The Caretaker of Lorne Field

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.

“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.

Bert didn’t come back the next Saturday.

Durkin thought about it and decided the bike ride must’ve been too much for the boy, or maybe someone at the foster home had found out about his first trip to Lorne Field and took his bike away. Twenty miles back and forth was a lot of riding, and he couldn’t blame Bert for not doing it again. In a way he was glad he didn’t. He didn’t want his boy seeing him the way he was; besides, he’d have plenty of opportunities to see Bert after the weeding season was over. He had too much on his mind as it was. His ankle wasn’t getting any better, his back was stiffer and more bent each day, and he kept thinking about his last phone call with Jeanette Thompson. As she had asked, he waited a week before calling her again. This time her voice was shriller than before, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. She told him that she couldn’t find the items he had asked about and must’ve thrown them out. Before hanging up, she warned him not to call again, and that if he did, she’d take out a restraining order against him.

When he got off the phone he almost rode out to the town dump, but he was just too tired. As exhausted and near panicked as he was, he knew he’d have no chance of finding his contract and book buried in a mountain of garbage-that all he would accomplish would be getting bit up by rats. He decided that was probably what Jeanette Thompson wanted. It made no sense for her throw those items away, and she was probably just trying to work him up and send him on a wild goose chase as punishment for Hank’s death.

Later, after first frost came, he would call her again and explain the importance of getting his contract and the Book of Aukowies back. Given a chance to calm down, she’d return them.

It was more than two weeks after Bert had showed up at the field that Durkin started hearing noises. It was low at first, sort of a mechanical rumbling sound, but every couple of hours or so it appeared to get louder. The next day he started hearing men’s voices mixed with the mechanical rumblings, and the day after a bulldozer pushed through the path with a tractor following behind to roll over and flatten the ground. Both pieces of equipment stopped at the edge of the field. The driver of the bulldozer squinted hard at Durkin. “No one’s supposed to be here,” the man called out. He stepped out of the bulldozer and stood next to it with his hands on his hips, a baffled look on his face.

He was a square man with a pudgy face, who was either bald or had his hair cut close to the scalp-hard to tell which with the hardhat covering his head. Durkin didn’t recognize him and guessed he was from out of town. He pushed himself off his knees and onto his feet. It took him some time to straighten his back and for his head to stop swimming.

“No one’s supposed to be here,” the construction worker yelled out to him. “Get off the field!”

Durkin surveyed what he had done so far. While he had two-thirds of the field weeded, he had started from the other end and the field between him and the two construction workers was covered with four-inch Aukowies. As the scene fully registered on him and he saw the sneakers that one of the construction workers wore, he knew if the man stepped into the field he’d have his ankles sliced to ribbons. Durkin almost turned his back on him, knowing that if that were to happen it would convince the town once and for all what the Aukowies really were. He couldn’t do it, though. Sighing heavily, he tried waving the men away and yelled out in a voice that wasn’t much more than a hoarse croak for them to leave. He could see it wasn’t doing any good. The two workers just stared back at him with confused expressions screwing up their faces, one standing by the edge of the field, the other sitting on his tractor. Reluctantly, Durkin shuffled slowly over to meet them.

“You have any idea where you are?” Durkin asked. He peered at the man sitting on the tractor. He didn’t recognize him, either, but saw that the worker had taken out a cell phone and was talking hurriedly into it.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The pudgy construction worker took a step away. Durkin saw the nervousness flash on his face and had a good idea what was behind it. He was afraid he was either dealing with a crazy person, or a contagious one.

“Ron,” the man on the tractor yelled out to his co-worker, “I made a call. Let’s just wait until some people show up, okay?”

Ron exchanged glances with his co-worker, then slowly backed up to his bulldozer and got into it. He sat with his arms crossed, his eyes small and piggish as he watched Durkin.

Looking at the way both men stared at him, Durkin could feel his temper slipping away. “You want to learn about where you’re at?” he heard himself asking them. “Just stick your hands in those weeds and you’ll learn all about Lorne Field.” He started to move closer to the bulldozer, but Ron made a shooing motion with his hands. “Just go back to what you were doing and stay away from me,” he said.

