The Caretaker of Lorne Field (23 page)

“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 “That means the contract’s no longer in effect as far as I’m concerned, either,” he added.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.

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.

“I’m okay, son,” he said. “Just a couple more weeks of weeding and first frost will be here. I’ll be able to rest then.”

They walked quietly to the waiting Aukowies. “Stand back, son,” Durkin said. “If you look carefully you can see their little faces. When they’re bigger, there’s no mistaking those evil grins of theirs. But even now you can see them.”

“I-I think I can see it,” Bert said.

Durkin pointed a finger at the nearest one. “Right there, see the way it’s looking at us. It’s hoping we’ll think it’s just a weed, but it’s watching us. You can see its little slit-eyes and grinning mouth and horns. You see it, Bert?”

“I see it, dad.”

“Listen to the sound it makes when I kill it.”

Durkin pulled the Aukowie from the ground and then looked hopefully over at Bert. “You hear it?”

“I-I’m not sure. What’s it supposed to sound like?”

“They scream when they die. Sometimes it takes a while before you’re able to hear, but just keep listening for it.”

“Try another one, dad.”

Durkin pulled another Aukowie out of the ground.

“I heard it,” Bert said, his eyes focused off into the distance, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I heard it scream.”

Durkin felt proud as looked at his son and knew he was telling him the truth. It brought back memories of the first day his own dad had taken him to Lorne Field. “Kind of what you’d imagine a dog whistle would sound like if you could hear it,” he said.

“That’s exactly how it sounded!”

“You want to help me, son? You can push the wheelbarrow while I weed them.”

“Sure, dad.”

“Now, don’t be alarmed, but I’m going to get on my knees. It’s just easier for me that way right now. My back’s been hurtin’ a little, and so’s my ankle, but it’s nothin’ serious.”

Durkin got down on all fours and started pulling out Aukowies and handing them to Bert so he could put them in the canvas sack. “Be careful how you hold those. Even though they’re dead, the fangs on them are razor sharp.”

“I’ll be careful.”

As Durkin weeded, he explained to Bert how he felt for the right angle on the Aukowies so they’d come out easily and not break off in the ground. Looking at his son’s face, he knew Bert was picking it up.

“I’m going to be the next Caretaker, won’t I, dad?”

“I’m afraid so,” Durkin said, his voice growing even more hoarse. “There’s no way around it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t, son,” Durkin said. He wished that there was some other fate possible for his boy. He could feel the weight of his son’s future pushing down hard inside his chest. Without looking at Bert, he asked if he’d seen his ma.

“She’s trying to get us back with her,” Bert said softly. “She visits every other day with a social worker.”

“Where she’s living?”

“Mom’s got her own apartment.”

Durkin turned a questioning eye towards his son, but muttered that that was good. “You know how she’s able to afford it?” he asked.

“Her friend, Mrs. Vernon, helped her. Mom’s going to be writing a book.”

Durkin backed away from a patch of Aukowies and stared hard at Bert. “That ain’t possible,” he said. “She talks even worse than I do. That woman can barely read, let alone write. What in the world could she be writing a book about?”

“Someone’s going to be helping her. They’re paying her a lot of money to write about her life.”

Durkin could see the real answer in his son’s embarrassment. “You mean about how she’s married to a crazy loon who thinks he pulls out monsters from a field all day long and cuts off his son’s thumb?”

Bert shrugged, his grin weakening. “I don’t know, dad.”

“It don’t matter,” Durkin muttered. He went back to his weeding. “Good for her. Let her take them for every penny they got.”

Durkin let his son help him for another half hour, then with a grunt pulled himself to his feet and smiled sadly at him.

“You better be headin’ off,” he said. “You got a long bike ride ahead of you.”

“I can help you some more.”

“No, I don’t want you riding your bike in the dark.” He winked at his son. “Or gettin’ in trouble at that foster home. Just tell Lester he needs to come clean. And tell your ma I’ll be talking to her soon.”

“I will.” Bert looked away and kicked at the ground. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets. “Dad, when I rode by the house I saw a padlock and eviction notice on the door.”

“It’s just temporary, son. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“Where are you living?”

“I’m camping out here until the season’s done.” He winked again at his son. “It’s fun. Playing Daniel Boone, livin’ out here in the wilderness.”

“Why don’t I stay with you and help?”

“Can’t do that, son. It would just get you in trouble. And me, too, when they come lookin’ for you. But I’ll be seeing you soon. Three weeks at the most, I promise.”

He held out his hand, and Bert looked at it, his bottom lip quivering. He stepped forward and grabbed his father in a hard embrace. Durkin stood helplessly for a moment, then embraced his son and smoothed the hair on his head while whispering hoarsely to him that everything was going to be okay. He let go after a minute, telling his son he had to get back to his weeding. Bert nodded glumly and took a step away.

“I started school already, so I can’t come during the week, but I’ll be back next Saturday,” he said.

“You better not. It’s too long a ride. Besides, you’ll just get yourself in trouble.”

“Nope, I’m coming back.” Bert walked reluctantly towards his bike. He stopped to wave to his father. “I’ll see you next week!”

Durkin waved back and watched as his son got on his bike and rode away. After that, he went back to his weeding.