The Caretaker of Lorne Field

Chapter 7

The next morning Jack Durkin was out of bed two hours earlier than usual. Keeping as quiet as he could, he snuck down to the kitchen, poured himself a bowl of cereal, made a cup of instant coffee and was out the door before Lydia woke up, or at least before she had a chance to come downstairs and nag at him. He was two-thirds done with his second pass of weeding when Wolcott and two town police officers, Bob Smith and Mark Griestein, approached the field. The three men walked up to him, and Wolcott told him he was under arrest for cutting off his son’s thumb.

“It’s a long hike back to the cruiser, Jack. I’m hoping I don’t have to put handcuffs on you. You’ll come along peacefully, won’t you?”

Durkin nodded. He looked from Wolcott to the other two men with him. Griestein’s face was a blank screen, his eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses. Bob Smith, on the other hand, looked deeply worried. Durkin had finished his freshman year of high school before dropping out. During that year he played third base for his school’s varsity baseball team, while Bob Smith, a senior, played first. His coach thought Durkin had major league potential, and so did the scouts who came to watch him play. That was the reason he dropped out after one year; he didn’t want to hear about all the potential he had when his future was already set. But during that season him and Bob had been good friends.

“Okay, Jack,” Wolcott said, “you can leave the canvas sack where it is. Let’s go.”

The last thing Durkin wanted to do was give Wolcott any satisfaction, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying how an Aukowie chewed off Lester’s thumb and if his boy couldn’t remember what had happened it was because of his being in shock.

“Is that so?” Wolcott said. “One of these weeds bit it off, huh? It’s funny, to me they only look like weeds. Maybe godawful ugly ones, but still just weeds. How about you, Mark? These weeds look like they could bite off someone’s thumb?”

Griestein shook his head.

“How about you, Bob?” Wolcott asked. “You think they could do something like that?”

“Dan, let’s just do our job and get out of here.”

“One minute. I just want to see how hungry these man-eating weeds really are.” Wolcott walked over to a clump of two-inch Aukowies and lowered his hand towards them. Durkin closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch what was going to happen. After several seconds of squeezing his eyes shut tight, he was surprised when he didn’t hear any screaming.

“Come on, Jack,” Wolcott said, “take a look for yourself and tell me why my fingers aren’t being bitten off.”

Jack Durkin opened his eyes. Wolcott’s fingers were right in the middle of the Aukowies. He could see their little faces as they smirked at him, and he understood.

They knew.

How?

Somehow they knew they could hurt him if they resisted their natural urges. That they could beat him this way. But he could see the strain building on them. He could see them weakening.

“Just keep your fingers where they are,” Durkin said.

Wolcott stood up, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. “Come on, Jack, let’s get you to the station.”

Griestein nudged Durkin, and he followed behind Wolcott while the two police officers stayed on either side of him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Durkin told Wolcott. “Without me weeding they’re going to be four to five inches by nighttime.”

“I’m doing my job, Jack. That’s all I’m doing.”

When they got onto the path leading back to the cabin, Durkin asked if they could stop by his house so he could tell Lydia what was happening.

“Sorry, Jack, I need to take you to the station. After you’re processed, you can make a phone call.”

Bob Smith glared at Wolcott, then over Wolcott’s protestations, handed Durkin his cell phone. “Go ahead, Jack,” he said, “give Lydia a call.”

Durkin stared at the phone as if he were being asked to perform an emergency appendectomy. Trying to keep his voice low so Wolcott couldn’t hear him, he admitted that he didn’t know how to use it. Even if he did, he doubted whether he’d even be able to push the buttons on it with his fingers being as thick and swollen as they were. Bob Smith asked for his home number and dialed it for him. When Lydia picked up, Durkin told her he was being arrested and for her to bring his contract to Hank Thompson and tell him what was happening. “I know you know where it’s hidden, so don’t try arguing otherwise. And I don’t want that other lawyer involved.”

Durkin handed the cell phone back to Bob Smith and thanked him for his help. Bob Smith looked like he badly wanted to ask him a question, but he restrained himself.

Even though Lydia had been expecting that very call from her husband all morning, it was still a shock after she got off the phone with him. She sat at the table and chain-smoked through half a pack of cigarettes before she felt like she could move. Then she brought the phone to the kitchen table and tried to make up her mind about what to do.

Her right hand, the one she had injured hitting the table, had swollen to twice its normal size and was a purplish-bluish color around the base of her palm. It hurt too much for her to hold the receiver in it, so she had to rest the receiver on the table while she dialed with her left hand and then picked it up also with her left hand. When she told the receptionist who she was, she was put on hold for five minutes before Paul Minter answered. His voice sounded odd as he told her it was over.

“What?”

“It’s over, Mrs. Durkin.”

“What do you mean it’s over?”

He sighed. “Just what I said. The town council doesn’t want anything to do with this anymore. I spoke with all of them and it’s over.”

Her head was spinning as she tried to get a handle on what he was telling her. Not that it surprised her. Not that it wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. Ever since the lawyer told her they could make millions she knew Jack would ruin it for them.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, although she knew it made perfect sense, but she still couldn’t help herself asking why it was happening.

