The Caretaker of Lorne Field

Chapter 3

Jack Durkin’s day usually ended at seven, but it wasn’t until eight o’clock that night he finished his third pass of the field and emptied the sack into a stone pit behind Lorne Field, adding to the small mountain of Aukowies picked earlier that day. Kerosene wasn’t needed. Just throw a match on the Aukowie remains and they lit up as if they’d been soaked in gasoline. The contract required him to watch them burn, so after setting a match to the remains, he stood and watched the flames shoot skyward. After the fire died out he gathered up the ashes, mixed them with lime and buried them. Then he headed home.

At a quarter to nine Durkin stepped through his front door, too bone-tired at first to do anything but glare angrily at his wife. He would’ve fallen over when he took off his work boots except he was able to throw out his right hand and grasp the wall and keep himself on his feet. Lydia’s color paled to a dead white as she watched him.

“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice unusually brittle.

He shot her a withering look, then hobbled past her and collapsed into a worn imitation-leather recliner that had been patched up in places with duct tape.

“You ain’t going to tell me what happened?” Lydia demanded, a hot white anger chasing out whatever concern she had felt moments earlier.

“Get me a bucket of hot water first,” Durkin said. “My damn feet are swollen to twice their size.”

“Oh, no! You tell me what happened or you just sit there and rot! I’ve been worrying half to death the last hour!”

Durkin stared at her, his mouth moving as if he were chewing gum. Finally, whatever internal dialogue he had been engaged in ended and his lips closed, his eyes livid.

“You want to know what happened?” he forced himself to say. “I’ll tell you what happened. Some punk kids violated the contract, that’s what happened. They nearly got me killed. And not just me, this whole goddamn world too.”

“How’d they do that?”

“How’d they do that? By violating the contract, that’s how.” Jack Durkin gripped the armrests of his chair and pulled himself up so he was sitting straight. His leathery tanned skin looked waxen as waves of indignation rolled through him. He could barely sit still he was so mad. “Those damn fool kids snuck down to Lorne Field, that’s how.” Hurt and embarrassed, his voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper as he added, “They threw tomatoes at me, goddamit. They threw tomatoes at me.”

Lydia’s jaw dropped open. She stood gaping at him, and all at once burst out laughing. She doubled over as tears of laughter streamed down her face. She almost collapsed to the floor she laughed so hard, her small bony hands holding her stomach.

“You think that’s funny?”

She nodded, her body still convulsing too much for her to say anything. Durkin’s lips pressed into thin bloodless lines as he watched his borderline hysterical wife. Gasping for air, she said, “You bet I find that funny. Boys throwing tomatoes at you almost killed you, huh? And that almost killed off the world? Jesus, is that funny. Thanks, I needed the laugh.”

“One of them tomatoes almost knocked me off my feet.”

“And that would’ve killed you?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. ‘You ain’t worth wasting my breath on. Now get me that bucket of hot water for my feet!”

“Get your own bucket. And there’s macaroni and cheese on the stove. You can get that for yourself too.”

Lydia walked out of the room laughing to herself, weaving as if she were drunk. Durkin sat fuming, too angry and tired for several minutes to do anything other than sit where he was. Gritting his teeth and with his arms shaking he pushed himself to his feet. He took a crippled, hobbling step towards the kitchen, stopped, and instead turned and headed towards the basement door, moving as if he were walking barefoot on sharp stones. A narrow wooden staircase led to an unfinished dirt basement, the ceiling low enough that he had to crouch as he moved around down there. Using a flashlight he found the two stones along the back wall that he was looking for. With a little bit of muscle he slid them out. Behind them was a wooden box that held the contract for the Caretaker of Lorne Field. Durkin brushed off his hands and took the contract out of the box. He tried to read it with his flashlight but was squinting too much and couldn’t make it out. He put the box back into its hiding place and replaced the stones. Grimacing from the pain radiating through his feet, he gingerly held the vellum paper by its edges and headed back upstairs. Once he was out of the basement, he hobbled to the head of the staircase leading to the second floor and bellowed for his two boys to come downstairs. Bert emerged from the boys’ bedroom and asked him what he wanted.

“Get my reading glasses from my night table drawer, and get your ass down here.”

Bert nodded and disappeared into his parent’s bedroom. He reappeared a minute or so later grinning stupidly and holding a pair of glasses. Before he could take a step down the stairs, Durkin stopped him, asking him if he knew where his brother was.

“Lester’s watching TV.”

“Tell him to get his ass down here, too!”

Bert disappeared again. Durkin heard his younger son tell Lester that he was wanted downstairs, then heard Lester complain that he was busy watching one of his shows and to tell dad he’d be down later. Durkin yelled out for Bert to tell his brother that unless he wanted to watch TV standing up and holding an icepack to his bottom he’d better do as he was told, ’cause if he had to go upstairs that’d be the only way Lester would be comfortable enough afterwards to watch anything. Even though both boys heard what was yelled, he heard Bert repeat it to Lester, then Lester complaining and bitching and moaning about it all the way to the top of the stairs. When his older boy saw him, his eyes went blank and his mouth formed into a small hurt oval. He asked what was so important.