Durkin stumbled back on his heels, dizzy. He knew it was mostly his fever, a constant since hurting his ankle, but it was also partly not knowing what to do. He couldn’t fight either of those men, not in the condition he was in. And even if he could, what would be the point? The one in the tractor had already called the police. They were going to come and remove him from the field like they did his home. Then these two were going to be left to do God knows what. He broke out laughing then. A hoarse, aching sound that hurt deep in his chest. He noticed their reaction to it and it only made him laugh harder. So what, he thought. He was no longer Caretaker. This was no longer his problem. The hell with it. The hell with all of it. He took a couple of short, shuffling steps away from the field, then froze, slumping, his knees turning to jelly under him. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just walk away. Not with only a week or so before first frost. He had no idea what else to do, so he made his way back to the Aukowies and continued his weeding.

It didn’t take long for Sheriff Wolcott to arrive down the dirt rode that the bulldozer and tractor had made. Wolcott stepped out of his jeep and started towards Durkin, who turned his head and saw with some disappointment that Wolcott was wearing boots. Durkin turned back to his weeding.

Wolcott walked up to Durkin and watched him silently. After a few minutes Durkin acknowledged him, muttering “Sheriff” half under his breath.

“Jack,” Wolcott said. “I had no idea where you had gone to. Don’t tell me you’ve been living out here all this time?”

“Ain’t against the law, is it?”

“Well, yeah, technically it is. This is town property and trespassing notices have been posted. But forget that for now.” He hesitated, his tongue wetting his lips. “Jack, we need to talk.”

“Go ahead and talk. It’s a free country. But I got weeding to do.”

Wolcott stood silently for several more minutes, then in a quiet voice said, “You don’t look well, Jack. It doesn’t even look to me like you’ve been eating. How much weight have you dropped, forty pounds? Let me take you to the hospital. We can talk after you see someone.”

“I’ve been eating fine. And I told you, I’m busy.”

“You’re no longer Caretaker, Jack.”

“It don’t matter. Somebody’s got to keep saving the world each day.”

Wolcott watched while Durkin pulled up another dozen Aukowies and then repeated that they needed to talk.

Durkin turned and looked at Wolcott through red-rimmed eyes. “You think I ain’t nothing but a crackpot, huh? How about I prove to you what these Aukowies really are.”

He pulled his work glove off his left hand and reached down into a clump of Aukowies. He had his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for them to tear his fingers off. He could feel them bristling against his skin, but nothing else. He opened his eyes and could see them weakening. They’d been waiting for this chance for years, and he knew the temptation was too much for them. He could feel the tension building in them as they struggled to keep from ripping him apart.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

“Just give me a minute,” he forced out, his voice sounding like his throat had been scraped with sandpaper. “They ain’t going to be able to hold out much longer. A little while longer and they’ll show you their true colors.”

“For Chrissakes, Jack, just stand up already!”

He felt the Aukowies rustling harder against his skin. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before they’d lose control, but before that could happen he was dragged to his feet. Wolcott had his arms around his chest and was lifting him up, and Durkin was too weak to fight it. He looked angrily in Wolcott’s eyes and saw nothing but sadness.

“You arrestin’ me, Sheriff?” he grunted out.

“I don’t want to, Jack, but if you don’t leave the field I’ll have no choice. We do need to talk. It’s important.”

“What about?”

“This is not a good place, Jack-”

“You want to talk to me, talk now!”

Wolcott filled his lungs and let it out slowly. He looked away.

“There was an accident. Two weeks ago last Saturday. Your son, Bert, was riding his bike on the highway and he was hit by a truck. I’m sorry, Jack, but he didn’t survive.”

Jack Durkin’s stare turned blank. Breathing heavily, he left the wheelbarrow and canvas sack where they were and started towards the new dirt road that had been built. Wolcott kept pace with him.

“Jack, if I had any idea you were out here, I would’ve sent someone for you.”

Durkin continued to walk straight ahead as though deaf and dumb to the world. He went past the bulldozer and tractor and kept going. Both construction workers looked questioningly at the sheriff, who signaled for them to look away. Wolcott stepped quickly and grabbed Durkin by the elbow.

“Let me drive you somewhere. I can’t just leave you like this.”

Durkin ripped his arm free and kept his short shuffling pace until he reached the shed that his great grandpa had built. There, he stored his work gloves inside the shed, took Lester’s bike and pushed himself on it. The bike tottered for a long moment as he pedaled. For a few seconds it looked almost as if he were on a stationary bike before it started to roll forward. Wolcott stood watching. When the bike was rounding the bend, he yelled out that if Durkin came back to the field he was going to have to arrest him, that he would have no choice.