He sighed again. “Because your son, Lester, is telling the authorities that your husband grabbed him, wrestled him to the ground and cut off his thumb. I understand that the police are going to be arresting him soon. It’s probably better if you hire another lawyer to represent him.”

He hung up then.

She sat clutching the phone for another few minutes before heading upstairs to the bedroom to pack her clothes away in a small tattered cloth suitcase that she had last used nineteen years earlier when Jack took her on a trip to Miami. When she was done she called her friend, Helen Vernon. After that, she smoked a couple of more cigarettes, carried her suitcase out to Jack’s Chevy Nova and, with some effort, swung it into the trunk. She stood frozen for a long moment. When she looked back at the house, she daydreamed about lighting a match to it. In her mind’s eye she could see it going up in flames. But she didn’t light any matches. Instead, she got in the car and drove away.

Hank Thompson showed up at the police station while Jack Durkin was being fingerprinted. He was a tall, lean man in his early seventies with a thick bushy head of hair the color of cigar ash and an imposing air of authority about him. He waited until Durkin wiped the ink from his fingers, then offered his hand.

“I’m so sorry about your son’s accident,” he said with the utmost sincerity.

Durkin started to open his mouth to correct him, but closed it and nodded instead. “Lydia call you?” he asked. “I’m surprised she ain’t here yet.”

Hank Thompson’s thick cigar-ash-colored eyebrows came together as he frowned and shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard from your lovely wife yet. Officer Bob Smith called me to let me know what happened, but I also heard through the grapevine.”

“Hank, I need to get back to that field.”

Hank Thompson was still holding Durkin’s hand, and he placed his free hand on top of Durkin’s and gave it a warm pat. An understanding and comforting smile formed over his lips. “I know you do, Jack,” he said. “And I’m going to get you back there as soon as I possibly can.” The attorney turned to Officer Mark Griestein who was processing Durkin and told him in a pleasant but firm voice that he’d like to have a few minutes alone with his client. Griestein scratched behind his ear, nodded, and led the way to a storage chamber that doubled as a conference room, although up to that point it had never been used that way.

“I’ll be out here,” he told them. “Take your time.”

As soon as the door closed Hank turned to Jack and, with his voice trembling with indignation, said, “This is outrageous what they’re doing to you.”

“They violated my contract. They marched right onto Lorne Field and violated my contract.”

“It’s not right, Jack, not after everything you and your family has done for this town. I knew your dad well. He was a good man. This is just not right. But-” and he waved a long thin finger for emphasis, “it’s going to be taken care of. I’ve already spoken to Judge Harris and he’s heading to the courthouse as we speak. When he gets there, he’s going to open a special session for your arraignment hearing. Those bastards were planning to keep you locked up in jail overnight so they could make a big show of the hearing tomorrow morning.”

“I thought Judge Harris retired?”

Hank showed a sly, secretive smile. “Not entirely. He put off the paperwork so he could be called in as a consultant if needed. And Jack, that is very good news for us.”

Hank’s cell phone rang. He frowned as he held it at arm’s length so he could read the caller ID information, then he spoke quickly in it before hanging up.

“Good news. Judge Harris is at the courthouse now,” he told Durkin. “We’ll get you over there in about fifteen minutes and then back to your field.”

“I hope so,” Durkin muttered in a low guttural voice. “Two-inch Aukowies are hard enough to weed. Once they get to four to five inches…”

“I understand, Jack. You don’t have to say any more.” Hank cleared his throat, his smile weakening a bit. “How are you going to explain to Judge Harris about what happened?”

“I’ll tell him the truth.”

“That it was an accident, right, Jack?” Hank placed a hand on Jack Durkin’s shoulder and stooped down several inches so he could meet Durkin’s eyes. “That’s what you’re going to tell him, right?”

Durkin nodded slowly as if he had had weights attached to the back of his head.

“That is the truth, isn’t it, Jack? That it was an accident?”

“Yep. You could call it an accident.”

“Good.” Hank nodded slowly as he assessed Durkin. “Any idea what your son has told the police?”

“All I can think is he can’t remember what happened. He seemed to go into shock pretty fast.”

“That must be it,” Hank agreed with more certainty. “Those bastards trying to make a case out of this.” He turned away and rapped his knuckles hard against the door. When Griestein opened it, Hank told him his client was expected in court for his arraignment hearing.

“I thought it was tomorrow.”

“No, sir. You can call over there if you’d like.”

Griestein made a face over the prospect of having to do that. He led Durkin and his attorney to the front desk while he called the courthouse. He seemed surprised to find that Hank had his facts straight. “I didn’t think it was going to be until tomorrow,” he muttered to himself as he hung up the phone.

Over at the courthouse they had to wait twenty minutes until a flustered county attorney, Jill Bracken, arrived with Dan Wolcott at her side. Bracken was in her early thirties, slender yet athletic, and would’ve been attractive except for all the sharp edges on her. She wore a steel-gray suit that matched the color of her eyes and had her shoulder-length blond hair rolled up into a tight bun. She started to sputter immediately to Judge Harris that this was highly unusual to schedule an arraignment hearing so quickly. “I haven’t had a chance to prepare yet,” she said as she fumbled with a pile of notes.