“I want you two boys down here now,” Durkin ordered brusquely. “I got something important to say to both of you.”

Bert good-naturedly raced down the stairs, but Lester grumbled as he walked down them, moving as if he were as exhausted as Durkin felt. Durkin couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret that the boys’ births hadn’t been reversed. Even though Bert was small-framed, he would’ve made a fine caretaker, but Durkin had his doubts whether Lester was of the proper material.

Well, the boy will just have to grow into it, Jack Durkin thought solemnly. If he didn’t, God help us all. He moved back to the recliner and sat, trying to hide from his boys how damned tired he felt. After Bert handed him his reading glasses, Durkin told him to fetch him a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts for his feet, then directed Lester to get him a plate of macaroni and cheese and something to drink. “Afterwards you two take a seat on that sofa. I got something important to say to the both of you.”

Bert raced into the kitchen. Lester continued to grumble to himself, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. Durkin sighed to himself as he watched him. This was going to have to change. Somehow that boy was going to have to develop the right attitude. He slipped his reading glasses on and read through the contract until he found the clause he was looking for. Grimly he reread it. It was as he thought.

Bert returned first with the bucket of hot water. Durkin took his socks off, rolled up his pants and stuck his feet in it. Bert bounced onto the sofa, eager, attentive. “Dad, what’s so important?” he asked.

“Wait until your brother’s here,” Durkin muttered without much enthusiasm. He tried to keep his expression stone-faced and hide the relief he felt soaking his sore feet. It was another five minutes before Lester emerged from the kitchen with a plate of food and a glass of water. Durkin took both from him, putting the plate on the end table next to him. The water was lukewarm. Lester couldn’t bother putting an ice cube in it. And of course, he couldn’t even think of bringing a fork with him from the kitchen. Without bothering to hide his disgust, Durkin ordered his son back to the kitchen for a fork. It was five minutes more before Lester returned with it. He then joined his brother on the sofa, rolled his eyes and stared sullenly at his dad. Durkin picked up the plate of food and took a few bites of it. The macaroni and cheese was tasteless. Cardboard mixed with breadcrumbs and stale cheese wouldn’t have tasted much worse. He dropped the plate back onto the end table and gave his two boys a hard look.

“You boys hear of anyone sneaking down to Lorne Field today?” Durkin asked, his tone icy, dispassionate. Both boys shook their heads, both taken off-guard by his manner. “Why?” Bert asked. “What happened?”

“Never you mind.”

“It looks like something happened,” Lester said, recovering enough to show a smirk. “You smell like tomatoes. Looks like you got it on you, too. Your clothes, even your face and hair.”

“Is that what happened?” Bert asked wide-eyed. “Did some kids sneak down there and throw tomatoes at you?”

Durkin’s eyes narrowed as he studied both his boys; Lester making no effort to hide his smirk, Bert looking honestly concerned. “You two ask around,” he said. “You hear anything, you tell me.”

“Wow,” Bert murmured. “That really happened?”

“Don’t you two say nothin’ to no one about it. Just ask around. See if any of your friends know about it.” Durkin held up the three-hundred-year-old document he had brought up from the basement. “I never showed you boys this before, but this is the Caretaker contract. Most important document in this world.”

“Big deal,” Lester said under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.”

“He said ‘big deal,’” Bert said.

“You bet it’s a big deal,” Durkin said. “You’re going to be Caretaker in less than four years.”

“No, I’m not,” Lester argued stubbornly. “I asked mom and she says I don’t have to.”

“Oh yes, you do, son. It’s stated so in the contract. When you turn twenty-one, you become Caretaker. That’s the way it’s going to be, Lester.”

“Mom says I don’t have to listen to you.”

“That’s ’cause your mom’s a damn fool. This contract’s the most important document in this world. You’re going to honor it. You got to. There’s no choice in the matter.”

Lester’s oval mouth contracted into a small dot as he stared blankly at the floor. Bert interjected that he could take the Caretaker job if Lester didn’t want it.

Durkin smiled sadly at him. “Don’t work that way, Bert. The contract clearly states the eldest son must be the Caretaker. So unless something were to happen to your brother, it just can’t be done.”

“Why don’t you just pretend something happened to me,” Lester said, his lips forming into a bitter smile.

Durkin brought his hand up to his face and squeezed his eyes. When he pulled his hand away, his eyes had reddened some. “Lester, what do you think I do all day?”

Lester looked up from the floor and stared at his dad, a hurt look playing on his mouth. He pushed out his bottom lip and said that he walked around some stupid field all day and pulled out weeds. That it was the lamest job in the world.

“That’s what you think I do, huh? How about you Bert, is that what you think I do?”

Bert shrugged, smiling noncommittally.

“Those ain’t weeds I pull out,” Durkin said. “They’re Aukowies. I’ll go over the book with the two of you later, but the only reason the world’s safe is ’cause I go out there every day and pull them from that field.”

