The Caretaker of Lorne Field (18 page)

“I’ll take your concerns under advisement.” Hank turned his back on Wolcott and ushered Durkin out of the building.

“Let’s get you back where you belong,” he said.

Officer Bob Smith was waiting on the sidewalk, his hands stuck in his pockets and a forlorn look spread across his face. He walked slowly to Durkin and held out his hand.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

Durkin nodded and took his hand.

“I hated what I had to do today. More than anyone else in this town I know everything you gave up.”

Durkin again felt like Smith wanted to ask him something, but the other man turned and walked away.

Hank Thompson offered to drive Durkin down Hillside Drive so he could pick up the path from there to Lorne Field. “It should be a shorter walk to Lorne Field that way than taking you home.”

Durkin agreed and got into Hank’s older model Cadillac sedan.

“If you’d like we could get you a bite to eat first,” Hank suggested.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d better just get back there. It’s late, and those Aukowies are growing every second. It’s going to be tough enough as it is.”

Like Officer Bob Smith, Hank seemed to have a question he wanted to ask. Durkin could see it in his eyes. After they got through the first traffic light on Main Street, the attorney finally broached the subject of Lester’s statement. “Any idea why your son might have said that?”

Durkin shook his head. “All I can think is he was in shock and didn’t know what happened. Maybe Dan Wolcott put the idea in his head.”

“That must be it,” Hank agreed after mulling it over. “I’d have to think your boy was so traumatized by the accident that he’d be vulnerable to suggestive or poorly phrased questions by our good sheriff. Don’t worry, Jack, I’ll find a psychiatrist who will testify to that. This case won’t be a problem, especially as long as we’ve got Judge Harris hearing it.”

Durkin stared mutely out the window and watched as they left Main Street behind. Once they got to the intersection leading to Hillside Drive, he told Hank Thompson that an Aukowie did bite off his son’s thumb.

“I’m not crazy,” he said. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

Hank Thompson smiled thinly. “I’d say something about believing you, except admitting to something like that is not a politically smart thing to do these days. If my kids heard me, they’d have me declared mentally incompetent so fast it would leave your head spinning. Jack, let’s just say I sleep better at night knowing you’re at that field everyday. And I’d be willing to bet that Judge Harris sleeps better, too.”

Durkin nodded as he accepted that. “Anything you can do about Sheriff Wolcott and those others violating my contract?”

“At this point it’s probably best not to make an issue about it, especially with the town council we have now. Best to just lay low for the time being.”

“Why? What do you think the town council would do?”

Hank made a face like he had swallowed sour milk. “Let’s not worry ourselves about that. Let’s concentrate first on getting you cleared of these charges.”

Hank slowed down to look for the dead oak tree stump that marked the head of the path Durkin needed to take. After he spotted it, he pulled over and offered Durkin his hand.

“Jack, the words don’t exist to express how outraged I am over what happened today.” He paused for a moment, his long brow furrowing with concern. “You’ll be okay out there?”

“I’d better be.” Durkin took Hank’s hand, nodded grimly and set off towards Lorne Field.

It had been twelve-thirty when Wolcott and the two police officers trespassed onto Lorne Field and dragged him away from his duties. It was now ten minutes to four. Over three hours had passed, which meant the Aukowies he hadn’t gotten to during his second pass of weeding would now be over five inches tall. The thought of that weakened him. But with all the indignities he had been forced to suffer that day, it did help to know that there were people like Bob Smith and Hank Thompson and Judge Harris who believed in what he did even if they wouldn’t actually come out and say so. That both helped him and infuriated him. The most important job in the world and this is what it has come down to, hoping that a few people would still understand the importance of what he did.

Even his own son . . .

He was puzzled by why Lester would say what he did, but he no longer had any doubts that his boy had joined those others in throwing tomatoes at him. At first he thought Sheriff Wolcott had said that only to get a reaction out of him so he’d act crazy in court, but he knew Bert wouldn’t tell the sheriff that Lester was involved unless it was true. He thought back on how Lester had acted when he tried questioning him on whether he had heard anything—how Lester gave him a cock and bull story about some boy he didn’t know the name of telling him it was a group of strangers from out of town. He remembered the way Lester looked when he told that story, and he knew Wolcott was telling the truth. It made things easy in a way. As far as he was concerned Bert was now his only son, which meant he didn’t have to do anything to make sure that Bert would take over as the next Caretaker. He felt some relief accepting that, but it also pained him. He had hoped for better things for Bert.

He tried to clear his head and not think about anything except what he needed to. It was getting late, and he had to finish his day’s weeding before the Aukowies grew any higher. Still, as he made his way onto the intersecting path leading to the field, he couldn’t keep from chuckling as he pictured the look on Wolcott’s face when he sandbagged him in court. It was the first time Jack Durkin could remember ever telling a lie, and he was amazed he was able to do it as bald-faced as he had, but what else was he going to do? There was nothing in the contract against it, and if he were put away for seventy-two hours, that would be it. Even if he were released after that it would be impossible to weed a field of three-foot-tall Aukowies.

He was still a hundred yards from the field when he heard their rustling. A breeze was blowing, but their rustling was more frenzied than what that breeze could’ve explained. When he got to the field both the breeze and their rustling stopped. He could see all of their little evil faces regarding him. For the first time in over three hundred years they had been allowed to grow unabated for hours, and he could sense the Aukowies’ anticipation as they tried to decide what to do next—play possum or show their true colors. Caution won out, and they remained completely still as Jack Durkin resumed his weeding.