Judge Harris held out a hand to stop her, an impatient frown showing on his round face. “Counsellor, if you’re going to have the defendant arrested, then you should be prepared to read the charges filed against him. Tell me that you are prepared.”

Red blotches showed along Jill Bracken’s cheeks. “Yes, your honor. The defendant is charged with aggravated assault.”

“And how is that?”

“He used a knife to cut off his son’s thumb.”

Judge Harris turned to Hank. “And your client’s side of the story?”

“It was an accident, your honor.”

“Is that what happened, Mr. Durkin?”

Jack Durkin nodded.

Judge Harris picked up a trial calendar and frowned at it. “Unless there are any objections the trial date will be set for November second. Mr. Thompson, you will guarantee that your client will appear in this court on that date?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“At this time I see no reason to impose bail. The defendant is free to go until then.”

Jill Bracken nodded as she arranged the stack of papers in front of her, but Wolcott whispered intently to her, then spoke out. “Judge, I was the arresting officer. I believe this man is a danger to the community and he should be committed for a seventy-two-hour psych evaluation.”

Judge Harris stared hard at Wolcott, annoyance deepening his frown. He started to tap his fingers along his bench. “Sheriff Wolcott, I don’t believe I asked for your opinion-”

“Judge, I have a sworn statement from his son, Lester, that Mr. Durkin tackled him to the ground and then held him down as he cut off his thumb.”

Judge Harris blanched at hearing that. He shot Hank Thompson a questioning look before turning back to Wolcott.

“Why would Mr. Durkin do that?”

Wolcott laughed sourly. “Somehow he got it in his head that he could convince the town a weed bit his son’s thumb off.”

“Are there other injuries consistent with the type of struggle that you described?”

“The boy’s thumb was cut off!”

“I understand that, but were there other injuries, such as scrapes or cuts, that would be consistent with the boy being tackled to the ground?”

Wolcott consulted with Jill Bracken as the two of them searched through her notes.

“I’m not prepared to answer that at this time,” he said.

“Well, you should be. Any other reasons to call Mr. Durkin’s mental state into question?”

“I’d have to think so. He believes the weeds at Lorne Field are some kind of monsters.”

“That’s a lie,” Jack Durkin said. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”

“You haven’t been telling me those are monsters out there?”

“As far as I’m concerned I’m only honoring a contract with this town and pulling out weeds every day as my contract requires. Nothing more.”

Judge Harris smiled at that. Hank gave Durkin a wink. Jill Bracken consulted furiously with her notes. Wolcott stared flabbergasted at Durkin.

“Judge, this man told me just the other day that a weed bit off his son’s thumb. Also some boys snuck down to Lorne Field and pelted him with tomatoes. He wanted me to find them so they could be publicly executed!”

Judge Harris tapped his fingers harder along the bench. “Is that true?”

Durkin shook his head. “No, sir. I showed him where in my contract it calls for that, but all I wanted him to do was find those boys so they could help out with my weeding as punishment.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Judge Harris agreed.

“Judge, he’s lying! That’s not how our conversation went!” Wolcott, his face flushed, stared open-mouthed at Durkin before turning back to face Judge Harris. “I learned this morning that Lester was one of the boys who pelted Mr. Durkin with tomatoes. I can’t help thinking that he found out and cut off Lester’s thumb as some sort of retaliation.”

“How do you know Lester was one of them?” Durkin asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Bert told me. Lester confirmed it,” Wolcott said without looking at him.

Durkin’s head dropped a few inches, his eyes mostly lifeless. For that split second he could’ve been a man heading to the gallows. Hank Thompson clapped him on the shoulder for support and sent a glare towards Wolcott.

“Mr. Durkin,” Judge Harris asked, his voice contrite, “did you know your son was involved?”

Durkin shook his head. “I had no idea.”

Wolcott made a noise as if something had caught in his sinuses. Judge Harris’s frown turned even more dour as he faced him. “Sheriff Wolcott, your accusations here have been scattered, at best. First Mr. Durkin committed this crime as part of a ruse, then as an act of revenge. Mr. Durkin has carried himself with the utmost decorum, while you, sir, have been the only one here who seems to be having difficulty controlling his emotions or thought processes. You’re one outburst away from seeing me do as you’re requesting and ordering a psychiatric evaluation, but not for Mr. Durkin. Do I make myself clear?”

Wolcott nodded, a darkness muddling his face.

Judge Harris watched him for a moment, then told Durkin that he was free to go but to be prepared to be back in court November second for his trial. “Although lacking additional physical evidence, it seems hard to consider your son’s statement credible,” he added under his breath.

Hank Thompson led Durkin towards the door, but before they reached it Wolcott caught up to them.

“Hank, you know I’m only trying to do my job here.”

“It sounded personal to me.”

“Not at all. I honestly believe Mr. Durkin needs help, and I hope for his sake that you see that he gets it.”

“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.