The Caretaker of Lorne Field (6 page)

“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. That’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.

“I think you two had better leave,” Charlie said.

“Aw, come on, Charlie, we’re just having some fun,” Jasper said, his laughter dying down to a sputter. Darryl, grinning widely, wiped tears from his face.

“I mean it. I want you to leave now. And I don’t want you coming back here.”

Charlie took a step towards them, his large hands balled into fists, and the humor left the Hagerty brothers’ faces. The brothers were big men and less than half the age of Charlie Harper, but Charlie was also a big man with large forearms and thick bones and a face that showed scars from dozens of barroom fights. As the Hagerty brothers tried to stare him down, the violence compressing their mouths faded to something more like petulance. Darryl cracked first and shifted his eyes towards the exit. “Plenty of other places to spend my money,” he said. He got up and walked towards the door. Jasper Hagerty followed him out of the Rusty Nail.

Charlie walked back behind the bar and rejoined Durkin. “Hell with them if they can’t show the proper respect,” he said.