It was hard with a third of the field filled with five-inch Aukowies. He had to move carefully among them and use a trowel to hold them back while he pulled them out of the ground. At their height, if he wasn’t careful, they could strike out and reach above his glove and slice his hand off at the wrist. It was tedious, back-breaking work, and he was exhausted by the time he finished the second pass of the field. He moved slowly, trying to straighten up and work the soreness out of his back and shoulders. Looking out over the field, he saw a new wave of Aukowies already growing tall. He picked up the canvas sack and carried it to the stone pit. After the sack was empty, he stopped to catch his breath and wipe sweat from his eyes. The Aukowies covering the first two-thirds of the field were aleady almost back to five ines in height, and stared at him with mixed anticipation and indecision. Durkin felt a tightening in his chest as he realized how hard the last pass of weeding was going to be. He stopped off at the shed so he could get the spade. When he started weeding, a groan escaped from him as he fought back the first dozen Aukowies.

The final pass took most of the night, and the last few hours had to be done under the light of the full moon. When he was finished, Jack Durkin stood motionless for a good twenty minutes before he was able to move. Slowly, he massaged the cramping in his arms and legs, then heaved the canvas sack over his shoulder and dumped the Aukowie remains with all the others. He put a match to the pile. The fire shooting out came close to singeing him and he fell backwards onto the ground barely escaping being burned, the flames exploded a good fifty feet up into the air. The only thing he could think of to explain the intensity of the fire was that most of the Aukowie carcasses in the pile were twice their usual size.

He sat quietly and watched the flames light up the night’s sky. The stench from the burning Aukowies was worse than any time he could remember. Over the years he had gotten used to that smell, but this time he found himself pinching his nose. After the fire extinguished itself, he dusted himself off and buried the ashes. Then he headed home.

It had been so quiet at the field that it was a shock when he was a half mile or so away from it and heard crickets chirping and other critters scurrying about. If he listened, he could hear an owl off in the distance. Also coyotes. The only sounds he had heard for all those hours at Lorne Field was the blood rushing through his head.

It was after four in the morning when he reached his front door, which gave him less than two hours before he had to head out to the field again. He stopped inside the doorway and tried to get his work boots off, but it was a struggle with the way his feet had swollen up and how sore his back felt. When he was finally able to pull them off, he hobbled to the kitchen and tapped half a dozen aspirin into his open palm. He chewed the aspirin slowly. They reminded him how sour and empty his stomach felt. There was still leftover pot roast in the refrigerator, but Lydia’s threat about what she’d do if she thought he intentionally cut off Lester’s thumb stood out in his mind, her words flashing brightly as if they were on a neon sign. He dumped the leftover pot roast down the disposal, and instead poured himself a bowl of cornflakes and ate it at the kitchen table. Afterwards he filled up a bucket of hot water, shook in some Epsom salts and sat in the living room where he soaked his feet and dozed off and on.

The morning sunlight woke him. He shivered as he took his feet out of the bucket of now cold water and pushed himself out of his worn imitation-leather recliner and onto his aching feet. He made his way to the kitchen and chewed on another half dozen aspirins then, without much enthusiasm, poured himself another bowl of cornflakes. When he was done eating, he hobbled out to the front door and struggled to get his work boots on.

While he’d never admit it to her, it hurt him that Lydia didn’t show up at the courthouse. It also made him feel funny inside knowing that she believed Lester’s statement to Wolcott—or at least believed it enough for her not to call Hank Thompson. He thought that had to be why she didn’t call Hank, that Wolcott must’ve spoken to her before she got around to it. The idea of facing Lydia’s wrath was more than he wanted to deal with after spending a night fighting back a field of five-inch Aukowies, but he decided he needed to let her know that he was still alive and kicking. He let his work boot drop to the floor and made his way upstairs to their bedroom.

When he saw the empty bed and the open dresser drawers he realized what had happened. He didn’t bother checking whether the drawers were empty. Instead, he walked back downstairs, forced his work boots onto his grossly swollen feet and set off to Lorne Field as required by his contract.

The Aukowies seemed aware of the schism that had occurred the previous day in their death struggles with Jack Durkin and all the Caretakers before him. It wasn’t anything Durkin could put his finger on, just a vague sense of dread. Maybe it was the way they stared at him, as though they were expecting something. They still mostly played possum, not putting up much more of a fight than usual when he ripped them from the ground. But all day he had trouble shaking an uneasiness deep in his gut that things had changed. He felt himself dragging, his bones feeling like they’d been filled with lead and his muscles with rubber.

When he got home that evening he realized for the first time that his car was gone. He tried to remember whether he had seen it that morning and decided he hadn’t. Lydia must’ve taken it when she left the other day. He didn’t bother pulling his work boots off at the door. Without Lydia there to harp on him, why bother?

There were still a couple of beers left from the six-pack Charlie Harper had brought over. He drank one of them while he searched through the refrigerator. There wasn’t much in there, and he didn’t feel like having cornflakes for a third straight meal. He hated the idea of imposing on Charlie after eating at his bar only a few nights earlier, but he rationalized that a cheeseburger, fries and a beer weren’t too much to ask for breaking his back all day to keep Charlie and his family alive. In any case, he needed to bring him back his broken camcorder, and that night was as good as any to do that.

With his car gone, Durkin checked the attached garage his pa had built forty years earlier and found Lester’s mountain bike stored inside. It was different than the kind of bike he was used to. He couldn’t sit straight up on it, instead had to lean forward and put tension on his already sore shoulders. It was also hard getting the thing going, especially since he had Charlie’s camcorder wrapped around his right wrist. He tipped over a few times, but after a half hour or so he got the hang of it. Not that he ever felt comfortable on the bike, but at least he was able to get the thing moving.