drink a can of soda, and sit leaning against the shed until he thought he might be able to doze off for a couple of minutes. Then he would lay down on the three blankets he’d brought and try to ignore the aching in his back and the sensation of nails being hammered into his injured ankle and a constant fever that kept him shivering uncontrollably. Even when he’d fall into unconsciousness for a minute or two from sheer exhaustion, his clattering teeth from the now cooler nights would wake him.

  It was around noon the following day when a rattling noise coming down the path to Lorne Field interrupted Durkin from his weeding. He looked up and was surprised to see his son, Bert, on his bike. He croaked out for Bert to stay where he was, his voice not much louder than a hoarse whisper.

  Bert had gotten off his bike and started to approach the field. Durkin motioned with his arms and yelled at him again to stay put. He shuffled as quickly as he could on his injured ankle towards his son. He could see the worry on Bert’s face over his appearance. He hadn’t washed, shaved or bathed since he had been evicted from his home. From the way his shirt and pants hung loosely on him he knew he’d lost plenty of weight. When he reached Bert he stood awkwardly, not sure what to do.

  “I’d hug you, son,” he said, “but I know I must smell pretty bad.”

  Bert stepped forward and buried his face into his father’s chest. Durkin stood with his hands at his side for a moment, and then embraced his son.

  “I’ve smelled worse,” Bert said.

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Well, maybe not, but I’ve missed you, dad.”

  “I’ve missed you too, son.” Durkin took a step back so he could see his son. Bert was trying hard to smile but couldn’t stop looking worried.

  “Where
are they keeping you?” Durkin asked.

  “In a foster home over in Eastham. If they knew I did this I’d be in big trouble,” he said, his grin turning sheepish.

  “Eastham? That’s a long way from here. At least twenty miles.”

  “It took me all morning to ride my bike here,” Bert said, now proud of his crime.

  “You ain’t supposed to see me, huh?”

  Bert shrugged noncommittally.

  “What’s this foster home like?”

  “It’s okay.” Bert looked down and kicked at the dirt. “Lester’s there with me. All he does all day is try to play video games with one hand and look at dirty pictures on the Internet.”

  “Son, I didn’t hurt your brother. Whatever he’s saying, it ain’t the truth.”

  “I know, dad. Lester’s a weasel. He only said that stuff because he doesn’t want to become Caretaker.”

  “What makes you say that?” Durkin asked. “Lester tell you that?”

  “No, he doesn’t tell me anything anymore. But I know what a lying weasel he is. And that’s why he said those things.”

  Durkin looked away from his son and towards the Aukowies growing in Lorne Field. “When you see Lester you tell him to tell the truth. He don’t have to be Caretaker.”

  “I will, but I don’t know if it will do any good.”

  “Just tell him.” Durkin took a deep breath. “Why don’t I show you how to weed them. You can help me.”

  “Sure, dad.”

  Weeks ago when Durkin had gone through the boxes left on the front yard of the Caretaker’s cabin, he found an extra pair of work gloves and brought them with him. Now he asked Bert to go back to the shed for them. Bert did as he was asked. The gloves were several sizes too big for him, and given how thin and slight Bert was, they made him look like a cartoon character. Almost like Mickey Mouse. But they would do. As they walked back to where the Aukowies were growing, Durkin took short, shuffling steps, trying hard not to grimace. He could feel his son’s eyes on him. He turned towards Bert and smiled, the questions plain on his son’s trusting face. About the way he was walking and how he was sweating so profusely and the fever that was burning brightly on his face and how thin and emaciated he had become.