Lester smirked, but he didn’t say anything. Durkin couldn’t help feeling hot under the collar watching his son. He held his breath, counted to ten trying to cool off. “Lester,” he said, struggling hard to control his voice, “you don’t think I’d rather be doing something else with my life? You think I like carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders? But it’s our burden to bear, son. When you think about it, it’s a great honor-”

“Yeah, such a great honor. That’s why it pays you eight thousand dollars. I’d make twice that working at McDonald’s.”

Durkin fidgeted, turned away from his son to look out the window. “It’s more than just eight thousand dollars, Lester. This home is deeded to the Caretaker and his family.” He stopped for a moment to stare at the crescent moon in the sky. In the dusk a bat flew in a herky-jerky motion across it and then zigzagged out of sight. He turned slowly back to his son. “Used to be no honorarium was provided in the contract ’cause it was expected of the townsfolk in the county to provide for the Caretaker’s needs. They amended the contract back in 1869 to add the honorarium. Then eight thousand dollars was a lot of money.”

“It’s squat now.”

Durkin shrugged his stooped rounded shoulders. “Maybe so,” he said, “but back in 1869 it was a lot of money. Enough for a man and his family to be well taken care of.” He fidgeted more in his chair, picking at some dirt under his nails. Without much conviction, he added, “That was what was intended with the honorarium. But you’re right, eight thousand dollars ain’t what it used to be. When I started as Caretaker it was a good enough salary but, well, now things have to be fixed. I’m going to bring it up to the town council. They’re going to have to fix it. It’s only right that they do.”

“Dad, what are Aukowies?” Bert asked.

“They’re bogeymen,” Lester said with a knowing smirk.

“No, they ain’t bogeymen. Bogeymen are imaginary. Aukowies are real. I kill thousands of them every day.”

“Sure you do,” Lester said with another eye roll.

“You bet I do. I pull thousands of Aukowies out of that field every day. Weeds don’t have a mind of their own like these things do. They don’t try to cut off your fingers with razor-sharp pincers. And they sure as hell don’t scream when you kill them.”

“They scream?” Bert asked.

“If you listen carefully enough you can hear them. Sounds kind of like a mouse in a trap.”

“Do they look like weeds?”

“When they’re small maybe. But if you know what to look at you can tell they ain’t no weeds. You got to remember, though, I pull them up before they get a chance to mature. A one-day-old Aukowie looks a lot different than an eight-day-old one.”

“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.

Durkin kept his eyes trained on his beer. “That’s what it has come to. Being laughed at by a couple of oafs like them.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then smiled reluctantly. “It’s tough enough every day looking out at a field growing full of Aukowies, knowing I got almost four years left before Lester can take over. With the way the town’s acting, I just don’t know, Charlie. I’m getting tired.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

“You’re not going to stop your weeding?”

Durkin didn’t answer him.

“Jesus, Jack, if you are planning that give me some notice.” Charlie forced a nervous smile. “At least give me a chance to get on the first plane I can to Tahiti.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good. Aukowies would be there quick enough. Three or four weeks tops.”

“Jack, come on, you can’t let a couple of dumb asses like the Hagerty brothers get to you.”

“It’s not just them, Charlie. It’s the whole town. Chrissakes, even my wife, my two boys.”

“Your boys don’t believe?”

“Maybe Bert, but Lester can’t keep the smirk off his face.” He smiled weakly and waved a hand in front of him as if he were waving away the last few minutes. “Don’t worry, Charlie. Just feeling sorry for myself, that’s all. I may be tired but I’m not quitting my weeding. Hell, only a couple of months to first frost. I’ll make it. And things are going to change with Lester. I’m taking him with me in a few days. He’ll see firsthand those ain’t no weeds.”

Charlie’s heavy eyelids drooped a bit as he nodded to himself. “Any chance you can take me out there sometime?” he asked.

“I can’t do that. That would be violating the contract.”

“It might help to have other people see those creatures firsthand.”

Durkin thought about it and shook his head. “I’d like to. But I can’t violate the contract. If I start with this, who knows what rule I’d bend next. At some point we’d all be lost.”

Charlie stroked his chin, considering that. “How about taking pictures of them. Anything in the contract against that?”

“Shouldn’t be anything against it. Contract was written before cameras existed. Problem is, from a picture I doubt they’d look much different than a weed.”

“You own a camcorder?”

Durkin shook his head.

“I’ll loan you mine. I use it to take movies of my grand-kids. You film those creatures and I think people around here will change their attitude.”

Durkin sat still for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I could do that,” he said. “As long as there’s nothing in the contract against it. You think you could teach me how to use one of those things?”

“Sure. They’re easy to learn. I should be able to teach you in a few minutes. I’ll tell you what-I’ll bring it over to your house tomorrow night.”

Durkin sat straighter on his barstool, his shoulders barely stooped, his chest looking less caved-in than usual. It was almost as if some of the invisible weight had been rolled off his shoulders. Not all, but some. “Okay, then,” he said.